Pedro, My Beloved

The story of how you met Joel Miller is a wholesome one—until it isn’t. He’d come to your apartment the previous day to see about having a birthday cake made for his kid—that’s your side hustle, making cakes and other pastries people request in exchange for goods and favors. Joel was willing to get you anything you wanted for your services, and isn’t that just the sweetest thing? A father going out of his way to ensure his new, adopted child gets to experience a real birthday with cake and presents for the first time in their life? See? Wholesome. Then came your price, which was practically a steal given the order and the timeframe he needed it by. He got lucky older, single dads are your kryptonite, and that he’s a sweetheart. All you asked in return were a few easy-to-find items and to have a drink with him. This is when things escalated from an innocent PG-rated flick to an X-rated amateur porno, and you discovered Joel Miller can fuck.

In the span of a few hours of knowing him, he made you come multiple times, rightfully ruined you for anyone else, broke your bed, and was so good you asked him to marry you and offered to have his babies.

You’re his now. You belong to him, and the best part? He’s yours.

Joel came to your apartment for a cake and left with a girlfriend young enough to make some townspeople wonder if he’s having a late midlife crisis, and others jealous of his luck.

It’s just past five a.m. on a Wednesday, the sun still hours from rising. The chill outside has the tip of your nose numb, but you’re warm in Joel’s jacket that he wouldn’t let you leave his house without wearing. You stayed at his place last night, secretly, without Ellie knowing, and were very surprised when he got up to walk you home. Why are you up so early? You’re one of the town’s few resident bakers, and you need to get to the community kitchen to start baking the bread for the day. But before that, you’re making a quick pitstop at your apartment to change your clothes.

How was your secret, impromptu sleepover with Joel? Well, it didn’t go the way you expected…

See, when men invited you to their homes in the past, it was usually for one reason. So, it didn’t surprise you when Joel got you alone in his bedroom, locked the door, and stripped you both of your clothes. Seemed pretty par for the course, and to be honest, you were down to have another go with him between the sheets.

But something unexpected happened: absolutely nothing.

No groping, no grinding, no impatient, wandering hands beneath the covers. Instead, you were treated to a warm arm around your waist, holding you close, with his nose buried in the hair on the back of your head. He didn’t have any intention to fuck you in his bed that night. He just wanted you there with him, like your presence was something comforting, that he needed, and that kind of tenderness had felt far more intimate than sex ever could.

You’d never slept so soundly.

It scares you how much you liked it.

Here you are silently walking down the dark road with Joel, the stars above, and porch lights you pass offering some light to guide your way. You told him you were fine in just your long-sleeved shirt and leggings, but his protective nature wouldn’t let you leave his house without putting his jacket on you first. Was Joel bundled up, too? No, you suspect his hotness—his literal hotness—the man’s body is like a furnace, makes him immune to the cold, so he’s only wearing jeans and a flannel shirt.

He's beside you, walking a bit slower than his normal gait to match yours, and he’s so close that his hand keeps brushing yours. You’re pretty sure he wants to hold it, and confused why he isn’t, unless maybe he’s waiting for you to make the first move. That’d be silly, but you test the waters anyway, trying to hook your pinkie around his—you smile when he grabs it instead.

“You can hold my hand.” You glance his way, inviting him.

He huffs, meeting your eyes and giving your digit a small squeeze. “Was tryin’ to be respectful and not assume.” He finally threads your fingers together, his hand so much bigger and warmer than yours.

His response makes you giggle.“Trying to be respectful? Babe, within a couple of hours of knowing each other, you had me face down, ass up, screaming your name. I think we’re past the point of handholding etiquette. But, it’s fucking adorable, that’s where you didn’t want to overstep.”

He lifts his eyebrow. “What? Because I fuck you silly, I can’t be a gentleman, too? I respect you.” His lips curve into a smirk. “Even if it might not seem like it when I’ve got you pinned to the mattress, makin’ you beg.”

“You’re a menace.”

He gently knocks his shoulder against yours, looking ahead. “Your menace.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m also rusty with all this datin’ stuff, and don’t wanna press my luck.”

“You’re doing great,” you reassure him, hugging his arm. “I love that you’re pro-PDA.”

Joel kisses your hair. “I’m pro-touchin’ you, and if anyone sees, then so be it.”

“Even Ellie?”

“Pigs would be flyin’ if she were up at this hour. She sleeps in until at least seven-thirty. We don’t have to worry about runnin’ into her.”

“You really enjoy playing with fire, don’t you?”

With you staying over while Ellie was home, and now walking with him, it certainly seems that way.

“I wouldn’t say I’m playin’ with fire. I just know my kid.”

“Who, you’re very cute with, by the way.”

When he snuck you into his house, you overheard a sweet conversation between him and Ellie that gave you a glimpse into their relationship. The way he spoke and looked fondly at her made it clear how much he adores and loves her as his own.

“You think so?”

“Yep. I’m not kidding when I say it turns me on that you’re a good dad.”

“And why's that?” You can hear the smile in his voice, and you see it when you turn your head toward him, finding he’s already looking at you.

“Why does it turn me on that you’re a loving and caring father who puts in the effort to have a relationship with your kid and wants nothing more than for them to be happy? Hmmm, why would that turn me, a woman who wants to have her own children one day, on?”

“One of life’s great mysteries.” His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles.

You fail to keep yourself from smiling and playfully swat his arm. “Shut up. You know exactly why I’m into it.”

Joel chuckles, lifting your hand he’s holding to kiss the back of it. “Maybe. But I like hearin’ you say I turn you on. Makes me feel pretty fuckin’ great about myself.”

Your eyes roll. “Glad I could stroke your ego, babe.” You pat his chest.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” He kisses your hand again, then lowers it. There’s a lull in the conversation, the two of you focusing forward, continuing to walk. A minute passes, and Joel breaks the silence. “It really gets you all hot and bothered that I care about my kid…?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s sexy.”

“Huh. Never thought of it as bein’ panty-droppin’ behavior.”

“It definitely is for me.” You wonder something. “You don’t have to answer this question, but back in the time before—” The outbreak. “—were you in a relationship?”

“No. I raised Sarah alone and had a hard time datin’.”

“It’s absolutely none of my business, and again, you don’t have to answer. Why did you have a hard time dating?”

“Well, for one thing, I didn’t really have the time. I was a single dad workin’ my ass off to make ends meet. Then there was Sarah bein’ my top priority, and women—at least back then—weren’t too keen to play second fiddle to her. So, I gave up tryin’ when she was about five.”

“If you're going to date a single dad, you have to know his kid is the most important person to him. At least that's how it should be, and honestly, if Ellie weren't your top priority, I wouldn't have even considered a relationship with you.”

“Gotta add that to your list.”

Your head turns his way to look at him, your eyebrows pulling together. “What list?”

“For what you’re lookin’ for in a man.”

When you first met and told him you were romantically interested in him, he didn’t understand why and even tried to convince you to find someone your own age. It took some explaining that you had a thing for older men, particularly in their fifties—you’ve found they’re the best in bed—and that he checked all of your boxes for what you were looking for: caring, fun to talk to, handsome, strong, not creepy, and he’s fifty-six.

“Oh, being a good dad has always been on the list.”

“I really do check all your boxes, then.”

“Yeah, you do.”

He smiles. “Thank Christ for that.”

The apartment complex where you live has six units—three downstairs, three upstairs. Yours happens to be the first you reached when you led Joel up the stairs. At your front door, you let go of his hand to dig your house key out of his jacket pocket, unlocking the deadbolt.

You sense Joel behind you, finding his tall, broad presence comforting. You turn around to face him, hesitating as you try to figure out what to say. "So…" you start.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “So.”

“Definitely my favorite customer of all time.”

He chuckles. “And you’re definitely my favorite baker. You’ve got a customer for life.”

“Because I fucked you?”

The look he gives you says you know that’s not why. “No.” He shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “Because you’re a great baker. I wasn’t tryin’ to butter you up when I said the apple pie you made was really fuckin’ good.” Yesterday, for dinner in the mess hall, you made apple pie for dessert. “Did you hear Ellie talkin’ about it last night?” You did overhear her saying how much she liked it.

You smile. “Yes. My peach cobbler is her favorite.”

He mirrors your expression. “Should’ve known you made that, too. Ellie fuckin’ loves peaches, and I had to tell her to slow down eatin’ it so she didn’t choke.” He huffs a small laugh, then he’s smirking, his eyes sparkling with mischief. It makes you wonder what’s got him so tickled. “Now, keep your clothes on for this next part,” he says. “We’re out in public.”

You squint in confusion. “What…?”

“You’ll understand in a second. The peach cobbler?”

“Yeah?”

“I gave Ellie my bowl. I always give her my share when we’re together, and there’s somethin’ sweet.”

Your eyes widen. “You always give her your dessert?” you whisper.

Dessert doesn’t happen all the time. It depends on supplies and usually occurs when there’s an excess of something that needs to be used before it spoils, such as fruit.

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Makes me happy to see her happy.”

Your breath catches a little.

Of course he does.

Of course, Joel Miller would hand over his portion of dessert just to see Ellie smile. And why is that so goddamn sexy? It’s not just those broad shoulders or that voice that drives you wild; it’s the way he loves. Quietly. Steadily. Without expecting anything in return.

“God, that’s so hot,” you admit.

His expression is a mix of delight and amusement. “I knew it’d get you.”

“First of all, rude of you to exploit my weaknesses.” He laughs. “Secondly, yeah, it got me. I think you can’t get any dreamier, and then you prove me wrong.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Keep it up, and you won’t be able to get rid of me.”

“I better not stop, then, ‘cause I don’t want you goin’ anywhere.”

His words hang there between you. I don’t want you goin’ anywhere. And you know he means it from the sincerity in his eyes. This is new. You’re used to men wanting your body—a night, maybe a few—but they never want you. Not all of you, at least. But Joel? He wants it all, the good, the bad, and everything in between. He wants you, and truth be told, it frightens you. Why? Because you know you’re going to fall in love with him, and that, being so completely at the mercy of a man, is fucking terrifying.

But the scariest part?

You’re willing to risk it.

You know this thing between you and Joel isn’t a fling or some temporary distraction; he was upfront that he didn’t do casual. This is something serious that’ll eventually lead to marriage and children.

It’s what drew you to him.

With Joel, you have a chance at stability, at having the comfort and security you’ve missed after losing your family. He’s your shot at finding that kind of love you’ve longed for since your world got turned upside down. But even with all of that hope, you still have doubts. You’ve been burned in the past, let down, and abandoned, and those fears linger at the edges of your mind. Still, you trust him. You believe what he says, and when he tells you he doesn’t want you going anywhere, it makes you go so soft you practically melt into goo.

There’s no thought, you act on impulse, gripping the open collar of his shirt, pulling him toward you to crush your smiling mouth against his. He grunts in surprise, but in an instant, he has his hands on your waist, stepping forward, his body crowding yours, backing you up until your spine hits the cool surface with a soft thud. This kiss isn’t as frantic as the first from the previous day. It’s soft, lingering, full of all the hope you have, and the things you can’t find the words to say. He kisses you back with a kind of patience that feels like a promise, as if he’s got all the time in the world if it means he’s with you.

"I can't get enough of you," he whispers. Then he's kissing you like he means it—slowly, consuming you, his tongue slipping into your mouth, swallowing the moan you can't hold back.

Joel presses closer, his chest solid against your front, sliding his thigh between your legs. You're so worked up that your body moves without permission, rocking your hips, chasing the friction of the rough denim that ignites heat at the base of your spine.

He groans when you grind down, the sound vibrating into your mouth. He’s got one hand firm on your hip, the other cupping your face, the kiss turning dizzying with how his tongue intertwines with yours. Feeling his heat, smelling his scent, tasting his lips, having him surrounding you makes it impossible to think of anything else except him, and you need more. At this point, your panties are soaked, and you’re worried there’s going to be a wet spot on his jean-covered thigh.

When the kissing ends, you’re both panting. “Come inside,” you tell him.

His thumb strokes your cheek, and you can see it on his face that he wants to. “You gotta get to work.”

“I will—after my boyfriend fucks me.”

His brow lifts. “Boyfriend?”

“Yeah. You got a problem with that, big guy?”

“I’m too damn old to be called that.”

“Then pick a title. Are you coming in or not?” You reach behind you to turn the doorknob and push the door open.

He doesn’t give you a verbal response. Instead, his lips are suddenly on yours again, walking you backwards into your apartment, making you smile into the kiss. He kicks your front door closed, both of you ignoring that your key is still in the deadbolt—Jackson’s a relatively safe place. His hands drag his jacket you’re wearing down your arms until it falls to the floor, followed closely by your long-sleeved shirt and sports bra, while you toe off your shoes.

The kiss turns messy, his mouth slanting over yours with a quiet hunger. He gets you to the couch, his lips leaving yours as he coaxes you to lie down, the soft, familiar cushions giving under you. Joel’s kneeling between your legs, and within seconds, he has your leggings and underwear discarded unceremoniously onto the ground.

“Just look at you.” His big hands push open your thighs before he rolls up his shirt sleeves. The only light comes from above the stove in the kitchen, but you can make out his pupils, blown pitch-black, staring at your glistening pussy, the front of his jeans bulging. He licks his lips like he wants to taste you, his free hand squeezing his hard cock. “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

God, you want him inside you. You’re a little sore from last night, but you don’t care. You have no self-control when it comes to him, and you’ll happily feel the ache all day, to keep him fresh on your mind.

He seems to understand that time is of the essence, and this needs to be quick—he’s unbuckling his belt and getting his pants undone. His gaze rises to yours with a frown, shoving down his boxer briefs to release his dick—he’s thick with a nice length, precum leaking from the flushed tip. “I’m eatin’ you out tonight,” he states. “For as long as I want.”

His declaration sends a shock of excitement to your center. You smile. “Are you?”

He nods, giving his length a few strokes. “Yes. Then I’m takin’ my time fuckin’ you ‘til there ain’t a chance in hell you forget a single inch of me.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Good. Now be a good boy and fuck me like you mean it.”

His eyes narrow, his voice dropping dangerously low. “Good boy? We’ve talked about that smart mouth of yours.” There wasn’t much talking—he fucked you within an inch of your life, though. “You wanna try that again?” he asks.

Earlier, you questioned if he enjoys playing with fire, and you’re starting to think it’s you who does.

“Ummm, now be a good boy and fuck me like you mean it, please?” You blink up at him innocently.

His jaw ticks. “You’re lucky you have work.” He shuffles back enough to bend forward, his palms on your open thighs.

“Why?”

He spits, a hot, wet wad of saliva landing on your clit, and your brain short-circuits. Why is that so fucking hot? Is it that he’s marking you, claiming you as his? Saying, ‘This is mine and only mine.’ His head lifts, and you meet his dark gaze, feeling as he drags two fingers through the mess he made to spread it over your entrance. “‘Cause, I would’ve edged you ‘til you cried for that shit.” You don’t have a chance to respond—he pushes his thick digits into you, his other hand pressing down on your belly, right above your mound. The stretch burns for half a second before melting into pure pleasure when Joel curls his fingers just right, zeroing in on that one magical spot that makes your vision blur.

“Joel,” you gasp, your hips twitching, eyes closing, “oh, fuck—”

“Yeah?” He has the audacity to sound smug. “I know how to touch you, don’t I?” Each push and pull of his digits is rough and deliberate, hitting your g-spot so perfectly you’re unable to stop squirming. “Answer me,” he orders.

“Yes.”

Your thighs threaten to close around his hand as an orgasm forms in your core, the tension rising with each passing second.

He’s using his fingers for good and evil—the good, preparing you to take him. The evil, how he’s not going to let you come yet. He’ll draw it out, torturing you with every press of his digits, but you’re not finishing like this. No, you’re at his mercy; he’s entirely in control of how close you’ll get and when you’ll fall.

“Who owns this pussy?”

Your body is screaming for release, the coil twisting tighter. You both love and hate that he knows exactly how to work you up. It’s hard to think, let alone answer. You don’t want him to stop, so you force out, “You.”

The obscene wet squelch of his fingers working in and out of you fills the room, your body wound tight, legs trembling. Maybe you were wrong, and he will let you come—it’s highly unlikely, but a girl can dream. You’re almost there, you just need a little bit more.

“Yeah, I do, and don’t fuckin’ forget it.”

You’re right on the cusp of falling apart, and that’s when he stops. You knew it was coming, yet when he removes his hands, your eyes fly open, groaning in frustration. “You’re so mean.”

He rolls his eyes, wiping your juices onto his cock, then spitting in his hand to slick it up even more. “I’m not mean.” Joel inches forward, one palm on your thigh, holding you open as he drags the fat tip of himself through your wetness. “I’m teachin’ you manners.” He teases your opening. “Now, we don’t have much time, so this is gonna be quick and dirty. Got it?”

“Yes.”

He smiles. “That’s my girl.” Without another word, he’s thrusting into you with one hard stroke, bottoming out with a rumbling groan—you cry out, clawing at the couch cushions for something to hold onto, the sudden fullness knocking the air from your chest. He’s so big it feels like you’re being split in two, savoring the burn.

For a moment, he stays buried deep, his hand spreading over where he’s inside you, low in your belly. “You feel that?” he asks in a deep husk. “That’s all me.”

When Joel said this was going to be quick and dirty, he didn’t mince words. As soon as he starts moving, he’s fucking into you hard and fast, the brutal pace stuttering your breath.

“Oh, god,” you moan. He has your tits jiggling, something you know he’s loving.

“He’s got nothin’ to do with this,” Joel grits out. He licks the pad of his thumb, pressing it to your swollen clit, the added pressure making your back bow, gasping his name. “Yeah, I know, baby. That’s it.” He doesn’t let up, thrusting hard while he circles your bundle of nerves with practiced, filthy precision that’s driving you crazy.

“Joel, oh fuck. Joel—”

“I’ve got you.” His free hand palms your breast, brushing his calloused thumb over your stiff nipple, before pinching it. You mewl, writhing under him. “This what you wanted? This how you wanted me to fuck you?”

​ Yes, you think, but can’t say out loud. The fast, punishing rhythm combined with the attention to your tits and clit has you dizzy with pleasure. He’s hitting you everywhere, inside and out, and it borders on too much, your body trembling uncontrollably. It’s a little embarrassing how quickly he builds you right back up to the edge.

“You gonna come for me?” he asks. His hand comes off your breast to brace himself when he leans over you, his mouth trailing hot kisses down your neck. “Are you? You gonna give it to me?”

His thumb continues rubbing tight, fast circles in sync with the steady strokes of his cock.

“Yes, don’t stop—oh god—please, don’t stop.” Your arms go around his back, your nails digging into the flannel over his shoulders.

“We’re not done ‘til you soak me, baby. Come for me, let me have it.” He sucks hard on your pulse point.

It all boils over—the rough pad of his thumb, the heat of his mouth on your neck, his dick railing into you—the tension snaps, and you’re coming, crying out as pleasure wracks through you, your inner walls clenching around him like a vice.

“There we go,” Joel groans, his pace faltering. “My good girl—my good fuckin’ girl.” He doesn’t let you come down; his hips keep moving, drawing out every tremor, every helpless gasp until you’re boneless and shaking under him, completely wrung out.

“That’s it, baby,” he rasps. “You did so good for me.”

His praise is a balm and a brand, soothing and burning all at once.

He leaves you no chance to recover; he’s chasing his own high now. His arms are on either side of your head, his thrusts turning rough, almost frantic, the wet, slick sound of him working into you mixing with his harsh breathing. He wants it, and you can feel it in every hard, punishing stroke.

Something you’ve learned about Joel is that he likes to kiss when he comes—he likes to kiss in general, but especially when he’s coming. So, you’re expecting it when his mouth crashes onto yours, kissing you deep and messily. His hips snap faster, his breath turning hot and ragged against your lips.

“Gonna come,” he mutters into your mouth. “Gonna fuck you full of me, baby. Fill you up. You want that? You want my come?”

You moan ‘yes’ into the kiss, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him as deep as he’ll go, and that’s it for him. Joel slams into you to the hilt and stays there, a raw, guttural moan tearing from his chest as his cock throbs hard inside you. You feel it—every hot, thick pulse flooding you, spilling into your inner depths. He grinds, rolling his hips to fuck it deeper, kissing you like he's starving for you and can't get enough. Once he's milked himself of every last drop, he collapses, shoving his face into the crook of your neck with a happy sigh.

Another thing about Joel is that he gets very cuddly after sex and loves it if you play with his hair. Your fingers go into the sweat-damp waves on his head, lovingly scratching his scalp. He hums in the back of his throat, nuzzling your skin.

“Tha’s nice,” he slurs.

You smile. “Please don’t pass out. I really do need to get to work.”

He sighs. “Gimme a minute.”

“Okay.” You’ll give him five and work a little later—you live in the apocalypse, no one will care if you’re forty-five minutes late to your shift.

God, this is nice—it’d be better if he were naked, still, his flannel shirt isn’t uncomfortable against your skin.

His weight on you is grounding, like nothing bad can reach you here. But that’s how it always is with Joel. He makes you feel safe and wanted. Maybe a better word is cherished—he makes you feel safe and cherished. Your body is warm, your limbs heavy, and your mind swimming in a soft haze. Is it ridiculous to think that you could stay like this forever? Tangled up with him, breathing him in, your hearts beating in sync. Is that too much to wish for?

Probably.

You’re not naive. You know he’s not as perfect as he seems. You just haven’t known him long enough to figure out his flaws. Hell, odds are, all of this is too good to be true, and he’ll have his fun with you before he decides to settle down with a woman of a more appropriate age. He wouldn’t be the first man to do that to you. Even with that in the back of your mind, you’re falling harder for him than anyone else, and you’re hoping he doesn’t break your heart. But if he does, and worst comes to worst, you’ve got Gail, the town’s therapist, who’ll help you get over him. Wouldn’t be the first time, and she’d be pretty excited to start getting those shortbread cookies she loves again.

Joel shifts slightly on top of you, kissing the side of your neck. He drags his lips across your sweaty skin. “You okay, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his voice rough.

“I’m wonderful.” You slide your fingers through his surprisingly soft hair.

“Good.” He kisses your collarbone, then the hollow of your throat. “Was it everythin’ you wanted?”

The question makes you snort. “Are you asking me to review your performance?”

His head pops up to give you a look. “Are you tellin’ me you didn’t enjoy it?”

Your eyes roll. “It was mindblowing. It’s always mindblowing. Five out of five stars.”

He nods once. “That’s what I thought.”

“Wow, I’m deducting half a point for your smugness. Four and a half stars now.”

He frowns, his expression turning grumpy. He mutters under his breath as he starts to move off of you, “Four and a half stars my ass… “ Your giggle evolves into a whimper at the sudden emptiness of him pulling out. Of course, Joel notices, his lips lifting into a smirk. “Miss me already?” he asks.

“Why do I like you?”

“I check all your boxes, and sweetheart, you don’t just like me, you wanna marry me.”

The day before, after he rocked your world the first time, you proposed marriage when you discovered you both shared the same desires for the future, one of them being children—it’s rare for a man his age to actually want a baby, and with people moving fast these days due to the uncertainty, it wasn’t too crazy a proposal. It’s not uncommon to marry someone you barely know, but Joel is from a different time, and politely declined, simply because he wants to date you properly, which is very sweet. He also said that if you’re still together in six months, he will marry you, so you’ve got something to—hopefully—look forward to.

You sit up on your elbows. “I’m second-guessing that right now.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, you agreed to marry me… in six months.”

“Or if I knock you up first.” He says it so nonchalantly that it leaves you speechless. His dark gaze is on yours as his hand goes between your thighs, two thick fingers catching his come as it drips out of you, and when he slowly pushes it back inside, you just about lose your fucking mind, unsure whether to shiver or melt. “So, keep that in there for me. Every drop.” Why is that so hot? “Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

He smiles. “That’s my girl. I also like knowin’ you’ll have some of me with you today while we’re apart.” Why is that romantic? How can come be romantic? What is he doing to you? Joel removes his two soaked fingers from you, glistening with both of you, and holds them up to your mouth. “Open.” That brings you back to yourself, things feeling normal again. You don’t hesitate, parting your lips for him to push them in. You grab his wrist with one hand, holding it still, keeping eye contact as you swirl your tongue, sucking his digits clean.

“You like how we taste?” he asks. You hum an affirmative.

This is where you show him that two can play this dirty little game.

You press forward, taking his fingers all the way to the back of your throat, your lips touching his knuckles, moaning for the hell of it. His eyes round, a sharp breath escaping him, which delights you.

"Jesus Christ," he whispers. "You keep showin' off like that, and you're not leavin’."

You pull off of him. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.” You grab a fistful of his shirt, tugging him down for a quick kiss, and push him back. “I need to take a quick shower, get dressed, and go to work.” You get off the couch and stand up. His come leaks down your inner thigh—yeah, a shower is a must. “Feel free to hang or let yourself out,” you tell him. Turning around, you start heading to your bedroom at the end of the hall. “Thanks for the quickie! Can’t wait to see you tonight!”

You’ve barely made it three steps when out of nowhere, a big hand latches around your arm, stopping you. You yelp in surprise, spinning round to find Joel standing there, with flushed cheeks and his jeans hastily pulled up, looking like you just insulted him or something.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

"That's not how you say goodbye to your boyfriend," he firmly answers.

You blink, caught off guard. “I thought you were too old to be my boyfriend?”

“I am, but that’s beside the point.”

“Is it, though? ‘Cause you seem pretty upset I didn’t give you whatever the fuck a boyfriend goodbye is. The kiss wasn’t enough?”

“That wasn’t a goodbye kiss. That was a fuckin’ drive-by. You don’t give a man a quick peck and walk off like that.”

“Okay? Then explain to me what the proper way is to say goodbye to my title-pending not-boyfriend.”

“Like this—” His hands frame your face, his rough palms warm against your cheeks, and then his mouth is on yours. Oh, this is one of those kisses. The kind that steals every coherent thought, that you’ll replay in your head later while impatiently counting down until you can have another. The kind that makes your knees go weak and leaves you dazed, smiling like an idiot all day—a solid five out of five stars, maybe the best you’ve ever had.

When you finally break away, you’re breathless. “Better?” you whisper.

His eyes are heavy-lidded, his gaze hungry. He, honest to god, pouts. “Yeah, but now I don’t wanna go. I’m gonna miss you too much.”

His response makes you smile, and you throw your arms around his neck. “You’re adorable. You’ll see me tonight. What time are you coming over?”

“I don’t know. Depends on how long it’s gonna take me for Ellie’s present.” He’s putting together a guitar for her birthday tomorrow. “Then, if she wants to have dinner with me or watch a movie, it’ll be after all that. I’m hopin’ seven or eight. Earlier, if I can make it happen.”

“God, it’s such a turn-on when you talk about being a good dad.”

He chuckles and kisses you. “Is that okay?” he asks when he leans back.

“Is what okay?”

“That I won’t be able to come over until later tonight?”

“Oh, yeah. Ellie comes first. Always. I can make her cake this afternoon when I get off work.”

“Then it’s a date.”

“It’s a date.”

“Now, kiss me goodbye correctly.”

Work was uneventful, or so you thought. You were distracted, replaying the last twenty-four hours on repeat in your head like one of those old sports highlight reels your dad used to watch on cable (before the world ended and he, you know, died). It was hard not to think about Joel and all the things he did to you, especially with how you could still feel him, the soreness between your legs, and the come he left behind.

You finished in the community kitchen around one in the afternoon, picking up eggs and a glass bottle of fresh milk on your way home. Once you got back to your apartment, you tidied up, then got to work on Ellie’s birthday cake, which Joel requested to be chocolate. Where does a person get chocolate in a post-apocalyptic North America where cocoa beans don’t grow? Traders. It’s the same way you get coffee beans. Traders brave the wilds to bring the highly sought-after goods up from Central and South America—there’s a reason they’re so expensive.

There are a couple of traders who come through town every once in a while, you’ve hooked up with. They were sweet and gave you discounts on your stash of cocoa powder and coffee beans—not that you slept with them for the deals. It was just an added perk you’d be stupid to turn down.

Now, it’s later in the evening, sometime after seven. Ellie’s cake was made hours ago, carefully frosted and covered, waiting in your fridge. That’s something you’ve been doing, too—waiting. Waiting for Joel. Waiting for that knock on your door. Waiting for him.

An hour passes. The movie you put on has ended, and the credits are over. You stare at the black screen into the void for a moment, then sigh, getting up to start another, something to fill the silence. To keep yourself from looking at your front door every five minutes, you grab your pile of holey socks and start darning them.

9 p.m.

You’ve moved on from socks to patching up other clothes just to keep your hands busy. Your thoughts keep circling back to Joel, to Ellie, how he lights up when he talks about her. That’s a good thing, you remind yourself. You love that. You love that she’s his world. She should be. But there’s a thought that’s crept into your brain that won’t go away: Is that why he’s with you? She has friends now and prefers to hang out with them rather than with Joel, and he’s lonely? Are you filling the space she’s leaving behind? That’s fine if you are. You don’t mind it. Hell, you’re lonely, too. You can be two lonely people finding happiness in each other. It makes you wonder, though, if he would’ve even looked at you twice if he weren’t lonely.

10 p.m.

You’ve run out of clothes to patch up and are now on your knees, scrubbing the hell out of the inside of your oven. Joel still hasn’t shown up, and that is totally okay. Truly. The man is busy, and you’re well aware of how devoted he is to his kid, a quality you love so much. These are things you keep telling yourself, over and over again, needing to believe them. You’ve put on a record because you were driving yourself insane thinking every tiny noise you heard was him, because when it ended up not being him, it just made you feel a little bit sadder. A little bit more foolish.

11 p.m.

The doubt starts to sink its claws into you. So, what do you do? You reorganize your kitchen cabinets to try to drown it out. Does it work? No. The thoughts are louder than the clinking of dishes and Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” playing on your record player. What bothers you most is that if Joel wanted to be here, he’d be here, and if he couldn’t make it, he would’ve had the decency to stop by and let you know—there are no phones, and that’s just what you do. That’s the kind of man he is… isn’t he? Do you have it all wrong? There's a voice in the back of your head, feeding your doubt, reminding you that you hardly know Joel at all.

12 a.m.

Midnight comes. You don’t know what else to do, so you put on another movie. It was a random VHS you plucked from the shelf, not bothering to look at the title. Even with your heater on, your apartment is cold. You wrap a blanket around your shoulders to try to stave off the chill, but it's useless. They say never to trust how you feel after 9 p.m., and yet here you are, feeling pathetic that you're still holding out hope he'll knock on your door. You keep glancing at it, trying to will him there. He would’ve come by now for your date, or to tell you he needed to cancel, and even with knowing that, you still hope.

1 a.m.

He didn’t come over.

With the way the world is, your first instinct is to think something happened to him. People don’t show, and it sometimes means they’re hurt, or worse, dead. But Joel? He’s fine. You know where he was. He had the day off and was at home working on Ellie’s gift. Nothing happened to him, which leaves the only other reason for his absence:

He didn’t want to be here.

Knowing that he didn't want to be here—that he didn't want you—is a knife to the heart.

Then you start spiraling, wondering if you misread things or if it all meant more to you than it did to him. Did all of the time you spent together, the promises, and hopes for the future mean nothing?

You don’t know, but tonight shows you he never cared about you, because if he actually gave a damn, he would’ve come. He would’ve done something, anything, to ensure you knew he was okay and that he wasn’t blowing you off.

And he didn’t.

That silence? It tells you how he really feels.

It pisses you off that he led you on like that, then didn’t have the decency to cancel or break up with you. Instead, he left you wondering where he was for hours, like a dog whose person isn’t coming home.

"Fuck him," you say it out loud, like speaking it into existence will ease the tightness in your chest. It doesn’t.

You had a feeling this was all too good to be true, and you should’ve listened to your gut. You shouldn’t have let yourself get so attached. It annoys you that you’re so upset. You hate that you want to cry. Your anger won’t let you—he doesn’t deserve your tears.

And to think you let him come inside you, risking pregnancy, something you’ve done your best to avoid, all because you trusted him and thought you had a future with him. Why? Why did you trust him so easily? He was different, at least different from anyone else in your past. He made you think he wanted something real by being upfront about not having any interest in anything casual. You fell for the sincerity in his eyes. Was it all a game to him? What was the point of all of this?

What you know for sure is that you are never trusting a man again.

And your bed. Your broken bed that sits in your room, reminding you of your stupidity for thinking someone like Joel would want anything more from you than sex. He’s like all the other men who don’t see you as partner material—you’re just the good time they have before they settle down with someone different.

God, it’s embarrassing how late you stayed up hoping he’d show. Well, fuck him.

You don’t have the energy to do anything about your bed, so you curl up on the couch under a blanket, and as you drift off to sleep, one question won’t leave your mind:

Why am I unlovable?

It’s half past five the next morning. With how heated you feel, you barely register the cold, or maybe it’s the jeans and sweater you’re wearing doing their job to keep away the chill. You’re almost to Joel’s house, carefully carrying Ellie’s small cake, protected in a plastic container—you never even considered not delivering it. The whole walk over here, you’ve been thinking about what you’ll say to him, each step amplifying the anger in your chest.

You’re not sad, you’re mad. You’re pissed off that you let your guard down and allowed a man into your heart, only for him to break it. You don’t want to hear his excuses. You don’t want to hear his apologies. You want this to be over and to never talk to him again.

Stepping up onto his porch, your heart pounds. You knock on the front door.

He must’ve already been downstairs; the door opens almost immediately, and there he is, Joel Miller. He’s got dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep—good. When you stayed with him the other night, he told you he struggles with sleeping, and that having you in bed with him was the best rest he’d gotten in a long time. It cheers you up a little to see that he looks like shit.

When he sees you, his shoulders relax, a breath leaving him like he’s been holding it in all night.

“Thank Christ you’re here.” He sounds relieved. You assume he was freaking out that you weren’t going to bring over the cake.

“Of course, I’m here. I’m not going to ruin an innocent child’s birthday because their father is an asshole. Here.” You carefully shove the container into his chest. “I hope Ellie has a great birthday, and us?” You point between you. “We’re done. Don’t talk to me again. Don’t come near my apartment. Don’t even fucking look at me.”

His brow furrows. “Now, hold on—”

“No,” you cut him off. “I don’t want to hear it. Your silence last night said enough.”

“Baby—”

“I’m not your baby. I’m nothing to you.”

His jaw clenches. “Let me talk,” he growls.

“No!” you snap. “I don’t wanna hear your bullshit excuses.”

His voice rises. “Let me fuckin’ explain!”

You don’t flinch at his outburst. “No!” you say just as loudly. “I’m done. Goodbye, Joel.” You turn around, your boots thudding as you walk down the porch step.

“You’re makin’ a mistake!”

The door slams behind you. Or maybe it doesn’t. Either way, you don’t look back.

What do you do?

There’s no way in hell you’re going home to cry over a man who couldn’t be bothered to show up. You’re better than that. Stronger. Smarter. Done. It doesn’t matter if he made you feel seen and cherished, or if you could imagine a future with him. Nope. No tears for that asshole.

So, you go to work.

You bake bread.

You bake too much bread.

More than is needed for the day, and probably tomorrow, too. Just means you don’t have to be in as early in the morning. With everything that happened over the last couple of days, you can use the extra sleep.

While helping prep lunch, you overhear two workers whispering about the dishwashing kid from yesterday burning themselves badly on a pot of boiling water after you left–skin sloughed off their arm. Had to be rushed to the clinic. You didn’t catch their name or whether they were male or female. You try to remember who had dish duty, and you can’t, because they rotate out the teens in town for the job daily, so it’s always a different kid each day.

After work, you go home for a little while. You don’t sit still; instead, you keep yourself busy, then shower, changing into jeans and a t-shirt before leaving.

The house you go to, you’ve been to more times than you can count. You knock on the front door. “One second!” comes the familiar voice.

The door cracks open. Then it opens wider.

“What happened?” Gail asks in a knowing tone.

“You got time?”

“You got the stuff?”

You hold up the cookie tin. “Two dozen ‘cause I’m fucked up.”

She takes the container, opens it, and nods in approval. “A man?” She moves out of the way for you to come inside.

“Isn’t it always?” You walk past her, knowing exactly where to go.

“Sometimes we talk about your childhood. Who’s the guy?”

In the living room, you flop back on Gail’s couch, shifting the pillows behind your head and being careful to keep your boots off the old upholstery.

“Have you met Joel Miller?”

“Tommy’s brother?”

Gail takes a seat in her chair across from you, the cookies in her lap. She leans forward to grab her ancient kitchen timer on the coffee table between you, cranking it to your allotted sixty minutes, and sets it down again. Then she sits back, popping the tin’s lid to grab a shortbread cookie, and takes a bite, humming her enjoyment.

“Yeah.”

She swallows. “Briefly. We’ve been introduced. Handsome. Definitely your type.” You hear her crunching.

“We fucked.”

She finishes her cookie and closes the container, putting it on the end table beside her. “I figured. Cookies are amazing as always.”

“Thanks. He wasn’t like the others. Or at least I thought he wasn’t. He talked about serious stuff like marriage and kids. It really felt like we could have a future together. Not only that, I felt so comfortable with him, I didn’t tell him to pull out.”

Usually, with older men, you didn’t have to because they were careful and didn’t want children. With the younger men, you were the cautious one, telling them to pull out.

“That’s interesting,” she muses. “You’re usually careful, or as careful as you can be. Why him?”

“Because he’s a dad. A really good dad. He’s solid, attentive, hot—obviously—but also sweet. Funny, when he wants to be, and the sex. My god, is it truly the best sex I’ve ever had.”

“And you’ve had a lot of sex, so that’s saying something.” There’s zero judgment in her tone.

“Right? I just thought he might be—it’s too fucking cheesy to say out loud.”

“The one?”

“Yeah…”

“Sorry, kiddo, but this circles back to your favorite subject.”

You groan. “Ugh, not the childhood trauma. Why is it always the childhood trauma?”

“It’s a real bitch, isn’t it? Crazy how a single, life-altering event during brain development haunts you into adulthood.”

“I hate it,” you mutter. “But, whatever. Go on.”

“You lost your family in the worst way. It was violent, sudden, and you had no chance to say goodbye. Then came Seth and Rita, who took you in, but we both know you never really felt like you belonged with them. That’s left you chasing that feeling of real, unconditional love, you just have shitty taste in men.”

“Hey!”

“Am I wrong? You go after guys twice your age, who are emotionally constipated, and are only interested in fucking you, when you need someone you can build a life with. This is where Joel comes in. He looked good on paper. Older, handsome, has a kid, and knows how to use his words sometimes. With him, you saw your chance at finding that love you lost.”

“Well, Joel was a bust.”

“Let’s dig into that. What happened?”

Taking a deep breath, you tell her everything that happened over the last seventy-two hours. “—and I went to this house this morning to drop off the cake and refused to hear what he had to say.”

“If you didn’t let him speak, how do you know he stood you up?”

“Because he didn’t come over or stop by to tell me what was going on.”

“What if he wasn’t able to contact you? It’s not like communication is easy these days without phones. Maybe he couldn’t go to your apartment.”

You frown. When you look at her, she’s got her glasses on, busy scribbling something into her black notebook. “What do you mean?” you ask.

Her eyes meet yours. “You got to find out early that people can just be gone with no warning. So, now your default is the worst-case scenario. But here’s the thing: this time, you knew Joel was safe at home. He wasn’t dead or dying in a ditch. What you did instead of worrying he got hurt, is you jumped straight to 'he doesn't care about me' and 'he was just using me.' I hate to break it to you, kid, but I don't think that's what happened here.

“Then why didn’t he show up?” you quietly ask.

“He has a daughter, right? What if something happened to her?”

You gasp, sitting up. “The kid who got burned!”

You’ve never met Ellie, but you know what she looks like. You’ve seen her with Joel around town. Were you really so distracted that you didn’t notice she was the dishwasher?

How did you miss that?

“Is that what happened to her? She was hopped up on some good shit when I saw Tommy walking her home from the clinic yesterday.”

“Dammit, Gail! Why didn’t you lead with that?”

“You needed clarity.” She shrugs. “And to know your brain is an asshole.”

This is when it hits you like a truck: you've jumped to baseless conclusions and ruined the best thing to ever happen to you. You feel sick to your stomach as your heart rate doubles. You get up because you feel you need to leave, but you end up pacing instead.

“Oh my god.” Your vision blurs from watery eyes. “I didn’t let him speak. I told him not to talk to me. He tried to explain, and I shut him down.” Tears begin falling down your cheeks. “I thought—I really fucking thought he didn’t care, and the poor man was probably just taking care of his kid.” You stop in your tracks, remembering how he told you Sarah died in his arms. He must’ve been beside himself with worry over Ellie’s injury. The relief on his face when he saw you at his door this morning wasn’t because of the cake; it was because you were there. How could you be so cruel?

The weight of what you did is closing in, your breaths coming out quick and shallow. Sending you on the verge of hyperventilating, your vision tunneling, the edges going dark as the world caves in all around you.

Gail is suddenly up and in front of you, gripping your arms. "Hey, breathe. Look at me and breathe."

Your wide eyes go to hers, and you try, but your throat is too tight, the panic pressing in everywhere.

“Come on, kid, just breathe. You made a mistake. It happens. Nobody’s perfect. What you did isn’t unforgivable. Let’s focus on your breathing—you got this—in through your nose.” She does it with you. “There you go. Now let it out.” You do. “Again.” She coaches you to breathe, little by little, the heaviness in your chest easing, and your vision clearing, until you’ve calmed down. “There we go. You good?” she asks.

“Yeah.” You nod. “What do I do?” You sound desperate, your bottom lip wobbling. “I don’t want to lose him.”

“You talk to him. You own up to your shit. Tell him you assumed the worst because your brain’s an asshole, and you were heartbroken. If he’s worth a damn, and I have high hopes he is, he’ll forgive you.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then at least you tried and did all you could.”

What you feel like you need to do is head to Joel’s immediately to apologize and explain, but you can’t. It's Ellie's birthday, and you do not want to intrude on her special day.

The air outside is warm, the sun shining with hardly any clouds in the sky. The weather doesn’t reflect what you’re feeling inside, regret rolling through you like a thunderstorm, consuming you. You’re walking home, thinking of what you could possibly say to fix what happened.

Hey, so I may have overreacted over a misunderstanding. I didn’t know that your kid got hurt, and that’s why you missed our date, which is totally my bad. Please forgive me.

Yeah, he definitely won’t accept that.

Every idea you’ve had since leaving Gail’s has sounded pathetic. To be honest, you don’t even know what would right your wrongs and earn Joel’s forgiveness. You’re beyond angry at yourself for not giving him a chance to speak; not only that, but you also feel so fucking guilty. He looked like he hadn’t slept when you saw him, and instead of checking how he was, you treated him like shit.

What’s worse is that you knew Joel wasn’t playing games, and you treated him like he did anyway. But as Gail said, your past still haunts you, and it sabotaged your best chance at happiness.

Fuck.

What are you going to do?

What can you do?

Nothing until tomorrow.

You have the night to figure out a plan that will hopefully earn Joel’s forgiveness. Or maybe you’re being too optimistic, and nothing can be done to repair what you ruined.

You’re starting to spiral again, when loud laughter stops you in your tracks. You look toward the noise, spotting three teenagers heading your way down the road. What has your stomach somersaulting is who's in the middle of the trio—it's Ellie, wearing a short-sleeved shirt that reveals her bandaged forearm. You’re glad to see that her injury isn’t keeping her from having fun.

Your thoughts start to race. If Ellie is hanging out with her friends, then that means Joel should be at home… alone.

Your heart is thudding a mile a minute.

You don’t remember deciding to turn. It’s your body that makes the call before your brain can talk you out of it.

You’re going.

Do you know what you’ll say? No. Do you know if he’ll even listen? Also, no. But you have to try. You have to do something if there’s any chance to make this right.

You’re back on Joel Miller’s porch. Same day. Same door. But where this morning you were fire and fury, now you’re just… scared.

It takes you a moment to gather your thoughts, then finally, you suck in a deep breath and knock, three raps against the door.

Now comes the worst part: the wait. The time when you’re stuck in a limbo of whether or not Joel is going to answer the door. It’s nerve-wracking enough to make you a little queasy and your hands, as the seconds seem to stretch on for an eternity.

Enough seconds pass that make you wonder if he’s not home.

Or, the likelier reason he hasn’t answered yet is that he saw you and doesn’t want to talk to you. That thought is like a punch to the gut.

But then the deadbolt clicks.

The door opens, and there’s Joel, the picture of a man who’s just been awoken from a nap. His hair is messy, and he’s squinting a little at the bright sunlight, wearing a white t-shirt and comfy-looking gray sweatpants.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

“You were right, I made a mistake.”

“No shit. So what is this? You here to make yourself feel better?”

“I’m here to apologize and explain. I thought you stood me up.”

“Yeah.” His tone’s sharp. “I got that part.”

“I was hurt. I lashed out when I shouldn’t have. I’m so fucking sorry, Joel.”

His eyebrows rise. “Sorry, huh?” He scoffs. “Well, sorry don’t cut it. Not with the way you treated me.”

He starts to close the door, but your hand hits it with a thud to stop it. “Joel, please.”

He doesn’t budge. “Don’t. Don’t give me that shit, standing there and acting like you care now.”

“I do!” You say it too quickly, too loudly. “I do care. I was wrong, and I fucked up.”

“Well, I don’t wanna hear your bullshit excuses,” he snaps.

It’s a slap to the face hearing your own words thrown back at you.

The door starts to move again, and you panic.

“You know how your world ended when Sarah died?” you blurt out.

He freezes, his expression darkening. “You don’t get to talk about her.”

"My world ended when I lost my family." You don't want his sympathy. You don’t even want to talk about this, but telling him about your past will give him a better understanding of who you are. "I was twelve,” you continue. “It was me, my parents, and my two little sisters traveling. We were trying to reach a safer QZ. The day before, we had a close call with some infected. My dad took care of them, so we thought we were fine, but…” Your throat tightens. “I like to believe my mom didn’t know she’d been bitten.”

“Anyways, we stayed the night in an abandoned house. The next morning, I was doing a perimeter check with my dad when we heard screaming. We ran in—” You pause to swallow around the lump in your throat. “We ran in,” you try again, “and there was blood on the floor. My sisters were already gone. They didn’t stand a chance, and my mom… she wasn’t my mom anymore. In that moment, my dad didn’t just lose his wife; he lost his will to live. It didn’t matter how much I needed him, there was no way he’d keep going without her, so I lost him, too. He made me leave before he…” You don’t want to say what he did to himself out loud. It’s bad enough that you can remember the sound of the gunshot. With the back of your hand, you wipe away the tears in your eyes. “So… Yeah…”

For half a second, his eyes flicker with something—recognition? Maybe pain? His gaze drops to the space between you, silence falling over you both. You hate the quiet. It's filled with too much unknown—will he give you a chance to explain the reason you acted the way you did that morning? Is he going to shut the door in your face? Is he going to tell you off, then shut the door in your face? Joel isn't a man of many words, and even less so, someone who openly shows their emotions. It makes sense that he doesn't offer you his condolences or welcome you into his home. It is very Joel when he clears his throat and steps back for you to walk in, shutting and locking the door behind you.

“My brain is an asshole,” you say, your eyes on the floor. “Gail says it’s the childhood trauma. It makes me jump to the worst-case scenario.”

“Gail the therapist…?”

“Yes.” You lift your head. “She’s the one who told me Ellie got hurt. Is she okay?”

“She’s fine.”

“That’s good.” You nod. “She looked happy with Dina and Jesse when I saw her after my session.”

He walks past you toward the kitchen and doesn’t look back. “You want a drink?”

“If you don’t mind.”

If he’s getting you a drink, then maybe you should go into the living room. You head that way, stopping beside the leather couch in the middle of the room.

When you stayed over the other night, the house was too dark for you to see much of anything. Now, the late afternoon sunlight leaks through the window’s curtains to softly illuminate the area. You take in your surroundings, the blanket hastily thrown over the back of the sofa, the throw pillow near one of the armrests, indented with the shape of a head—he’d definitely been napping.

You’re an intruder in his space with no idea what you should do, so you stand there awkwardly.

A few moments later, he’s returning, holding a small glass in each hand. He offers you one that you take, raising it to your lips immediately, but pausing when you get a whiff of the liquor. It isn’t the harsh, homebrewed shit most people choke down these days. You take a sip. Yep, this is old-world whiskey. Smooth, warm, and extremely rare. Another perk of being a smuggler, you suppose.

He doesn’t sit right away; he just gestures toward the couch with his chin. “Sit down.”

You’re not sure if he’s ordering you or just being gruffly polite. You sit down anyway.

Joel sinks into the old armchair in the corner. He sits there, silent, pensive, turning his cup slowly in his hand as if to buy time to figure out what to say. “So…” he starts. “What happened to you. What’s that got to do with this mornin’?”

A valid question. Personal tragedies are a dime a dozen these days. Everyone who’s survived this long is bound to have losses. Look at Joel. It’s just a part of life.

When he finally looks at you, the anger in his eyes is replaced with exhaustion.

“‘Cause for the life of me,” he says, “I haven’t been able to make sense of where I went wrong for you to think so little of me.”

“That’s the thing, you didn’t do anything wrong. You were beyond perfect. A gentleman, a good guy, it was me and my fucked-up brain.” You sigh. “With how I lost my family, I kinda just expect everyone to leave, one way or another. So, when you didn’t come over, my first thought wasn’t a sane, ‘maybe something happened.’ It was a dramatic, ‘he’s gone like the rest of them.’ And that fucking destroyed me. It was worse than anything I’ve ever felt.”

He doesn’t say anything; he only hums his acknowledgment as he takes a slow drink of his whiskey.

You press on. “I coped by lashing out. I ended it before you could, thinking it’d hurt less, but it didn’t. It was worse. Nothing can excuse how I treated you, Joel. I fucked up. I majorly fucked up and hate myself for it. If there were any way for me to take it back, I would. All I can do now is beg for another chance. Let me prove it to you. Let me prove that I won’t run again.”

It's hard to tell from his demeanor what he’s thinking.

He rubs a palm over his jaw, the scrape of his stubble loud in the quiet. “Let me get this straight,” he starts. “You thought I was fuckin’ perfect and you still had the gall to treat me like that?” He lets out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes, taking another sip of his drink.

That’s not a good start—you shoot back the two fingers of liquor in your cup, appreciating the burn as it slides down your throat and warms your belly.

His glass rests on his thigh. He gazes into the amber liquid before his eyes meet yours again. “I get it,” he says, “the world is fuckin’ cruel. People leave, they die, they disappear, but aren’t you sick of that shit? Don’t you want to be happy? I was offerin’ to stay, to marry you, to have children with you, and you just threw me away like I was nothin’.”

“Joel—”

“No,” he cuts you off, making you flinch. “It’s my turn to talk, and you’re gonna fuckin’ listen to what I have to say.” Your gaze drops to the empty cup in your lap, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s clear as day that you’ve never been in a real relationship. You’ve had flings and men who strung you along, the bastards. Never anythin’ that lasted, and because of your inexperience, I will give you some grace.” Your eyes return to his, feeling the tiniest inkling of hope. “But even with that, I’m too fuckin’ old to be chasin’ a girl as young as you, who runs so easy. The smart thing for me to do is nip this in the bud and end it now.”

The admission makes your heart sink. He averts his eyes, rubbing at his chin again, thinking.

Dread has you feeling sick as you wait for him to kick you out.

His hair is already messy, but still, he runs his fingers through it and takes a deep breath. His gaze lifts to yours. “However,” he starts, “against my better judgement, I wanna give you another chance.” The hope is back, you perk up in your seat. “I don’t need you to be perfect. What I need is for you to meet me halfway—that’s it—you’ll get everythin’ I’ve got, but you can’t be boltin’ or shuttin’ me out when things get tough. I need to know that if I let you into my life—into Ellie’s life, that you plan to stick around. So, how do I know I can trust you?”

A great question that you don’t have the answer to.

What could you say or do to regain his trust?

“You can speak now,” he says softly, gently nudging you.

“You won’t know until I prove it to you, and I’m asking that you please give me a chance to show you. You were right that I’ve never been in a relationship. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but I’ll figure it out, because I want you, Joel, and everything you’re offering. Losing this, losing you, is worse than anything imaginable, and I swear that even if things get tough, I’m not going anywhere. I won’t run. I won’t shut you out. I’ll talk to you like I should’ve done in the first place. Just please give me the chance to prove that I’m worthy of your love.”

It's palpable how the tension between you loosens. He nods his head once, then lifts his drink to his lips, downing it all in one gulp, the empty glass getting set onto the table next to him. "You've always been worthy of love." He pushes himself up from the chair with a pained grunt.

You’re not sure how to respond. He stands there, his eyes slightly squinting, studying you, searching your face for any signs of deception. You assume he’s found none when he steps your way, gently prying your cup from your hands, that he puts down onto the coffee table in front of the couch.

"Up." He reaches for your hands and helps you to your feet. As soon as you're standing, he pulls you into his arms in a full-body hug, practically wrapping himself around you like he never wants to let you go. You smile when he presses his face in the crook of your neck, his stubble scratching your skin. He lets out a contented sigh, his body relaxing. “I missed you,” his voice is muffled. “Don’t fuckin’ do that again.”

“I won’t.” The promise leaves your mouth before you even think.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. He’s holding you, keeping you as close as possible, reminding yourselves of what this feels like. You press your face into his shoulder, getting a faint trace of his thyme soap, earthy with a hint of mint.

To think you almost walked away from this—from him—from these arms that feel like home and a man willing to love you with no plans to leave. Insane.

His palm smooths up your spine to cradle the back of your head. “Needed you last night,” he softly admits.

Your chest aches. From the look of him this morning and the nap you interrupted, he must’ve been up half the night. “I’m here now.” Your head turns, trailing your lips across his prickly jaw, as you whisper, “I’m not going anywhere.”

He leans back just enough to see your face, his big hand cupping your cheek. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, moving lower to trace the corner of your mouth. “Good,” he says, his gaze flicking to your lips. “‘Cause you’re mine.” It’s not up for debate. It’s stated as a fact, and all you can do is nod before the space between you disappears, and he’s kissing you.

At first, it’s slow, tentative; he’s reacquainting himself with the shape of your lips.

It’s not enough.

The dam breaks, Joel deepening the kiss. His arm around your back, drawing you flush against him, moaning when he licks into your mouth. His tongue intertwines with yours, tasting the whiskey—warm, smoky with a slight bite, that melts into something sweeter. Your arms circle his neck, giving in to all of the feelings washing over you—relief, want, drowning out that fear of losing him.

He pulls away long enough to say with his lips brushing yours, “Missed this.” Then his mouth is on yours again, rougher now, hungrier, kissing you like he’s staking his claim.

When your lungs begin to ache, you finally come up for air, panting. Joel peppers kisses along the line of your jaw and lower down your neck, your eyes rolling back when he sucks over your pulse.

The words stumble out of your mouth before you can stop them. “Can I make it up to you?”

His head rises to meet your gaze. “What’d you have in mind?”

“Let me suck your dick.”

His face is unreadable, his pupils blowing wide. “On your knees.”

The command has your breath hitching, your cunt clenching hard around nothing.

“Here?” you ask, surprised he doesn’t want to go somewhere more private. “What if someone comes home?”

“Someone is spendin’ the night at their friend’s. Knees,” he orders.

You obey, dropping without hesitation to kneel on the rug at his feet. He looms over you, tracking your every movement with a burning gaze as you look up at him. “Good girl,” he purrs, rubbing his thumb across your wet bottom lip. “Get me out.”

Here’s the thing, you could do exactly as he says—you should do exactly as he says, but where’s the fun in that?

Instead of your hands going to the waistband of his sweatpants, you plant them on his thighs, and lean in, pressing your cheek against where he’s beginning to bulge. Heat radiates through the cotton as you nuzzle your face over his half-hard cock.

“Is that what I told you to do?” he asks.

Locking your eyes onto his, you ensure he's watching as you finally reach to curl your fingers into the stretchy waistband, pulling his pants down agonizingly slow. You get them down his thighs until all that separates you from his straining length are his blue boxer briefs.

“That’s it.” His voice deepens.

Keeping your gaze on his, you’re blatantly disobedient, slowly mouthing along his shaft through the material covering him, your lips mapping him, darkening the fabric with your saliva. Joel’s frown deepens, his jaw flexing. The warning’s clear on his face; his patience is wearing thin. Any second now, he’ll take back control.

“The longer you keep teasin’ me,” he says, “the longer I keep you from comin’.”

There it is. You expected him to stop you sooner.

You sit back on your heels and smile up at him. “I love when you threaten me.”

“What you love is pushin’ my buttons.”

“You’re not wrong.” You hook your fingers into his boxers, pulling them down just far enough for his cock to spring free—he’s thick, the tip reddened, and bobbing between his legs, making your mouth water at the pure perfection. You wrap your hand around the base, slowly pumping him, “Better?” you ask with a smirk.

His throat works as he swallows, eyes growing darker. “Almost. Tongue out.”

Arousal flares low in your belly. You let go of him and do as you're told, sticking it out, wide and waiting, resting your hands on his thighs again.

​ “Good girl.” He guides his length forward, laying it heavy across your tongue for you to feel the full weight of him, reminding you of just how big he is. He teases you, tapping the tip of his dick against your tongue, once, twice, a low groan slipping from him when you moan.

You don’t wait for his next command—you close your lips around the swollen head and suck, slow at first, letting him feel you working him into your mouth. Joel’s jaw goes tight, his hand finding the back of your head, threading his fingers into your hair.

“Christ,” he mutters. “That mouth.”

You swirl your tongue, hollowing your cheeks, then come off him with a wet pop. You look up at him through your lashes. “I told you I wanted to make it up to you. So, use me. Fuck my mouth. I want it.”

For a beat, he just stares down at you, a flush rising up his neck. His hand in your hair tightens. “Open wider.”

A thrill moves through you as you do as he commands, opening as wide as you can. Joel doesn’t hesitate, pushing his hips forward, filling you even deeper. He slides hot and heavy along your tongue until he’s hitting the back of your throat—you don’t gag, you never do, and that makes him lose it a little bit, his pace quickening.

“Fuck, you take me so well,” he groans, and the way he says it makes your pussy throb.

He pulls back only to thrust in again, finding a rhythm. It’s rough, his grip firm in your hair, guiding your head, watching himself fuck his cock into your mouth. It turns you on, being on your knees for him, drool slipping down your chin, your eyes watering while he uses you how he wants.

“So fuckin’ pretty.” His voice is ragged. He’s got one hand in your hair, the other wiping away a stray tear with his thumb. “Look at this mess you’re makin’ for me. All mine.”

His hips snap harder, the back of your throat taking a pounding. You moan around him, making him groan even louder. His eyes are hooded, his cheeks rosy, and he looks wrecked. “My perfect girl, bein’ so good to me.”

Your cunt feels achingly empty, wetness pooling between your thighs. Your panties had to be drenched.

Trailing your hand down, you go to slip your fingers beneath your pants to quell the need that’s been building since the moment you kissed. Joel notices and comes to a halt. He growls down at you, “Don’t. Hands stay where they are.”

Your eyes lift to his, big and pleading, but he just feeds himself further into your mouth. “You don’t get to come until I say you can,” he says.

The denial makes it hotter, your body trembling with want. You return your palm to his thigh.

With his hand on the back of your head, he urges you forward, sliding his dick deeper and deeper, until you’re having to swallow around him, taking him into the tight space of your throat.

“That’s it, baby,” he sounds strained. “You’re doin’ so good for me. Just like that.”

Your nose bumps the coarse hair at his base, smelling the soap he showered with and his natural musk. Your eyes water, but you don’t gag around the stretch, you won’t, and the fact that you take him so easily drives him wild. “Fuck,” he rasps, his hips jerking. He free-hand cradles your jaw, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth where drool spills over. “That’s my girl, takin’ it all the way down.”

God, you shouldn’t love this as much as you do—drooling, crying, your throat stretched full, but you do.

Your nails dig into his thighs, the slick mess dripping from your lips, keeping him buried until your lungs scream for air. He lets you come off him, gasping in a big breath, a string of spit connecting you to his cock, before he shoves you down again, moaning when you swallow him whole.

His dark eyes are on your watery ones. “Good girl,” it comes out ragged, his lips parted. His hands cup your cheeks as he stares down at you with a surprisingly tender gaze. ”You’re so fuckin’ beautiful. You like bein’ ruined by me, don’t you?”

You hum around him, ‘yes.’

“Yeah, you do. You like bein’ mine.” He pulls out of your mouth, curling his fist around his hard cock. His other hand catches your jaw, tilting your face up toward him. “But do you deserve to come?” Your eyes round, your chest heaving. “After the way you treated me?”

“Joel,” you whimper—it’s pathetic how desperate you sound, but you are desperate. He’s got you wound up tight, your pussy aching, throbbing with need. Now terror rears its ugly head, splashing over you like ice-cold water because he has every right to deny you. He could leave you hanging, keep you here without ever allowing you to come, and you’re not sure you’d survive it. “Joel, please.”

“Don’t ever doubt me again. You hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He lets go of your face, grunting when he hauls you to stand. He’s on you, ducking his head to spread open-mouthed kisses up your throat. “I hated bein’ mad at you,” he murmurs into your skin. Joel grabs your jaw, holding you still as he licks a slow stripe through the spit on your chin, then up the tear tracks on your cheek. A startled gasp leaves you. The filthiness of it makes you ache. Joel catches your noise and smirks. He ghosts his mouth over yours. “Mess or not, you’re mine. All of it, mine,” he declares, sealing it with a kiss.

He claims your lips, hard and searing, stealing the breath from your lungs, before he breaks away. “Take off your clothes.” You’re too slow for his liking; he’s already grabbing the hem of your shirt, stripping you with little patience. Your boots thud across the floor—socks flying after, your jeans and panties roughly yanked down your legs. Your bare skin prickles in the cold air. You squeak in surprise when he spins you, forcing you to kneel on the worn leather sofa, bracing yourself against the back of it.

You feel him behind you. Looking over your shoulder, you see he’s still dressed. “I don’t wanna be the only one naked,” you tell him. “Strip.”

His gaze burns, his lips downturned. “You really think you’re in a position to order me around?”

“What? Are you saying you prefer to be clothed? Don’t tell me you’re a sex-with-socks-on guy.”

He actually looks offended. “Who the fuck only wears socks?” His shirt’s gone in one motion, pants and boxers shoved down.

“You’d be surprised.” He does the awkward balancing act to remove each sock. “They did not get a second date.”

“Gotta add that to your list.” Of what you want in a man.

You smile, laughing breathlessly. “It’s already on the list, I just don’t broadcast it to catch the guys that do.”

Joel’s on you in seconds, the front of his body pressed to the back of yours, his skin hot, his cock thick and heavy against your ass. He holds your hips, his lips brushing your ear. “Better?”

You reach behind, pushing your fingers into his hair. “Mhmm, much better.”

He kisses a spot below your ear, then again on your neck. “Here’s how this goes,” he rasps. “I’m gonna fuck you, but you don’t come ‘til I say you can. You do, and I pull out. I won’t touch you again the rest of the night. Am I clear?”

The warning has heat curling low in your core, your thighs squeezing tight together. “Yes.”

His lips graze your shoulder. “Good girl.”

The praise has you biting your lip, rocking your hips back against the heft of him.

Joel chuckles low in his chest, “So needy for me.” He surprises you, slipping his hand down to tease along your inner thigh. “You want my fingers first? Or do you think you can take me?”

You shake your head. “No. I can take it.”

A little pain didn’t hurt anyone. Plus, you know he’ll make it worth it.

“That’s my girl.” He presses his palm between your shoulder blades, and that’s all of the instruction you need—automatically, you’re bending forward and arching your back to stick out your ass.

His length is still covered in your saliva, but Joel is extra cautious. He spits in his palm and works it over his dick, the obscenely slick sound it makes causing your insides to clench in need. He notches himself at your sopping entrance before he starts to nudge in, the thickness of his cock prying you open and stealing your breath.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

He pushes in slowly, your body resisting, the stretch burning sharply enough to make your inner walls clamp helplessly around him.

“Easy,” Joel rasps, in a tone that’s low and tender, like he’s breaking a wild horse. “I got you.” He inches in deeper, then retreats a little, before pressing in again, slowly working himself into you. “That’s it.” He’s cupping your hip, steadying you while sinking in further. “Doin’ so good for me.” You whimper, caught between the sting and the overwhelming relief of finally being filled. “Just a little more.”

He bottoms out, burying himself to the root. “Christ,” he murmurs, leaning forward to press his forehead to your shoulder. “Nothin’ in the fuckin’ world like bein’ inside you.”

You’re stretched to your limits and beyond full, every nerve in your body screaming. He doesn’t move right away. He stays still, his mouth kissing anywhere he can reach—your shoulder, the side of your neck, behind your ear. His lips are everywhere as you get used to the fullness. “My good girl, takin’ all of me,” he says into your skin. “This pussy is mine. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

“You’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

You’re thankful he’s gracious enough to give you time to adjust to what feels like him splitting you open.

What you expect is for him to fuck you hard, to work out all the anger you caused him. What you get is slow—torturously slow. His thrusts are shallow, grinding his pelvis into your ass, savoring you like he’s afraid to waste even a second of it. It makes you whine, your nails digging into the back of the couch, desperate for him to just take you the way you thought he would. It has you pushing back, trying to speed up his pace.

He doesn’t like that.

A sharp smack lands on your ass before his hips slam forward, knocking the wind from your lungs. His other hand grips the back of your neck, forcing you to stay put. “Quit it,” he growls. His tone is rough, but his touch is gentle when he rubs a comforting palm along your side. “You’ll take what I give you, and you’ll love every fuckin’ second. Understand?”

“Yes.” Your voice trembles.

“Good girl.”

If you thought his leisurely pace was maddening, that was only the beginning.

Joel pulls you upright, your spine colliding with his solid front, his cock stretching you open as he cages you in. He’s got one arm locked across your chest, squeezing your breast with his calloused hand, his free palm sliding down to the apex of your thighs. He rubs your clit in slow, merciless circles that sync with the lazy roll of his hips, your arousal dripping down his shaft to coat his balls.

His lips are at your ear. “You were hopin’ I’d fuck you, mean, weren’t you? Wanted me to take out my frustration on your greedy little pussy.”

The heat in your core gets hotter with every drag of his cock and swirl of his fingers. You don’t answer him quickly enough—he slaps your cunt, soothing the sting, by stroking his palm over it right after.

“Is that what you were hopin’?” he asks again.

“Yes,” you breathe.

He chuckles darkly. “Too bad. I want you to feel every inch of me—every fuckin’ inch of what you almost threw away.” His teeth graze the shell of your ear. “And then I wanna hear the sweet sound of you beggin’ me to come.”

No words leave your mouth; you just moan.

Joel’s hand moves down your swollen sex, spreading his fingers around where he’s sliding in and out of you. “Fuck, baby,” he groans, “you’re soakin’ me.” He smears the slick before gathering it onto his fingertips to circle your clit—you jolt, his cock grinding in deeper. “I love how wet you get for me—how your body knows who it belongs to.”

You’re fluttering around him, clenching at what he says because he’s right, your body does belong to him, you belong to him. He has ownership over you and your pleasure, filling you so completely that there isn’t any space inside you he hasn’t claimed.

He’s moving slowly, languidly as if he has all the time in the world, and it’s a special kind of hell. It doesn’t matter that every swirl of his fingers and every shallow thrust winds you tighter; you want more. You want the hard, fast, feral, fucking you within an inch of your life pace he had the first time he put his cock in you. That didn’t mean his slow, steady strokes were any less devastating—he has you at the cusp of combusting. Your thighs tremble, fighting with everything you’ve got against the sharp heat swelling in your belly, because Joel’s threat of pulling out if you come before he gives you permission is at the forefront of your mind, but you’re close, you’re so close it hurts.

Tears form in the corners of your eyes, your body begging to let go. A broken sob tumbles from your mouth. Joel’s hand moves from your chest, gliding up your throat to grab your jaw, turning your head. He catches your earlobe between his teeth, tugging it just enough to make you gasp. “Can feel how close you are,” he growls in your ear. “Can feel you fightin’ it. My good girl knowin’ she’s not gettin’ off easy.” He drives into you hard, burying himself balls deep inside you where he stays, unmoving, while his hand abandons your aching clit.

The sudden loss is a welcome respite. Still, all of your nerves are on fire, your body quivering at being so close to the edge, now with nowhere to go. Your eyes are closed, a thin layer of sweat coating your skin, making you stick to him wherever you touch.

“Joel,” you whimper.

“I know, baby.” He kisses you at the awkward angle, your lips misaligned, with his wet fingers splayed on your stomach. “You can take it.” He lets go of your jaw, bracing his arm across your chest again like he knows you’ll need the extra support. “Gotta ruin you before I let you come.”

You’re already ruined, and somehow he’s going to ruin you even more? Jesus. What have you gotten yourself into? You’re about to find out.

He starts moving again, his hips keeping to that same slow, savoring pace as before. It’s juxtaposed by the perfect strokes of his fingers on your clit, circling the needy bundle of nerves until your body quakes and shakes for release, bringing you to the precipice before stopping once more.

“Please, Joel,” you try, but you know he isn’t going to give in—it’s too soon.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “Not ‘til I say.”

You gulp, your pussy squeezing him as electricity dances just below your skin.

He may not let you come, but he isn’t cruel about it. You’re still stuffed to the brim with his thick cock, his chest pressed against your back, his touches softer now—his thumb strokes little arcs over your hip bone, his lips mapping the slope of your shoulder, the curve of your neck, and the damp skin just below your ear, soothing you, grounding you.

Joel begins again, slowly thrusting while his fingers work you to the point of snapping, only to deny you of your orgasm again. He does that once, twice, three times, edging you until you’re a mewling, crying fucked out mess. Your nails claw at his forearm, locked over your chest, your cunt clenching down on him helplessly, every nerve in your body raw.

Tears spill freely down your cheeks. “Please, Joel,” you beg. “I can’t—I can’t. Please, I need it. I need to come. Please.” If you didn’t, you were sure you’d die. That’d be a new one. Dying of sexual frustration. What a way to go out.

His movements have ceased again, staying buried to the hilt inside you. He groans in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “That’s it. My perfect girl, beggin’ so prettily. You’ve earned it.” His fingers return to your clit, and finally—fucking finally—his hips snap harder, faster, pummeling your pussy just the way you wanted. “Come for me, baby,” he says through gritted teeth, his other hand pinching your stiff nipple. “Give me what’s mine.”

There’s no other way to describe it: the permission is like a match to gasoline, it has pleasure exploding out from your core so violently, you see stars. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, Joel fucking you through it with a drawn-out moan, your body convulsing around him.

“Fuck, yes. Just like that,” his words come out strained, probably from how your cunt chokes his dick. “My good girl, my good fuckin’ girl.”

And then things go fuzzy, your brain short-circuits. Do you lose consciousness? Maybe. All you know is one minute you are experiencing the most Earth-shattering orgasm of your entire life, and the next you’re coming to, sucking in a big gulp of air as if in those lost seconds you forgot to breathe.

His fingers on your clit are too much. It feels like he’s touching a live wire inside you, the overstimulation causing you to yank your hips back, his hand coming off in reflex. This is when you register that he’s still slowly rocking in and out of you, while your pussy continues spasming with aftershocks, drooling your arousal along his cock. His arm is locked firmly around your middle, keeping you up because your legs are too shaky to hold your weight.

“You alright?” he asks, voice low. His mouth ghosts over the hollow of your shoulder, leaving soft kisses, as his palm slides down your side in comforting strokes.

You’re still clutching his forearm that’s across your front and let go, reaching your hand back to press your fingers into his sweaty hair, smiling dreamily. “Yes,” you croak.

His head turns, kissing the inside of your wrist, and you can’t help thinking about how much you love how affectionate he is. It’s not something you’d expect from someone who’s lived the life he has. You’d think that after all these years, the softness inside him would’ve hardened, and yet it hasn’t. Or maybe it had at one point. He did tell you he was a shell of a man before Ellie, and maybe you have her to thank for softening him up—maybe you have her to thank for the tenderness no one before him ever cared to show you.

His nose nuzzles the side of your neck, followed by the gentle press of his lips. “Think you can give me another?” he asks.

The fact that he’s giving you a choice warms your heart. Not that you dislike when he’s in charge and you’re at his mercy. That’s great, too. But his asking shows he has your comfort in mind and doesn’t want to overstimulate you further.

“Later,” you answer, your nails lightly scratching his scalp. “When we christen your bed, and you eat me out to your heart’s content.”

A groan rumbles from his chest, his cock twitching inside you, making you smile. “God, I fuckin’ missed you,” he tells you.

“I missed you, too.”

He slowly withdraws from you, and the sound you make is a half-sigh, half-whimper. It only takes a few seconds for him to move from behind you to sit down on the couch cushion, and tug you to straddle him, the leather creaking under your knees that bracket his hips.

For a moment, he just stares at you, his big hands coming up to caress your cheeks. He’s got that expression on his face, the one where he looks upon you with a sort of awe, almost like he can’t believe you’re real, and actually there. Then his eyes turn hungry as they take you in, roving over your face and body, before they flick up to meet yours. “How’d I get so lucky?” he asks. You’re the lucky one, but you don’t get a chance to say it because as soon as the words leave his lips, he’s pulling you in, crushing his mouth against yours.

This kiss is much more fervent than the last, feeling his need, his desperation, his relief. You take it upon yourself to lift your hips, lining his straining cock up with your entrance, then start to lower yourself, taking him inch by glorious inch until you’re flush against him. The two of you moan into the kiss. Even with how much he’s worked you open and your orgasm loosening your muscles, there’s still a slight stretch that feels so fucking incredible, it has a shiver crawling up your spine.

You can feel him throbbing inside you as you stay still, reveling in how right it feels to have him buried in you again, filling you so perfectly. The kiss melts into something deeper, your tongues tangling, his hands roaming down your back, grabbing the globes of your ass. Now that you’re cognizant, having come down from your peak, Joel consumes your every thought; he’s taken over your senses, feeling him everywhere. Nothing exists outside this moment with him. He’s everything. He’s all that matters, and you want him to feel as good as he makes you feel.

Joel gets to a point where kissing while you sit on his dick isn’t enough—his feet are planted on the floor, his back pressed into the cushion behind him, giving him the leverage he needs to start moving, slowly thrusting up into you. He keeps himself fully sheathed, his grip on your backside helping you grind down on him. You’ve got your arms around his neck, your fingers in his hair, rolling your hips in sync with his movements.

The kiss turns sloppy as the rhythm builds, feeling the tension coiling through his muscles—he’s close. His lips break away from yours, panting as his mouth trails down your throat, lavishing open-mouthed kisses lower over your collarbone. You bite your lip. “You gonna come for me, baby?” you ask through heavy breaths.

He roughly groans into your skin, and you take that as a yes, smiling. His head dips, closing his lips around a pebbled nipple, circling his tongue. Between that and how his strokes have gotten faster, you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair.

“Yes,” you moan. “Come, I want it. Fill me up, make me yours.”

You thought you were spent after coming so hard, but the attention Joel is giving your tits and how amazing his cock feels inside you has pleasure blooming at the base of your spine. He switches from one breast to the other, sucking and teasing your nipples, his teeth grazing over the hard buds, then soothing them with his tongue.

You’re a little surprised how quickly the heat is building in your gut. Now, you’re bouncing in his lap to keep up with his thrusts, each movement growing needier.

“Come inside me.” You sound breathless, a bead of sweat rolling down your forehead. You’re getting lost in how good he makes you feel, and it loosens your lips, words spilling from your mouth. “Give it to me, Joel. Claim me, ruin me. I want it. I want your come, want you to fuck it deep and get me—” Your eyes fly open as you suck in a breath, completely caught off guard by what you were about to say.

Where did that even come from?

Wherever you had it buried in your subconscious, now it’s come to light, and for the first time in your entire life, the thought that someone—Joel—could get you pregnant has you coming undone. Your orgasm is sudden, all of your muscles pulling taut as sweet euphoria spreads through your body. It’s softer this time, a ripple instead of a crashing wave, which you’re thankful for with how worn out you already feel.

When your cunt clamps down on him, Joel groans loudly. It has him finally looking up at you, and it’s clear on his face how fucking gone he is—his eyes glazed over, his cheeks pink, and his jaw slack. He’s so far gone, you don’t think he’ll last even a minute longer. He captures your lips, hungrily kissing you as the rhythm of his hips stutters, his fingers digging hard into your asscheeks.

“You can have it,” he murmurs into your mouth. “‘M gonna give it to you. Fuck my come deep. Give your greedy little pussy what it wants.” And that’s it for him—he didn’t even make it thirty seconds before he’s coming. He pulls your ass down, burying himself all the way to the root as he follows you over the edge. The sound that tears from his throat comes from somewhere deep in his chest. It’s rough and strangled. It’s what losing control sounds like, and it’s so unbelievably hot that your pussy clenches, bearing down on him, keeping him in place. He thickens inside you, his dick jerking with each spurt of his come, feeling the warmth of him filling the deepest depths of you. When you’ve wrung him of every last drop, his body goes lax, and his head falls, face planting between your breasts—it makes you smile, your nails lightly scratching at the nape of his neck, while you rest your cheek on his sweat-damp hair. You don’t move as you both come down from your highs. Your breaths evening, your hearts slowing, closing your eyes as you bask in the afterglow.

Maybe it’s because you only slept a handful of hours the night before, or the emotionally charged day. It could also be the result of getting thoroughly fucked, but you find exhaustion has seeped into your bones, your eyelids feeling weighed down.

You’re about to ask Joel if he wants to head up to his bedroom and take what you know would be an amazing nap, when you’re silenced by a loud snore against your chest. In any other circumstance, you’d giggle. Instead, it reminds you that he’s probably beyond tired from staying up, worrying all night about Ellie. Guilt and shame creep up the back of your throat at the memory of how you treated him that morning, and you hug his head closer, kissing his hair.

Seconds pass, maybe a minute ticks by, with Joel still asleep. You don’t want to wake him, but you also like the idea of getting some shut eye yourself, so very carefully you push his upper body back against the cushion, pausing to see if he wakes—he snores. You let out a relieved breath, grabbing the blanket from the back of the couch and wrapping it around you both as you lean into him, getting comfortable with your face tucked against his neck.

Now that you’re relaxed and cozy, you find yourself wondering why in the world it got you off thinking about getting knocked up, when you did everything you could to prevent it with past partners. That’s it, your partner. Joel isn’t like the men before him. You know for a fact he’s dependable and a damn good father. You know that if you have his child and things don’t work out between you, you wouldn’t have to parent alone; he’d still be there. You trust Joel. Not only that, but he also checks all your boxes. He’s everything you could dream of in a partner and father to your future children. You got off at the thought of getting pregnant, because for the first time, you had nothing to fear—it doesn’t hurt that you’d love to have his kid, too.

And even feeling that trust and security, there’s still a whisper of doubt in the back of your mind, that all of this is too good to be true—you squash it down as best you can, relishing in the comfort and safety of right now.

Between the warmth and the knowledge that you have nothing to worry about, you fall asleep in record time.

Time goes by, minutes, an hour, two, safe in your cocoon, the house quiet.

A side effect of surviving an apocalypse is a sensitivity to sound. At the faintest noise, you can go from sleeping deeply to fully alert in a second flat. The scrape of metal in the front door’s deadbolt cuts through your dreamless sleep. Your eyes widen, sitting up immediately with your heart pounding in your chest.

There’s only one other person who lives here.

“Joel,” you harshly whisper, shaking his shoulder.

His eyes blink open, all bleary-eyed and confused, but when he registers it’s you, his lips quirk up in a lazy smile, his big hands sliding along your sides. “Yeah?” he groggily asks.

“Ellie’s here.”

That wakes him up, his expression turning panicked. “Shit,” he whispers, looking side to side like he’s trying to figure out an escape plan. You don’t think, you move because your first interaction with your boyfriend’s daughter is not going to be scarring the poor girl at finding you both naked. Thankfully, there’s a wall separating the living room from the entryway that buys you some seconds—quickly you unwrap the blanket from around you, ungracefully dismounting Joel, and ignoring his come leaking down your leg, as you scoop up your clothes.

Well, fuck. Where can you hide?

It’s your turn to look around to figure out your escape plan, spotting a closet door on the other side of the room that you quietly rush to, and manage to slip inside just as you hear from the foyer, “Joel?” You catch a glimpse of the man in question as you close the door, impressed that he was able to get his sweatpants on, before lying across the couch with the blanket covering himself from the neck down to make it look like he’d been napping. The closet door clicks shut, the small space going dark, save for the sliver of light coming through the crack near your feet.

Your ears perk at the young girl’s muffled words. “Oh, shit,” she says. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“It’s okay,” Joel replies, through a yawn. You can hear him sit up, the sofa’s leather complaining under his movements. “What are you doin’ home?” he asks, his voice rough from sleep. “I thought you were stayin’ the night at Dina’s.”

Carefully, so as not to make any noise, you set your clothes on the floor and start dressing as you listen, pulling on your panties first.

“Is that why you’re not wearing a shirt?” You want to laugh at how disgusted she sounds.

He sighs. “I got hot while sleepin’, and there was no one here to complain.” He grunts, before asking a handful of seconds later, “Better?” You think he grabbed his shirt off the floor and put it back on.

“Much.”

“Did you forget somethin’?” he asks.

“No—I found out Jesse and Dina have never played Monopoly, and I’m pretty sure I can kick their asses.”

“By goin’ bankrupt twenty turns in ‘cause you buy every property you land on and put houses on the shittiest ones?”

“Hey, if you had landed on one of those blue ones, I would’ve owned your ass.”

“But I didn’t, and you wasted your money and the money I loaned you.”

“Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway because I’ve got a better strategy that will make me unbeatable,” she says, sounding very confident in herself.

“Right,” Joel replies flatly, clearly unconvinced. “And what’s this unbeatable strategy?”

She scoffs. “Like I’d tell you. You’ll find out next time we play.”

At this point, you’ve gotten your jeans on and are now working on getting your sports bra over your head and down to cover your chest.

“If you say so,” he says. “Let me grab you the game. Do you need anthin’ else from the closet?” He emphasizes the last word, your stomach dropping—the board game is in here with you. Your heart is pounding in your ears as you’re frozen in your spot listening. Leather creaks loudly—he must be standing up.

“I’m fine, Joel,” Ellie insists. “I don’t need your help. I can get it myself.” You can hear the light thump of her shoes on the hardwood floor getting closer. “I wanna see what else we have anyway—definitely gonna grab that Twister game you refuse to play.”

The doorknob jiggles and starts to open. “NO,” Joel says a little louder than necessary, his body thudding against the door, slamming it shut.

“What the fuck is going on?” Ellie asks, the words laced with annoyance. “Why won’t you let me in the closet?”

Joel lets out a defeated sigh and mumbles something you can’t make out.

“What?” Ellie replies. “What did you say?”

He says it softly, but you hear him this time. “There’s someone in there…”

“What do you mean there’s someone in there?”

“Jesus Christ,” Joel mutters. “This isn’t how I wanted you to meet.”

“Meet, who? Who the fuck’s in the closet, Joel?”

This seems like a good time to finish dressing. You lean down to snag your shirt off the ground, but when you do, you find nothing there.

Where’s your shirt?

Did you drop it when you rushed to the closet?

You crouch, feeling all around on the floor, touching shoes, a box, a metal baseball bat, but nothing that resembles your shirt—fuck.

“The woman I’m datin’...”

Even though you’re now panicking at being shirtless, that admission makes you smile.

“The woman you’re dating…?” she asks, drawing the words out like she doesn’t quite comprehend. “There’s someone who likes you, like romantically…? You…?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just you’re an old, grumpy asshole and your face looks like that.”

“What’s wrong with my face?”

“I mean, have you looked in a mirror?”

This time when Joel sighs, it's that of a father at his wits’ end with his child’s bullshit—you can admit they’re adorable.

“Yes, I have looked in a mirror, and yes, there is someone who likes me romantically. If you will be polite and stop embarrassin’ me, I will introduce you to her.”

“Chill, Joel. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

He mumbles something that sounds an awful lot like, “I doubt that.” The pressure of his body lifts from the door, and you’re next met with two soft knocks. “You can come out—that is, if you’re ready,” he quickly adds. “If you need us to give you a minute, that’s fine, too.”

There’s no point in dragging this out. You’re going to have to bite the bullet. You stand back up. “Um, Joel?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you, uh, please, grab me my shirt? It’s somewhere out there…”

“Oh. Yes. Gimme a second.”

He pads away.

“Wait,” you hear Ellie say. “Why isn’t your girlfriend wearing a shirt?”

“She got hot while sleepin’.” He returns and softly knocks again. “I’ve got it, sweetheart.” You crack the door open and close it after he hands you the t-shirt, which you immediately put on.

“Sweetheart?” Ellie questions. “Did you just call her sweetheart?”

Joel sighs. “Yes.”

“Ew.”

Now that you’re dressed, you quickly comb your fingers through your hair to try and make yourself look a bit more presentable—thankfully, the tears and spit have dried on your face, so it isn’t too obvious to Ellie that you fucked her dad earlier. At least, you hope it isn’t.

Taking a deep breath, you open the door a little. Joel’s standing there, blocking your view of the rest of the room with an apologetic look on his face. You give him a reassuring smile and open the door wider. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “You would’ve introduced us eventually, and this is totally fine.”

“I appreciate you bein’ so understandin’, but I’m still sorry.”

“You really don’t need to be.” Pointing at your face, you mouth ‘Do I look okay?’

Joel smirks—he fucking smirks. His hand comes up and ever so gently brushes some stray hairs off your cheek, tucking them behind your ear as he nods, saying for only you to hear, “You look beautiful.”

Your mouth opens to respond when another voice chimes in, “Holy shit, she’s pretty—” You see Ellie peeking around Joel with wide eyes. “—and young. Was not expecting someone that young.”

“Uh, thank you?” you reply.

“Ellie,” Joel warns, his attention going to her. His hand fell from your face.

She steps to the side of him, unaffected by his pointed stare. “What?” she asks, meeting his eyes. “I didn’t say anything rude. They were compliments!”

“I’m not offended,” you add.

She smiles. “See, I didn’t offend her.” Joel takes a deep breath, and the young girl looks at you again. “I figured someone interested in this old fucker—” She juts her thumb his way. “—would be closer to his age, but you definitely are not. Are you sure you like this dude? You know, someone who looks like you can do a lot better than him—no offense, Joel.” She pats his arm.

He presses his fingers to his brow, grumbling, “You’re not wrong.”

Ellie has no filter, and you find it delightful. Her father, on the other hand, looks as though he wishes the ground would swallow him whole—poor guy.

You smile and introduce yourself to Ellie. “—It’s nice to finally meet you, and yes, I am sure that I like him. It might not make much sense to you, but I like him quite a lot.”

“Yeah, I don’t get it, but whatever.” She shrugs. “If Joel’s happy, I’m happy.”

Joel’s eyes go to her again, but this time they’ve softened. His fond expression shows how much he loves her, even if she’s a pain in his ass. And Ellie loves him, too. You can tell by how her ribbing is laced with affection and void of any malice. She just gets immense joy from eliciting a reaction from him.

“So,” Ellie continues. “How long has this been a thing?” She points back and forth between you and her dad.

Joel glances your way, and you give him a look that says, ‘You’re taking this one.’

“Uh, it’s pretty recent,” Joel replies, scratching the back of his neck.

“Cool.” She focuses on him. “Is it serious?”

“Yes.”

You love hearing that.

“Is she moving in?”

“Not right this second.”

“You’d tell me if she was moving in, though, right?”

His eyebrows furrow. “What? Yes. Of course I’d tell you. That isn’t somethin’ that’d happen without talkin’ to you first.”

“Okay.” She nods. She turns to you, pointing past your head. “Can I get in there to grab my games? I gotta get going. My friends are waiting for me.”

“Oh! Right,” you reply, pushing the door fully open and moving out of her way to stand beside Joel. You watch as the girl rises on her tiptoes to go through the collection of game boxes on the upper shelf—they have just about every board game you can think of. She tucks Monopoly, Twister, and The Game of Life under her arm, but ends up putting The Game of Life back, grabbing Hungry Hungry Hippos and Mouse Trap instead.

You’re not entirely sure what to do. Should you go sit on the couch? Excuse yourself to take a much-needed trip to the bathroom? Head to the kitchen for a cup of water? You end up staying beside Joel, resting your head against his arm. You smile when his pinkie slides along the side of your hand to loop around your smaller one—he wants to hold your hand, but probably isn’t sure if you’re okay with Ellie seeing. You give him what he wants, twining your fingers together.

“I’m impressed by how many games there are,” you whisper. “None of them are missing pieces?”

“If they were, I found replacements—at least, the majority of them I did. Still haven’t been able to find a fucking wishbone for Operation.”

You snort. “People probably wanted the good luck. Plus, the wishbone was always a bitch to remove anyway, so I’m sure it’s not missed.”

“Maybe, but I’d like the game to have all its parts.”

“Then I will keep my eye out for the ever-elusive wishbone.”

He huffs out an amused breath and kisses your hair. “Thank you.”

Ellie takes a couple of minutes to make her final decision. Monopoly and Twister never leave her arm. She keeps Hungry Hungry Hippos, but switches out Mouse Trap for Clue—solid choices. Once she’s finished, she shuts the door, turning in place.

“Well, guys,” Ellie says, addressing you both. “This has been fun—weird, but fun. I’m gonna head out.” She looks at Joel. “I promise I won’t be back home until tomorrow. I’ll meet you for breakfast. Will she be joining us?” She nods your way.

“No,” you answer for him. “I’ll be working. I’ll be helping make the breakfast.”

Her eyes meet yours. “A cook. That’s rad.”

You smile. “Actually, a baker. I made your cake, which I hope you liked. Happy Birthday, by the way.”

That has her face lighting up. “No shit, that was you?! That was the best fucking cake I’ve ever had.”

You giggle. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“She also made the apple pie from the other night,” Joel adds. “And that peach cobbler you wouldn’t shut up about.”

Her eyes widen. “No fucking way, and you’re dating Joel? Does that mean you’ll bake me stuff if I ask?”

“Within reason. I promise if I can get my hands on some peaches, I’ll definitely make you a peach cobbler, though.”

“Fuck yeah!” She turns her attention to Joel. “I have no fucking clue how you got her to date you, but good job. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you, I guess,” he replies.

“Okay, I really have to leave. Bye!” She briskly walks past the two of you. “Oh, and Joel?” You both turn around to see her standing at the doorway.

“Yeah?”

“I’m cool with you having a girlfriend, but the shit that happens in your bedroom stays in your bedroom. I don’t want to hear it, I definitely don’t want to see it, I don’t want to fucking think about it.” She shudders in disgust. “God. I’m never sitting on that couch again.”

“Fuck,” Joel says under his breath. “I’m sorry, Ellie,” he tells her. “I won’t let it happen again.”

“You better not. Glad that’s over. Bye, guys!”

And with that, she left the room, and the house, the front door slamming shut behind her.

“Told you that you liked to play with fire,” you tease.

“She probably knew somethin’ was up the moment she stepped foot in here.”

“Probably. I mean, your boxers are over there on the floor.” You gesture to where they are crumpled under the coffee table. “You were shirtless, I was shirtless, and hiding in the closet, plus your lame ass excuse that we were undressed because we—” You do air quotes. “—’got too hot,’ it’s very obvious what we were getting up to. But look on the bright side.” You turn your head to look at him, meeting his eyes. “At least she didn’t walk in when your dick was down my throat. I don’t know about you, but I count that as a win.”

“You’re right. It could’ve been worse.”

“Much worse. Now, you wanna take a shower with me?” You really want to clean up the mess between your legs.

He smiles and pulls you into his arms. “Yeah, I wanna shower with you,” he says, punctuating the sentence with a toe-curling kiss—it ends, Joel’s lips brushing yours as he quietly asks, “Will you stay the night?”

“I’ll stay as long as you want.”

He nudges the tip of your nose with his own. “Because you’re mine?”

“Because my bed is still broken and my back is killing me from sleeping on the couch last night.” He stills, and you can tell he’s frowning. “And yes,” you continue in exasperation, “because I’m yours, you ridiculous man. I’ll always be yours.”

He pinches your hip, and you giggle. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours.”

“Yes, you are, and you know what?”

“What?”

“I’m yours. I can promise you that, I’ll always be yours.”

“Say it again.”

The story of how you met Joel Miller is a wholesome one—until it isn’t. He’d come to your apartment the previous day to see about having a birthday cake made for his kid—that’s your side hustle, making cakes and other pastries people request in exchange for goods and favors. Joel was willing to get you anything you wanted for your services, and isn’t that just the sweetest thing? A father going out of his way to ensure his new, adopted child gets to experience a real birthday with cake and presents for the first time in their life? See? Wholesome. Then came your price, which was practically a steal given the order and the timeframe he needed it by. He got lucky older, single dads are your kryptonite, and that he’s a sweetheart. All you asked in return were a few easy-to-find items and to have a drink with him. This is when things escalated from an innocent PG-rated flick to an X-rated amateur porno, and you discovered Joel Miller can fuck.

In the span of a few hours of knowing him, he made you come multiple times, rightfully ruined you for anyone else, broke your bed, and was so good you asked him to marry you and offered to have his babies.

You’re his now. You belong to him, and the best part? He’s yours.

Joel came to your apartment for a cake and left with a girlfriend young enough to make some townspeople wonder if he’s having a late midlife crisis, and others jealous of his luck.

It’s just past five a.m. on a Wednesday, the sun still hours from rising. The chill outside has the tip of your nose numb, but you’re warm in Joel’s jacket that he wouldn’t let you leave his house without wearing. You stayed at his place last night, secretly, without Ellie knowing, and were very surprised when he got up to walk you home. Why are you up so early? You’re one of the town’s few resident bakers, and you need to get to the community kitchen to start baking the bread for the day. But before that, you’re making a quick pitstop at your apartment to change your clothes.

How was your secret, impromptu sleepover with Joel? Well, it didn’t go the way you expected…

See, when men invited you to their homes in the past, it was usually for one reason. So, it didn’t surprise you when Joel got you alone in his bedroom, locked the door, and stripped you both of your clothes. Seemed pretty par for the course, and to be honest, you were down to have another go with him between the sheets.

But something unexpected happened: absolutely nothing.

No groping, no grinding, no impatient, wandering hands beneath the covers. Instead, you were treated to a warm arm around your waist, holding you close, with his nose buried in the hair on the back of your head. He didn’t have any intention to fuck you in his bed that night. He just wanted you there with him, like your presence was something comforting, that he needed, and that kind of tenderness had felt far more intimate than sex ever could.

You’d never slept so soundly.

It scares you how much you liked it.

Here you are silently walking down the dark road with Joel, the stars above, and porch lights you pass offering some light to guide your way. You told him you were fine in just your long-sleeved shirt and leggings, but his protective nature wouldn’t let you leave his house without putting his jacket on you first. Was Joel bundled up, too? No, you suspect his hotness—his literal hotness—the man’s body is like a furnace, makes him immune to the cold, so he’s only wearing jeans and a flannel shirt.

He's beside you, walking a bit slower than his normal gait to match yours, and he’s so close that his hand keeps brushing yours. You’re pretty sure he wants to hold it, and confused why he isn’t, unless maybe he’s waiting for you to make the first move. That’d be silly, but you test the waters anyway, trying to hook your pinkie around his—you smile when he grabs it instead.

“You can hold my hand.” You glance his way, inviting him.

He huffs, meeting your eyes and giving your digit a small squeeze. “Was tryin’ to be respectful and not assume.” He finally threads your fingers together, his hand so much bigger and warmer than yours.

His response makes you giggle.“Trying to be respectful? Babe, within a couple of hours of knowing each other, you had me face down, ass up, screaming your name. I think we’re past the point of handholding etiquette. But, it’s fucking adorable, that’s where you didn’t want to overstep.”

He lifts his eyebrow. “What? Because I fuck you silly, I can’t be a gentleman, too? I respect you.” His lips curve into a smirk. “Even if it might not seem like it when I’ve got you pinned to the mattress, makin’ you beg.”

“You’re a menace.”

He gently knocks his shoulder against yours, looking ahead. “Your menace.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m also rusty with all this datin’ stuff, and don’t wanna press my luck.”

“You’re doing great,” you reassure him, hugging his arm. “I love that you’re pro-PDA.”

Joel kisses your hair. “I’m pro-touchin’ you, and if anyone sees, then so be it.”

“Even Ellie?”

“Pigs would be flyin’ if she were up at this hour. She sleeps in until at least seven-thirty. We don’t have to worry about runnin’ into her.”

“You really enjoy playing with fire, don’t you?”

With you staying over while Ellie was home, and now walking with him, it certainly seems that way.

“I wouldn’t say I’m playin’ with fire. I just know my kid.”

“Who, you’re very cute with, by the way.”

When he snuck you into his house, you overheard a sweet conversation between him and Ellie that gave you a glimpse into their relationship. The way he spoke and looked fondly at her made it clear how much he adores and loves her as his own.

“You think so?”

“Yep. I’m not kidding when I say it turns me on that you’re a good dad.”

“And why's that?” You can hear the smile in his voice, and you see it when you turn your head toward him, finding he’s already looking at you.

“Why does it turn me on that you’re a loving and caring father who puts in the effort to have a relationship with your kid and wants nothing more than for them to be happy? Hmmm, why would that turn me, a woman who wants to have her own children one day, on?”

“One of life’s great mysteries.” His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles.

You fail to keep yourself from smiling and playfully swat his arm. “Shut up. You know exactly why I’m into it.”

Joel chuckles, lifting your hand he’s holding to kiss the back of it. “Maybe. But I like hearin’ you say I turn you on. Makes me feel pretty fuckin’ great about myself.”

Your eyes roll. “Glad I could stroke your ego, babe.” You pat his chest.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” He kisses your hand again, then lowers it. There’s a lull in the conversation, the two of you focusing forward, continuing to walk. A minute passes, and Joel breaks the silence. “It really gets you all hot and bothered that I care about my kid…?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s sexy.”

“Huh. Never thought of it as bein’ panty-droppin’ behavior.”

“It definitely is for me.” You wonder something. “You don’t have to answer this question, but back in the time before—” The outbreak. “—were you in a relationship?”

“No. I raised Sarah alone and had a hard time datin’.”

“It’s absolutely none of my business, and again, you don’t have to answer. Why did you have a hard time dating?”

“Well, for one thing, I didn’t really have the time. I was a single dad workin’ my ass off to make ends meet. Then there was Sarah bein’ my top priority, and women—at least back then—weren’t too keen to play second fiddle to her. So, I gave up tryin’ when she was about five.”

“If you're going to date a single dad, you have to know his kid is the most important person to him. At least that's how it should be, and honestly, if Ellie weren't your top priority, I wouldn't have even considered a relationship with you.”

“Gotta add that to your list.”

Your head turns his way to look at him, your eyebrows pulling together. “What list?”

“For what you’re lookin’ for in a man.”

When you first met and told him you were romantically interested in him, he didn’t understand why and even tried to convince you to find someone your own age. It took some explaining that you had a thing for older men, particularly in their fifties—you’ve found they’re the best in bed—and that he checked all of your boxes for what you were looking for: caring, fun to talk to, handsome, strong, not creepy, and he’s fifty-six.

“Oh, being a good dad has always been on the list.”

“I really do check all your boxes, then.”

“Yeah, you do.”

He smiles. “Thank Christ for that.”

The apartment complex where you live has six units—three downstairs, three upstairs. Yours happens to be the first you reached when you led Joel up the stairs. At your front door, you let go of his hand to dig your house key out of his jacket pocket, unlocking the deadbolt.

You sense Joel behind you, finding his tall, broad presence comforting. You turn around to face him, hesitating as you try to figure out what to say. "So…" you start.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “So.”

“Definitely my favorite customer of all time.”

He chuckles. “And you’re definitely my favorite baker. You’ve got a customer for life.”

“Because I fucked you?”

The look he gives you says you know that’s not why. “No.” He shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “Because you’re a great baker. I wasn’t tryin’ to butter you up when I said the apple pie you made was really fuckin’ good.” Yesterday, for dinner in the mess hall, you made apple pie for dessert. “Did you hear Ellie talkin’ about it last night?” You did overhear her saying how much she liked it.

You smile. “Yes. My peach cobbler is her favorite.”

He mirrors your expression. “Should’ve known you made that, too. Ellie fuckin’ loves peaches, and I had to tell her to slow down eatin’ it so she didn’t choke.” He huffs a small laugh, then he’s smirking, his eyes sparkling with mischief. It makes you wonder what’s got him so tickled. “Now, keep your clothes on for this next part,” he says. “We’re out in public.”

You squint in confusion. “What…?”

“You’ll understand in a second. The peach cobbler?”

“Yeah?”

“I gave Ellie my bowl. I always give her my share when we’re together, and there’s somethin’ sweet.”

Your eyes widen. “You always give her your dessert?” you whisper.

Dessert doesn’t happen all the time. It depends on supplies and usually occurs when there’s an excess of something that needs to be used before it spoils, such as fruit.

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Makes me happy to see her happy.”

Your breath catches a little.

Of course he does.

Of course, Joel Miller would hand over his portion of dessert just to see Ellie smile. And why is that so goddamn sexy? It’s not just those broad shoulders or that voice that drives you wild; it’s the way he loves. Quietly. Steadily. Without expecting anything in return.

“God, that’s so hot,” you admit.

His expression is a mix of delight and amusement. “I knew it’d get you.”

“First of all, rude of you to exploit my weaknesses.” He laughs. “Secondly, yeah, it got me. I think you can’t get any dreamier, and then you prove me wrong.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Keep it up, and you won’t be able to get rid of me.”

“I better not stop, then, ‘cause I don’t want you goin’ anywhere.”

His words hang there between you. I don’t want you goin’ anywhere. And you know he means it from the sincerity in his eyes. This is new. You’re used to men wanting your body—a night, maybe a few—but they never want you. Not all of you, at least. But Joel? He wants it all, the good, the bad, and everything in between. He wants you, and truth be told, it frightens you. Why? Because you know you’re going to fall in love with him, and that, being so completely at the mercy of a man, is fucking terrifying.

But the scariest part?

You’re willing to risk it.

You know this thing between you and Joel isn’t a fling or some temporary distraction; he was upfront that he didn’t do casual. This is something serious that’ll eventually lead to marriage and children.

It’s what drew you to him.

With Joel, you have a chance at stability, at having the comfort and security you’ve missed after losing your family. He’s your shot at finding that kind of love you’ve longed for since your world got turned upside down. But even with all of that hope, you still have doubts. You’ve been burned in the past, let down, and abandoned, and those fears linger at the edges of your mind. Still, you trust him. You believe what he says, and when he tells you he doesn’t want you going anywhere, it makes you go so soft you practically melt into goo.

There’s no thought, you act on impulse, gripping the open collar of his shirt, pulling him toward you to crush your smiling mouth against his. He grunts in surprise, but in an instant, he has his hands on your waist, stepping forward, his body crowding yours, backing you up until your spine hits the cool surface with a soft thud. This kiss isn’t as frantic as the first from the previous day. It’s soft, lingering, full of all the hope you have, and the things you can’t find the words to say. He kisses you back with a kind of patience that feels like a promise, as if he’s got all the time in the world if it means he’s with you.

"I can't get enough of you," he whispers. Then he's kissing you like he means it—slowly, consuming you, his tongue slipping into your mouth, swallowing the moan you can't hold back.

Joel presses closer, his chest solid against your front, sliding his thigh between your legs. You're so worked up that your body moves without permission, rocking your hips, chasing the friction of the rough denim that ignites heat at the base of your spine.

He groans when you grind down, the sound vibrating into your mouth. He’s got one hand firm on your hip, the other cupping your face, the kiss turning dizzying with how his tongue intertwines with yours. Feeling his heat, smelling his scent, tasting his lips, having him surrounding you makes it impossible to think of anything else except him, and you need more. At this point, your panties are soaked, and you’re worried there’s going to be a wet spot on his jean-covered thigh.

When the kissing ends, you’re both panting. “Come inside,” you tell him.

His thumb strokes your cheek, and you can see it on his face that he wants to. “You gotta get to work.”

“I will—after my boyfriend fucks me.”

His brow lifts. “Boyfriend?”

“Yeah. You got a problem with that, big guy?”

“I’m too damn old to be called that.”

“Then pick a title. Are you coming in or not?” You reach behind you to turn the doorknob and push the door open.

He doesn’t give you a verbal response. Instead, his lips are suddenly on yours again, walking you backwards into your apartment, making you smile into the kiss. He kicks your front door closed, both of you ignoring that your key is still in the deadbolt—Jackson’s a relatively safe place. His hands drag his jacket you’re wearing down your arms until it falls to the floor, followed closely by your long-sleeved shirt and sports bra, while you toe off your shoes.

The kiss turns messy, his mouth slanting over yours with a quiet hunger. He gets you to the couch, his lips leaving yours as he coaxes you to lie down, the soft, familiar cushions giving under you. Joel’s kneeling between your legs, and within seconds, he has your leggings and underwear discarded unceremoniously onto the ground.

“Just look at you.” His big hands push open your thighs before he rolls up his shirt sleeves. The only light comes from above the stove in the kitchen, but you can make out his pupils, blown pitch-black, staring at your glistening pussy, the front of his jeans bulging. He licks his lips like he wants to taste you, his free hand squeezing his hard cock. “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

God, you want him inside you. You’re a little sore from last night, but you don’t care. You have no self-control when it comes to him, and you’ll happily feel the ache all day, to keep him fresh on your mind.

He seems to understand that time is of the essence, and this needs to be quick—he’s unbuckling his belt and getting his pants undone. His gaze rises to yours with a frown, shoving down his boxer briefs to release his dick—he’s thick with a nice length, precum leaking from the flushed tip. “I’m eatin’ you out tonight,” he states. “For as long as I want.”

His declaration sends a shock of excitement to your center. You smile. “Are you?”

He nods, giving his length a few strokes. “Yes. Then I’m takin’ my time fuckin’ you ‘til there ain’t a chance in hell you forget a single inch of me.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Good. Now be a good boy and fuck me like you mean it.”

His eyes narrow, his voice dropping dangerously low. “Good boy? We’ve talked about that smart mouth of yours.” There wasn’t much talking—he fucked you within an inch of your life, though. “You wanna try that again?” he asks.

Earlier, you questioned if he enjoys playing with fire, and you’re starting to think it’s you who does.

“Ummm, now be a good boy and fuck me like you mean it, please?” You blink up at him innocently.

His jaw ticks. “You’re lucky you have work.” He shuffles back enough to bend forward, his palms on your open thighs.

“Why?”

He spits, a hot, wet wad of saliva landing on your clit, and your brain short-circuits. Why is that so fucking hot? Is it that he’s marking you, claiming you as his? Saying, ‘This is mine and only mine.’ His head lifts, and you meet his dark gaze, feeling as he drags two fingers through the mess he made to spread it over your entrance. “‘Cause, I would’ve edged you ‘til you cried for that shit.” You don’t have a chance to respond—he pushes his thick digits into you, his other hand pressing down on your belly, right above your mound. The stretch burns for half a second before melting into pure pleasure when Joel curls his fingers just right, zeroing in on that one magical spot that makes your vision blur.

“Joel,” you gasp, your hips twitching, eyes closing, “oh, fuck—”

“Yeah?” He has the audacity to sound smug. “I know how to touch you, don’t I?” Each push and pull of his digits is rough and deliberate, hitting your g-spot so perfectly you’re unable to stop squirming. “Answer me,” he orders.

“Yes.”

Your thighs threaten to close around his hand as an orgasm forms in your core, the tension rising with each passing second.

He’s using his fingers for good and evil—the good, preparing you to take him. The evil, how he’s not going to let you come yet. He’ll draw it out, torturing you with every press of his digits, but you’re not finishing like this. No, you’re at his mercy; he’s entirely in control of how close you’ll get and when you’ll fall.

“Who owns this pussy?”

Your body is screaming for release, the coil twisting tighter. You both love and hate that he knows exactly how to work you up. It’s hard to think, let alone answer. You don’t want him to stop, so you force out, “You.”

The obscene wet squelch of his fingers working in and out of you fills the room, your body wound tight, legs trembling. Maybe you were wrong, and he will let you come—it’s highly unlikely, but a girl can dream. You’re almost there, you just need a little bit more.

“Yeah, I do, and don’t fuckin’ forget it.”

You’re right on the cusp of falling apart, and that’s when he stops. You knew it was coming, yet when he removes his hands, your eyes fly open, groaning in frustration. “You’re so mean.”

He rolls his eyes, wiping your juices onto his cock, then spitting in his hand to slick it up even more. “I’m not mean.” Joel inches forward, one palm on your thigh, holding you open as he drags the fat tip of himself through your wetness. “I’m teachin’ you manners.” He teases your opening. “Now, we don’t have much time, so this is gonna be quick and dirty. Got it?”

“Yes.”

He smiles. “That’s my girl.” Without another word, he’s thrusting into you with one hard stroke, bottoming out with a rumbling groan—you cry out, clawing at the couch cushions for something to hold onto, the sudden fullness knocking the air from your chest. He’s so big it feels like you’re being split in two, savoring the burn.

For a moment, he stays buried deep, his hand spreading over where he’s inside you, low in your belly. “You feel that?” he asks in a deep husk. “That’s all me.”

When Joel said this was going to be quick and dirty, he didn’t mince words. As soon as he starts moving, he’s fucking into you hard and fast, the brutal pace stuttering your breath.

“Oh, god,” you moan. He has your tits jiggling, something you know he’s loving.

“He’s got nothin’ to do with this,” Joel grits out. He licks the pad of his thumb, pressing it to your swollen clit, the added pressure making your back bow, gasping his name. “Yeah, I know, baby. That’s it.” He doesn’t let up, thrusting hard while he circles your bundle of nerves with practiced, filthy precision that’s driving you crazy.

“Joel, oh fuck. Joel—”

“I’ve got you.” His free hand palms your breast, brushing his calloused thumb over your stiff nipple, before pinching it. You mewl, writhing under him. “This what you wanted? This how you wanted me to fuck you?”

​ Yes, you think, but can’t say out loud. The fast, punishing rhythm combined with the attention to your tits and clit has you dizzy with pleasure. He’s hitting you everywhere, inside and out, and it borders on too much, your body trembling uncontrollably. It’s a little embarrassing how quickly he builds you right back up to the edge.

“You gonna come for me?” he asks. His hand comes off your breast to brace himself when he leans over you, his mouth trailing hot kisses down your neck. “Are you? You gonna give it to me?”

His thumb continues rubbing tight, fast circles in sync with the steady strokes of his cock.

“Yes, don’t stop—oh god—please, don’t stop.” Your arms go around his back, your nails digging into the flannel over his shoulders.

“We’re not done ‘til you soak me, baby. Come for me, let me have it.” He sucks hard on your pulse point.

It all boils over—the rough pad of his thumb, the heat of his mouth on your neck, his dick railing into you—the tension snaps, and you’re coming, crying out as pleasure wracks through you, your inner walls clenching around him like a vice.

“There we go,” Joel groans, his pace faltering. “My good girl—my good fuckin’ girl.” He doesn’t let you come down; his hips keep moving, drawing out every tremor, every helpless gasp until you’re boneless and shaking under him, completely wrung out.

“That’s it, baby,” he rasps. “You did so good for me.”

His praise is a balm and a brand, soothing and burning all at once.

He leaves you no chance to recover; he’s chasing his own high now. His arms are on either side of your head, his thrusts turning rough, almost frantic, the wet, slick sound of him working into you mixing with his harsh breathing. He wants it, and you can feel it in every hard, punishing stroke.

Something you’ve learned about Joel is that he likes to kiss when he comes—he likes to kiss in general, but especially when he’s coming. So, you’re expecting it when his mouth crashes onto yours, kissing you deep and messily. His hips snap faster, his breath turning hot and ragged against your lips.

“Gonna come,” he mutters into your mouth. “Gonna fuck you full of me, baby. Fill you up. You want that? You want my come?”

You moan ‘yes’ into the kiss, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him as deep as he’ll go, and that’s it for him. Joel slams into you to the hilt and stays there, a raw, guttural moan tearing from his chest as his cock throbs hard inside you. You feel it—every hot, thick pulse flooding you, spilling into your inner depths. He grinds, rolling his hips to fuck it deeper, kissing you like he's starving for you and can't get enough. Once he's milked himself of every last drop, he collapses, shoving his face into the crook of your neck with a happy sigh.

Another thing about Joel is that he gets very cuddly after sex and loves it if you play with his hair. Your fingers go into the sweat-damp waves on his head, lovingly scratching his scalp. He hums in the back of his throat, nuzzling your skin.

“Tha’s nice,” he slurs.

You smile. “Please don’t pass out. I really do need to get to work.”

He sighs. “Gimme a minute.”

“Okay.” You’ll give him five and work a little later—you live in the apocalypse, no one will care if you’re forty-five minutes late to your shift.

God, this is nice—it’d be better if he were naked, still, his flannel shirt isn’t uncomfortable against your skin.

His weight on you is grounding, like nothing bad can reach you here. But that’s how it always is with Joel. He makes you feel safe and wanted. Maybe a better word is cherished—he makes you feel safe and cherished. Your body is warm, your limbs heavy, and your mind swimming in a soft haze. Is it ridiculous to think that you could stay like this forever? Tangled up with him, breathing him in, your hearts beating in sync. Is that too much to wish for?

Probably.

You’re not naive. You know he’s not as perfect as he seems. You just haven’t known him long enough to figure out his flaws. Hell, odds are, all of this is too good to be true, and he’ll have his fun with you before he decides to settle down with a woman of a more appropriate age. He wouldn’t be the first man to do that to you. Even with that in the back of your mind, you’re falling harder for him than anyone else, and you’re hoping he doesn’t break your heart. But if he does, and worst comes to worst, you’ve got Gail, the town’s therapist, who’ll help you get over him. Wouldn’t be the first time, and she’d be pretty excited to start getting those shortbread cookies she loves again.

Joel shifts slightly on top of you, kissing the side of your neck. He drags his lips across your sweaty skin. “You okay, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his voice rough.

“I’m wonderful.” You slide your fingers through his surprisingly soft hair.

“Good.” He kisses your collarbone, then the hollow of your throat. “Was it everythin’ you wanted?”

The question makes you snort. “Are you asking me to review your performance?”

His head pops up to give you a look. “Are you tellin’ me you didn’t enjoy it?”

Your eyes roll. “It was mindblowing. It’s always mindblowing. Five out of five stars.”

He nods once. “That’s what I thought.”

“Wow, I’m deducting half a point for your smugness. Four and a half stars now.”

He frowns, his expression turning grumpy. He mutters under his breath as he starts to move off of you, “Four and a half stars my ass… “ Your giggle evolves into a whimper at the sudden emptiness of him pulling out. Of course, Joel notices, his lips lifting into a smirk. “Miss me already?” he asks.

“Why do I like you?”

“I check all your boxes, and sweetheart, you don’t just like me, you wanna marry me.”

The day before, after he rocked your world the first time, you proposed marriage when you discovered you both shared the same desires for the future, one of them being children—it’s rare for a man his age to actually want a baby, and with people moving fast these days due to the uncertainty, it wasn’t too crazy a proposal. It’s not uncommon to marry someone you barely know, but Joel is from a different time, and politely declined, simply because he wants to date you properly, which is very sweet. He also said that if you’re still together in six months, he will marry you, so you’ve got something to—hopefully—look forward to.

You sit up on your elbows. “I’m second-guessing that right now.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, you agreed to marry me… in six months.”

“Or if I knock you up first.” He says it so nonchalantly that it leaves you speechless. His dark gaze is on yours as his hand goes between your thighs, two thick fingers catching his come as it drips out of you, and when he slowly pushes it back inside, you just about lose your fucking mind, unsure whether to shiver or melt. “So, keep that in there for me. Every drop.” Why is that so hot? “Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

He smiles. “That’s my girl. I also like knowin’ you’ll have some of me with you today while we’re apart.” Why is that romantic? How can come be romantic? What is he doing to you? Joel removes his two soaked fingers from you, glistening with both of you, and holds them up to your mouth. “Open.” That brings you back to yourself, things feeling normal again. You don’t hesitate, parting your lips for him to push them in. You grab his wrist with one hand, holding it still, keeping eye contact as you swirl your tongue, sucking his digits clean.

“You like how we taste?” he asks. You hum an affirmative.

This is where you show him that two can play this dirty little game.

You press forward, taking his fingers all the way to the back of your throat, your lips touching his knuckles, moaning for the hell of it. His eyes round, a sharp breath escaping him, which delights you.

"Jesus Christ," he whispers. "You keep showin' off like that, and you're not leavin’."

You pull off of him. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.” You grab a fistful of his shirt, tugging him down for a quick kiss, and push him back. “I need to take a quick shower, get dressed, and go to work.” You get off the couch and stand up. His come leaks down your inner thigh—yeah, a shower is a must. “Feel free to hang or let yourself out,” you tell him. Turning around, you start heading to your bedroom at the end of the hall. “Thanks for the quickie! Can’t wait to see you tonight!”

You’ve barely made it three steps when out of nowhere, a big hand latches around your arm, stopping you. You yelp in surprise, spinning round to find Joel standing there, with flushed cheeks and his jeans hastily pulled up, looking like you just insulted him or something.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

"That's not how you say goodbye to your boyfriend," he firmly answers.

You blink, caught off guard. “I thought you were too old to be my boyfriend?”

“I am, but that’s beside the point.”

“Is it, though? ‘Cause you seem pretty upset I didn’t give you whatever the fuck a boyfriend goodbye is. The kiss wasn’t enough?”

“That wasn’t a goodbye kiss. That was a fuckin’ drive-by. You don’t give a man a quick peck and walk off like that.”

“Okay? Then explain to me what the proper way is to say goodbye to my title-pending not-boyfriend.”

“Like this—” His hands frame your face, his rough palms warm against your cheeks, and then his mouth is on yours. Oh, this is one of those kisses. The kind that steals every coherent thought, that you’ll replay in your head later while impatiently counting down until you can have another. The kind that makes your knees go weak and leaves you dazed, smiling like an idiot all day—a solid five out of five stars, maybe the best you’ve ever had.

When you finally break away, you’re breathless. “Better?” you whisper.

His eyes are heavy-lidded, his gaze hungry. He, honest to god, pouts. “Yeah, but now I don’t wanna go. I’m gonna miss you too much.”

His response makes you smile, and you throw your arms around his neck. “You’re adorable. You’ll see me tonight. What time are you coming over?”

“I don’t know. Depends on how long it’s gonna take me for Ellie’s present.” He’s putting together a guitar for her birthday tomorrow. “Then, if she wants to have dinner with me or watch a movie, it’ll be after all that. I’m hopin’ seven or eight. Earlier, if I can make it happen.”

“God, it’s such a turn-on when you talk about being a good dad.”

He chuckles and kisses you. “Is that okay?” he asks when he leans back.

“Is what okay?”

“That I won’t be able to come over until later tonight?”

“Oh, yeah. Ellie comes first. Always. I can make her cake this afternoon when I get off work.”

“Then it’s a date.”

“It’s a date.”

“Now, kiss me goodbye correctly.”

Work was uneventful, or so you thought. You were distracted, replaying the last twenty-four hours on repeat in your head like one of those old sports highlight reels your dad used to watch on cable (before the world ended and he, you know, died). It was hard not to think about Joel and all the things he did to you, especially with how you could still feel him, the soreness between your legs, and the come he left behind.

You finished in the community kitchen around one in the afternoon, picking up eggs and a glass bottle of fresh milk on your way home. Once you got back to your apartment, you tidied up, then got to work on Ellie’s birthday cake, which Joel requested to be chocolate. Where does a person get chocolate in a post-apocalyptic North America where cocoa beans don’t grow? Traders. It’s the same way you get coffee beans. Traders brave the wilds to bring the highly sought-after goods up from Central and South America—there’s a reason they’re so expensive.

There are a couple of traders who come through town every once in a while, you’ve hooked up with. They were sweet and gave you discounts on your stash of cocoa powder and coffee beans—not that you slept with them for the deals. It was just an added perk you’d be stupid to turn down.

Now, it’s later in the evening, sometime after seven. Ellie’s cake was made hours ago, carefully frosted and covered, waiting in your fridge. That’s something you’ve been doing, too—waiting. Waiting for Joel. Waiting for that knock on your door. Waiting for him.

An hour passes. The movie you put on has ended, and the credits are over. You stare at the black screen into the void for a moment, then sigh, getting up to start another, something to fill the silence. To keep yourself from looking at your front door every five minutes, you grab your pile of holey socks and start darning them.

9 p.m.

You’ve moved on from socks to patching up other clothes just to keep your hands busy. Your thoughts keep circling back to Joel, to Ellie, how he lights up when he talks about her. That’s a good thing, you remind yourself. You love that. You love that she’s his world. She should be. But there’s a thought that’s crept into your brain that won’t go away: Is that why he’s with you? She has friends now and prefers to hang out with them rather than with Joel, and he’s lonely? Are you filling the space she’s leaving behind? That’s fine if you are. You don’t mind it. Hell, you’re lonely, too. You can be two lonely people finding happiness in each other. It makes you wonder, though, if he would’ve even looked at you twice if he weren’t lonely.

10 p.m.

You’ve run out of clothes to patch up and are now on your knees, scrubbing the hell out of the inside of your oven. Joel still hasn’t shown up, and that is totally okay. Truly. The man is busy, and you’re well aware of how devoted he is to his kid, a quality you love so much. These are things you keep telling yourself, over and over again, needing to believe them. You’ve put on a record because you were driving yourself insane thinking every tiny noise you heard was him, because when it ended up not being him, it just made you feel a little bit sadder. A little bit more foolish.

11 p.m.

The doubt starts to sink its claws into you. So, what do you do? You reorganize your kitchen cabinets to try to drown it out. Does it work? No. The thoughts are louder than the clinking of dishes and Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” playing on your record player. What bothers you most is that if Joel wanted to be here, he’d be here, and if he couldn’t make it, he would’ve had the decency to stop by and let you know—there are no phones, and that’s just what you do. That’s the kind of man he is… isn’t he? Do you have it all wrong? There's a voice in the back of your head, feeding your doubt, reminding you that you hardly know Joel at all.

12 a.m.

Midnight comes. You don’t know what else to do, so you put on another movie. It was a random VHS you plucked from the shelf, not bothering to look at the title. Even with your heater on, your apartment is cold. You wrap a blanket around your shoulders to try to stave off the chill, but it's useless. They say never to trust how you feel after 9 p.m., and yet here you are, feeling pathetic that you're still holding out hope he'll knock on your door. You keep glancing at it, trying to will him there. He would’ve come by now for your date, or to tell you he needed to cancel, and even with knowing that, you still hope.

1 a.m.

He didn’t come over.

With the way the world is, your first instinct is to think something happened to him. People don’t show, and it sometimes means they’re hurt, or worse, dead. But Joel? He’s fine. You know where he was. He had the day off and was at home working on Ellie’s gift. Nothing happened to him, which leaves the only other reason for his absence:

He didn’t want to be here.

Knowing that he didn't want to be here—that he didn't want you—is a knife to the heart.

Then you start spiraling, wondering if you misread things or if it all meant more to you than it did to him. Did all of the time you spent together, the promises, and hopes for the future mean nothing?

You don’t know, but tonight shows you he never cared about you, because if he actually gave a damn, he would’ve come. He would’ve done something, anything, to ensure you knew he was okay and that he wasn’t blowing you off.

And he didn’t.

That silence? It tells you how he really feels.

It pisses you off that he led you on like that, then didn’t have the decency to cancel or break up with you. Instead, he left you wondering where he was for hours, like a dog whose person isn’t coming home.

"Fuck him," you say it out loud, like speaking it into existence will ease the tightness in your chest. It doesn’t.

You had a feeling this was all too good to be true, and you should’ve listened to your gut. You shouldn’t have let yourself get so attached. It annoys you that you’re so upset. You hate that you want to cry. Your anger won’t let you—he doesn’t deserve your tears.

And to think you let him come inside you, risking pregnancy, something you’ve done your best to avoid, all because you trusted him and thought you had a future with him. Why? Why did you trust him so easily? He was different, at least different from anyone else in your past. He made you think he wanted something real by being upfront about not having any interest in anything casual. You fell for the sincerity in his eyes. Was it all a game to him? What was the point of all of this?

What you know for sure is that you are never trusting a man again.

And your bed. Your broken bed that sits in your room, reminding you of your stupidity for thinking someone like Joel would want anything more from you than sex. He’s like all the other men who don’t see you as partner material—you’re just the good time they have before they settle down with someone different.

God, it’s embarrassing how late you stayed up hoping he’d show. Well, fuck him.

You don’t have the energy to do anything about your bed, so you curl up on the couch under a blanket, and as you drift off to sleep, one question won’t leave your mind:

Why am I unlovable?

It’s half past five the next morning. With how heated you feel, you barely register the cold, or maybe it’s the jeans and sweater you’re wearing doing their job to keep away the chill. You’re almost to Joel’s house, carefully carrying Ellie’s small cake, protected in a plastic container—you never even considered not delivering it. The whole walk over here, you’ve been thinking about what you’ll say to him, each step amplifying the anger in your chest.

You’re not sad, you’re mad. You’re pissed off that you let your guard down and allowed a man into your heart, only for him to break it. You don’t want to hear his excuses. You don’t want to hear his apologies. You want this to be over and to never talk to him again.

Stepping up onto his porch, your heart pounds. You knock on the front door.

He must’ve already been downstairs; the door opens almost immediately, and there he is, Joel Miller. He’s got dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep—good. When you stayed with him the other night, he told you he struggles with sleeping, and that having you in bed with him was the best rest he’d gotten in a long time. It cheers you up a little to see that he looks like shit.

When he sees you, his shoulders relax, a breath leaving him like he’s been holding it in all night.

“Thank Christ you’re here.” He sounds relieved. You assume he was freaking out that you weren’t going to bring over the cake.

“Of course, I’m here. I’m not going to ruin an innocent child’s birthday because their father is an asshole. Here.” You carefully shove the container into his chest. “I hope Ellie has a great birthday, and us?” You point between you. “We’re done. Don’t talk to me again. Don’t come near my apartment. Don’t even fucking look at me.”

His brow furrows. “Now, hold on—”

“No,” you cut him off. “I don’t want to hear it. Your silence last night said enough.”

“Baby—”

“I’m not your baby. I’m nothing to you.”

His jaw clenches. “Let me talk,” he growls.

“No!” you snap. “I don’t wanna hear your bullshit excuses.”

His voice rises. “Let me fuckin’ explain!”

You don’t flinch at his outburst. “No!” you say just as loudly. “I’m done. Goodbye, Joel.” You turn around, your boots thudding as you walk down the porch step.

“You’re makin’ a mistake!”

The door slams behind you. Or maybe it doesn’t. Either way, you don’t look back.

What do you do?

There’s no way in hell you’re going home to cry over a man who couldn’t be bothered to show up. You’re better than that. Stronger. Smarter. Done. It doesn’t matter if he made you feel seen and cherished, or if you could imagine a future with him. Nope. No tears for that asshole.

So, you go to work.

You bake bread.

You bake too much bread.

More than is needed for the day, and probably tomorrow, too. Just means you don’t have to be in as early in the morning. With everything that happened over the last couple of days, you can use the extra sleep.

While helping prep lunch, you overhear two workers whispering about the dishwashing kid from yesterday burning themselves badly on a pot of boiling water after you left–skin sloughed off their arm. Had to be rushed to the clinic. You didn’t catch their name or whether they were male or female. You try to remember who had dish duty, and you can’t, because they rotate out the teens in town for the job daily, so it’s always a different kid each day.

After work, you go home for a little while. You don’t sit still; instead, you keep yourself busy, then shower, changing into jeans and a t-shirt before leaving.

The house you go to, you’ve been to more times than you can count. You knock on the front door. “One second!” comes the familiar voice.

The door cracks open. Then it opens wider.

“What happened?” Gail asks in a knowing tone.

“You got time?”

“You got the stuff?”

You hold up the cookie tin. “Two dozen ‘cause I’m fucked up.”

She takes the container, opens it, and nods in approval. “A man?” She moves out of the way for you to come inside.

“Isn’t it always?” You walk past her, knowing exactly where to go.

“Sometimes we talk about your childhood. Who’s the guy?”

In the living room, you flop back on Gail’s couch, shifting the pillows behind your head and being careful to keep your boots off the old upholstery.

“Have you met Joel Miller?”

“Tommy’s brother?”

Gail takes a seat in her chair across from you, the cookies in her lap. She leans forward to grab her ancient kitchen timer on the coffee table between you, cranking it to your allotted sixty minutes, and sets it down again. Then she sits back, popping the tin’s lid to grab a shortbread cookie, and takes a bite, humming her enjoyment.

“Yeah.”

She swallows. “Briefly. We’ve been introduced. Handsome. Definitely your type.” You hear her crunching.

“We fucked.”

She finishes her cookie and closes the container, putting it on the end table beside her. “I figured. Cookies are amazing as always.”

“Thanks. He wasn’t like the others. Or at least I thought he wasn’t. He talked about serious stuff like marriage and kids. It really felt like we could have a future together. Not only that, I felt so comfortable with him, I didn’t tell him to pull out.”

Usually, with older men, you didn’t have to because they were careful and didn’t want children. With the younger men, you were the cautious one, telling them to pull out.

“That’s interesting,” she muses. “You’re usually careful, or as careful as you can be. Why him?”

“Because he’s a dad. A really good dad. He’s solid, attentive, hot—obviously—but also sweet. Funny, when he wants to be, and the sex. My god, is it truly the best sex I’ve ever had.”

“And you’ve had a lot of sex, so that’s saying something.” There’s zero judgment in her tone.

“Right? I just thought he might be—it’s too fucking cheesy to say out loud.”

“The one?”

“Yeah…”

“Sorry, kiddo, but this circles back to your favorite subject.”

You groan. “Ugh, not the childhood trauma. Why is it always the childhood trauma?”

“It’s a real bitch, isn’t it? Crazy how a single, life-altering event during brain development haunts you into adulthood.”

“I hate it,” you mutter. “But, whatever. Go on.”

“You lost your family in the worst way. It was violent, sudden, and you had no chance to say goodbye. Then came Seth and Rita, who took you in, but we both know you never really felt like you belonged with them. That’s left you chasing that feeling of real, unconditional love, you just have shitty taste in men.”

“Hey!”

“Am I wrong? You go after guys twice your age, who are emotionally constipated, and are only interested in fucking you, when you need someone you can build a life with. This is where Joel comes in. He looked good on paper. Older, handsome, has a kid, and knows how to use his words sometimes. With him, you saw your chance at finding that love you lost.”

“Well, Joel was a bust.”

“Let’s dig into that. What happened?”

Taking a deep breath, you tell her everything that happened over the last seventy-two hours. “—and I went to this house this morning to drop off the cake and refused to hear what he had to say.”

“If you didn’t let him speak, how do you know he stood you up?”

“Because he didn’t come over or stop by to tell me what was going on.”

“What if he wasn’t able to contact you? It’s not like communication is easy these days without phones. Maybe he couldn’t go to your apartment.”

You frown. When you look at her, she’s got her glasses on, busy scribbling something into her black notebook. “What do you mean?” you ask.

Her eyes meet yours. “You got to find out early that people can just be gone with no warning. So, now your default is the worst-case scenario. But here’s the thing: this time, you knew Joel was safe at home. He wasn’t dead or dying in a ditch. What you did instead of worrying he got hurt, is you jumped straight to 'he doesn't care about me' and 'he was just using me.' I hate to break it to you, kid, but I don't think that's what happened here.

“Then why didn’t he show up?” you quietly ask.

“He has a daughter, right? What if something happened to her?”

You gasp, sitting up. “The kid who got burned!”

You’ve never met Ellie, but you know what she looks like. You’ve seen her with Joel around town. Were you really so distracted that you didn’t notice she was the dishwasher?

How did you miss that?

“Is that what happened to her? She was hopped up on some good shit when I saw Tommy walking her home from the clinic yesterday.”

“Dammit, Gail! Why didn’t you lead with that?”

“You needed clarity.” She shrugs. “And to know your brain is an asshole.”

This is when it hits you like a truck: you've jumped to baseless conclusions and ruined the best thing to ever happen to you. You feel sick to your stomach as your heart rate doubles. You get up because you feel you need to leave, but you end up pacing instead.

“Oh my god.” Your vision blurs from watery eyes. “I didn’t let him speak. I told him not to talk to me. He tried to explain, and I shut him down.” Tears begin falling down your cheeks. “I thought—I really fucking thought he didn’t care, and the poor man was probably just taking care of his kid.” You stop in your tracks, remembering how he told you Sarah died in his arms. He must’ve been beside himself with worry over Ellie’s injury. The relief on his face when he saw you at his door this morning wasn’t because of the cake; it was because you were there. How could you be so cruel?

The weight of what you did is closing in, your breaths coming out quick and shallow. Sending you on the verge of hyperventilating, your vision tunneling, the edges going dark as the world caves in all around you.

Gail is suddenly up and in front of you, gripping your arms. "Hey, breathe. Look at me and breathe."

Your wide eyes go to hers, and you try, but your throat is too tight, the panic pressing in everywhere.

“Come on, kid, just breathe. You made a mistake. It happens. Nobody’s perfect. What you did isn’t unforgivable. Let’s focus on your breathing—you got this—in through your nose.” She does it with you. “There you go. Now let it out.” You do. “Again.” She coaches you to breathe, little by little, the heaviness in your chest easing, and your vision clearing, until you’ve calmed down. “There we go. You good?” she asks.

“Yeah.” You nod. “What do I do?” You sound desperate, your bottom lip wobbling. “I don’t want to lose him.”

“You talk to him. You own up to your shit. Tell him you assumed the worst because your brain’s an asshole, and you were heartbroken. If he’s worth a damn, and I have high hopes he is, he’ll forgive you.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then at least you tried and did all you could.”

What you feel like you need to do is head to Joel’s immediately to apologize and explain, but you can’t. It's Ellie's birthday, and you do not want to intrude on her special day.

The air outside is warm, the sun shining with hardly any clouds in the sky. The weather doesn’t reflect what you’re feeling inside, regret rolling through you like a thunderstorm, consuming you. You’re walking home, thinking of what you could possibly say to fix what happened.

Hey, so I may have overreacted over a misunderstanding. I didn’t know that your kid got hurt, and that’s why you missed our date, which is totally my bad. Please forgive me.

Yeah, he definitely won’t accept that.

Every idea you’ve had since leaving Gail’s has sounded pathetic. To be honest, you don’t even know what would right your wrongs and earn Joel’s forgiveness. You’re beyond angry at yourself for not giving him a chance to speak; not only that, but you also feel so fucking guilty. He looked like he hadn’t slept when you saw him, and instead of checking how he was, you treated him like shit.

What’s worse is that you knew Joel wasn’t playing games, and you treated him like he did anyway. But as Gail said, your past still haunts you, and it sabotaged your best chance at happiness.

Fuck.

What are you going to do?

What can you do?

Nothing until tomorrow.

You have the night to figure out a plan that will hopefully earn Joel’s forgiveness. Or maybe you’re being too optimistic, and nothing can be done to repair what you ruined.

You’re starting to spiral again, when loud laughter stops you in your tracks. You look toward the noise, spotting three teenagers heading your way down the road. What has your stomach somersaulting is who's in the middle of the trio—it's Ellie, wearing a short-sleeved shirt that reveals her bandaged forearm. You’re glad to see that her injury isn’t keeping her from having fun.

Your thoughts start to race. If Ellie is hanging out with her friends, then that means Joel should be at home… alone.

Your heart is thudding a mile a minute.

You don’t remember deciding to turn. It’s your body that makes the call before your brain can talk you out of it.

You’re going.

Do you know what you’ll say? No. Do you know if he’ll even listen? Also, no. But you have to try. You have to do something if there’s any chance to make this right.

You’re back on Joel Miller’s porch. Same day. Same door. But where this morning you were fire and fury, now you’re just… scared.

It takes you a moment to gather your thoughts, then finally, you suck in a deep breath and knock, three raps against the door.

Now comes the worst part: the wait. The time when you’re stuck in a limbo of whether or not Joel is going to answer the door. It’s nerve-wracking enough to make you a little queasy and your hands, as the seconds seem to stretch on for an eternity.

Enough seconds pass that make you wonder if he’s not home.

Or, the likelier reason he hasn’t answered yet is that he saw you and doesn’t want to talk to you. That thought is like a punch to the gut.

But then the deadbolt clicks.

The door opens, and there’s Joel, the picture of a man who’s just been awoken from a nap. His hair is messy, and he’s squinting a little at the bright sunlight, wearing a white t-shirt and comfy-looking gray sweatpants.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

“You were right, I made a mistake.”

“No shit. So what is this? You here to make yourself feel better?”

“I’m here to apologize and explain. I thought you stood me up.”

“Yeah.” His tone’s sharp. “I got that part.”

“I was hurt. I lashed out when I shouldn’t have. I’m so fucking sorry, Joel.”

His eyebrows rise. “Sorry, huh?” He scoffs. “Well, sorry don’t cut it. Not with the way you treated me.”

He starts to close the door, but your hand hits it with a thud to stop it. “Joel, please.”

He doesn’t budge. “Don’t. Don’t give me that shit, standing there and acting like you care now.”

“I do!” You say it too quickly, too loudly. “I do care. I was wrong, and I fucked up.”

“Well, I don’t wanna hear your bullshit excuses,” he snaps.

It’s a slap to the face hearing your own words thrown back at you.

The door starts to move again, and you panic.

“You know how your world ended when Sarah died?” you blurt out.

He freezes, his expression darkening. “You don’t get to talk about her.”

"My world ended when I lost my family." You don't want his sympathy. You don’t even want to talk about this, but telling him about your past will give him a better understanding of who you are. "I was twelve,” you continue. “It was me, my parents, and my two little sisters traveling. We were trying to reach a safer QZ. The day before, we had a close call with some infected. My dad took care of them, so we thought we were fine, but…” Your throat tightens. “I like to believe my mom didn’t know she’d been bitten.”

“Anyways, we stayed the night in an abandoned house. The next morning, I was doing a perimeter check with my dad when we heard screaming. We ran in—” You pause to swallow around the lump in your throat. “We ran in,” you try again, “and there was blood on the floor. My sisters were already gone. They didn’t stand a chance, and my mom… she wasn’t my mom anymore. In that moment, my dad didn’t just lose his wife; he lost his will to live. It didn’t matter how much I needed him, there was no way he’d keep going without her, so I lost him, too. He made me leave before he…” You don’t want to say what he did to himself out loud. It’s bad enough that you can remember the sound of the gunshot. With the back of your hand, you wipe away the tears in your eyes. “So… Yeah…”

For half a second, his eyes flicker with something—recognition? Maybe pain? His gaze drops to the space between you, silence falling over you both. You hate the quiet. It's filled with too much unknown—will he give you a chance to explain the reason you acted the way you did that morning? Is he going to shut the door in your face? Is he going to tell you off, then shut the door in your face? Joel isn't a man of many words, and even less so, someone who openly shows their emotions. It makes sense that he doesn't offer you his condolences or welcome you into his home. It is very Joel when he clears his throat and steps back for you to walk in, shutting and locking the door behind you.

“My brain is an asshole,” you say, your eyes on the floor. “Gail says it’s the childhood trauma. It makes me jump to the worst-case scenario.”

“Gail the therapist…?”

“Yes.” You lift your head. “She’s the one who told me Ellie got hurt. Is she okay?”

“She’s fine.”

“That’s good.” You nod. “She looked happy with Dina and Jesse when I saw her after my session.”

He walks past you toward the kitchen and doesn’t look back. “You want a drink?”

“If you don’t mind.”

If he’s getting you a drink, then maybe you should go into the living room. You head that way, stopping beside the leather couch in the middle of the room.

When you stayed over the other night, the house was too dark for you to see much of anything. Now, the late afternoon sunlight leaks through the window’s curtains to softly illuminate the area. You take in your surroundings, the blanket hastily thrown over the back of the sofa, the throw pillow near one of the armrests, indented with the shape of a head—he’d definitely been napping.

You’re an intruder in his space with no idea what you should do, so you stand there awkwardly.

A few moments later, he’s returning, holding a small glass in each hand. He offers you one that you take, raising it to your lips immediately, but pausing when you get a whiff of the liquor. It isn’t the harsh, homebrewed shit most people choke down these days. You take a sip. Yep, this is old-world whiskey. Smooth, warm, and extremely rare. Another perk of being a smuggler, you suppose.

He doesn’t sit right away; he just gestures toward the couch with his chin. “Sit down.”

You’re not sure if he’s ordering you or just being gruffly polite. You sit down anyway.

Joel sinks into the old armchair in the corner. He sits there, silent, pensive, turning his cup slowly in his hand as if to buy time to figure out what to say. “So…” he starts. “What happened to you. What’s that got to do with this mornin’?”

A valid question. Personal tragedies are a dime a dozen these days. Everyone who’s survived this long is bound to have losses. Look at Joel. It’s just a part of life.

When he finally looks at you, the anger in his eyes is replaced with exhaustion.

“‘Cause for the life of me,” he says, “I haven’t been able to make sense of where I went wrong for you to think so little of me.”

“That’s the thing, you didn’t do anything wrong. You were beyond perfect. A gentleman, a good guy, it was me and my fucked-up brain.” You sigh. “With how I lost my family, I kinda just expect everyone to leave, one way or another. So, when you didn’t come over, my first thought wasn’t a sane, ‘maybe something happened.’ It was a dramatic, ‘he’s gone like the rest of them.’ And that fucking destroyed me. It was worse than anything I’ve ever felt.”

He doesn’t say anything; he only hums his acknowledgment as he takes a slow drink of his whiskey.

You press on. “I coped by lashing out. I ended it before you could, thinking it’d hurt less, but it didn’t. It was worse. Nothing can excuse how I treated you, Joel. I fucked up. I majorly fucked up and hate myself for it. If there were any way for me to take it back, I would. All I can do now is beg for another chance. Let me prove it to you. Let me prove that I won’t run again.”

It's hard to tell from his demeanor what he’s thinking.

He rubs a palm over his jaw, the scrape of his stubble loud in the quiet. “Let me get this straight,” he starts. “You thought I was fuckin’ perfect and you still had the gall to treat me like that?” He lets out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes, taking another sip of his drink.

That’s not a good start—you shoot back the two fingers of liquor in your cup, appreciating the burn as it slides down your throat and warms your belly.

His glass rests on his thigh. He gazes into the amber liquid before his eyes meet yours again. “I get it,” he says, “the world is fuckin’ cruel. People leave, they die, they disappear, but aren’t you sick of that shit? Don’t you want to be happy? I was offerin’ to stay, to marry you, to have children with you, and you just threw me away like I was nothin’.”

“Joel—”

“No,” he cuts you off, making you flinch. “It’s my turn to talk, and you’re gonna fuckin’ listen to what I have to say.” Your gaze drops to the empty cup in your lap, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s clear as day that you’ve never been in a real relationship. You’ve had flings and men who strung you along, the bastards. Never anythin’ that lasted, and because of your inexperience, I will give you some grace.” Your eyes return to his, feeling the tiniest inkling of hope. “But even with that, I’m too fuckin’ old to be chasin’ a girl as young as you, who runs so easy. The smart thing for me to do is nip this in the bud and end it now.”

The admission makes your heart sink. He averts his eyes, rubbing at his chin again, thinking.

Dread has you feeling sick as you wait for him to kick you out.

His hair is already messy, but still, he runs his fingers through it and takes a deep breath. His gaze lifts to yours. “However,” he starts, “against my better judgement, I wanna give you another chance.” The hope is back, you perk up in your seat. “I don’t need you to be perfect. What I need is for you to meet me halfway—that’s it—you’ll get everythin’ I’ve got, but you can’t be boltin’ or shuttin’ me out when things get tough. I need to know that if I let you into my life—into Ellie’s life, that you plan to stick around. So, how do I know I can trust you?”

A great question that you don’t have the answer to.

What could you say or do to regain his trust?

“You can speak now,” he says softly, gently nudging you.

“You won’t know until I prove it to you, and I’m asking that you please give me a chance to show you. You were right that I’ve never been in a relationship. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but I’ll figure it out, because I want you, Joel, and everything you’re offering. Losing this, losing you, is worse than anything imaginable, and I swear that even if things get tough, I’m not going anywhere. I won’t run. I won’t shut you out. I’ll talk to you like I should’ve done in the first place. Just please give me the chance to prove that I’m worthy of your love.”

It's palpable how the tension between you loosens. He nods his head once, then lifts his drink to his lips, downing it all in one gulp, the empty glass getting set onto the table next to him. "You've always been worthy of love." He pushes himself up from the chair with a pained grunt.

You’re not sure how to respond. He stands there, his eyes slightly squinting, studying you, searching your face for any signs of deception. You assume he’s found none when he steps your way, gently prying your cup from your hands, that he puts down onto the coffee table in front of the couch.

"Up." He reaches for your hands and helps you to your feet. As soon as you're standing, he pulls you into his arms in a full-body hug, practically wrapping himself around you like he never wants to let you go. You smile when he presses his face in the crook of your neck, his stubble scratching your skin. He lets out a contented sigh, his body relaxing. “I missed you,” his voice is muffled. “Don’t fuckin’ do that again.”

“I won’t.” The promise leaves your mouth before you even think.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. He’s holding you, keeping you as close as possible, reminding yourselves of what this feels like. You press your face into his shoulder, getting a faint trace of his thyme soap, earthy with a hint of mint.

To think you almost walked away from this—from him—from these arms that feel like home and a man willing to love you with no plans to leave. Insane.

His palm smooths up your spine to cradle the back of your head. “Needed you last night,” he softly admits.

Your chest aches. From the look of him this morning and the nap you interrupted, he must’ve been up half the night. “I’m here now.” Your head turns, trailing your lips across his prickly jaw, as you whisper, “I’m not going anywhere.”

He leans back just enough to see your face, his big hand cupping your cheek. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, moving lower to trace the corner of your mouth. “Good,” he says, his gaze flicking to your lips. “‘Cause you’re mine.” It’s not up for debate. It’s stated as a fact, and all you can do is nod before the space between you disappears, and he’s kissing you.

At first, it’s slow, tentative; he’s reacquainting himself with the shape of your lips.

It’s not enough.

The dam breaks, Joel deepening the kiss. His arm around your back, drawing you flush against him, moaning when he licks into your mouth. His tongue intertwines with yours, tasting the whiskey—warm, smoky with a slight bite, that melts into something sweeter. Your arms circle his neck, giving in to all of the feelings washing over you—relief, want, drowning out that fear of losing him.

He pulls away long enough to say with his lips brushing yours, “Missed this.” Then his mouth is on yours again, rougher now, hungrier, kissing you like he’s staking his claim.

When your lungs begin to ache, you finally come up for air, panting. Joel peppers kisses along the line of your jaw and lower down your neck, your eyes rolling back when he sucks over your pulse.

The words stumble out of your mouth before you can stop them. “Can I make it up to you?”

His head rises to meet your gaze. “What’d you have in mind?”

“Let me suck your dick.”

His face is unreadable, his pupils blowing wide. “On your knees.”

The command has your breath hitching, your cunt clenching hard around nothing.

“Here?” you ask, surprised he doesn’t want to go somewhere more private. “What if someone comes home?”

“Someone is spendin’ the night at their friend’s. Knees,” he orders.

You obey, dropping without hesitation to kneel on the rug at his feet. He looms over you, tracking your every movement with a burning gaze as you look up at him. “Good girl,” he purrs, rubbing his thumb across your wet bottom lip. “Get me out.”

Here’s the thing, you could do exactly as he says—you should do exactly as he says, but where’s the fun in that?

Instead of your hands going to the waistband of his sweatpants, you plant them on his thighs, and lean in, pressing your cheek against where he’s beginning to bulge. Heat radiates through the cotton as you nuzzle your face over his half-hard cock.

“Is that what I told you to do?” he asks.

Locking your eyes onto his, you ensure he's watching as you finally reach to curl your fingers into the stretchy waistband, pulling his pants down agonizingly slow. You get them down his thighs until all that separates you from his straining length are his blue boxer briefs.

“That’s it.” His voice deepens.

Keeping your gaze on his, you’re blatantly disobedient, slowly mouthing along his shaft through the material covering him, your lips mapping him, darkening the fabric with your saliva. Joel’s frown deepens, his jaw flexing. The warning’s clear on his face; his patience is wearing thin. Any second now, he’ll take back control.

“The longer you keep teasin’ me,” he says, “the longer I keep you from comin’.”

There it is. You expected him to stop you sooner.

You sit back on your heels and smile up at him. “I love when you threaten me.”

“What you love is pushin’ my buttons.”

“You’re not wrong.” You hook your fingers into his boxers, pulling them down just far enough for his cock to spring free—he’s thick, the tip reddened, and bobbing between his legs, making your mouth water at the pure perfection. You wrap your hand around the base, slowly pumping him, “Better?” you ask with a smirk.

His throat works as he swallows, eyes growing darker. “Almost. Tongue out.”

Arousal flares low in your belly. You let go of him and do as you're told, sticking it out, wide and waiting, resting your hands on his thighs again.

​ “Good girl.” He guides his length forward, laying it heavy across your tongue for you to feel the full weight of him, reminding you of just how big he is. He teases you, tapping the tip of his dick against your tongue, once, twice, a low groan slipping from him when you moan.

You don’t wait for his next command—you close your lips around the swollen head and suck, slow at first, letting him feel you working him into your mouth. Joel’s jaw goes tight, his hand finding the back of your head, threading his fingers into your hair.

“Christ,” he mutters. “That mouth.”

You swirl your tongue, hollowing your cheeks, then come off him with a wet pop. You look up at him through your lashes. “I told you I wanted to make it up to you. So, use me. Fuck my mouth. I want it.”

For a beat, he just stares down at you, a flush rising up his neck. His hand in your hair tightens. “Open wider.”

A thrill moves through you as you do as he commands, opening as wide as you can. Joel doesn’t hesitate, pushing his hips forward, filling you even deeper. He slides hot and heavy along your tongue until he’s hitting the back of your throat—you don’t gag, you never do, and that makes him lose it a little bit, his pace quickening.

“Fuck, you take me so well,” he groans, and the way he says it makes your pussy throb.

He pulls back only to thrust in again, finding a rhythm. It’s rough, his grip firm in your hair, guiding your head, watching himself fuck his cock into your mouth. It turns you on, being on your knees for him, drool slipping down your chin, your eyes watering while he uses you how he wants.

“So fuckin’ pretty.” His voice is ragged. He’s got one hand in your hair, the other wiping away a stray tear with his thumb. “Look at this mess you’re makin’ for me. All mine.”

His hips snap harder, the back of your throat taking a pounding. You moan around him, making him groan even louder. His eyes are hooded, his cheeks rosy, and he looks wrecked. “My perfect girl, bein’ so good to me.”

Your cunt feels achingly empty, wetness pooling between your thighs. Your panties had to be drenched.

Trailing your hand down, you go to slip your fingers beneath your pants to quell the need that’s been building since the moment you kissed. Joel notices and comes to a halt. He growls down at you, “Don’t. Hands stay where they are.”

Your eyes lift to his, big and pleading, but he just feeds himself further into your mouth. “You don’t get to come until I say you can,” he says.

The denial makes it hotter, your body trembling with want. You return your palm to his thigh.

With his hand on the back of your head, he urges you forward, sliding his dick deeper and deeper, until you’re having to swallow around him, taking him into the tight space of your throat.

“That’s it, baby,” he sounds strained. “You’re doin’ so good for me. Just like that.”

Your nose bumps the coarse hair at his base, smelling the soap he showered with and his natural musk. Your eyes water, but you don’t gag around the stretch, you won’t, and the fact that you take him so easily drives him wild. “Fuck,” he rasps, his hips jerking. He free-hand cradles your jaw, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth where drool spills over. “That’s my girl, takin’ it all the way down.”

God, you shouldn’t love this as much as you do—drooling, crying, your throat stretched full, but you do.

Your nails dig into his thighs, the slick mess dripping from your lips, keeping him buried until your lungs scream for air. He lets you come off him, gasping in a big breath, a string of spit connecting you to his cock, before he shoves you down again, moaning when you swallow him whole.

His dark eyes are on your watery ones. “Good girl,” it comes out ragged, his lips parted. His hands cup your cheeks as he stares down at you with a surprisingly tender gaze. ”You’re so fuckin’ beautiful. You like bein’ ruined by me, don’t you?”

You hum around him, ‘yes.’

“Yeah, you do. You like bein’ mine.” He pulls out of your mouth, curling his fist around his hard cock. His other hand catches your jaw, tilting your face up toward him. “But do you deserve to come?” Your eyes round, your chest heaving. “After the way you treated me?”

“Joel,” you whimper—it’s pathetic how desperate you sound, but you are desperate. He’s got you wound up tight, your pussy aching, throbbing with need. Now terror rears its ugly head, splashing over you like ice-cold water because he has every right to deny you. He could leave you hanging, keep you here without ever allowing you to come, and you’re not sure you’d survive it. “Joel, please.”

“Don’t ever doubt me again. You hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He lets go of your face, grunting when he hauls you to stand. He’s on you, ducking his head to spread open-mouthed kisses up your throat. “I hated bein’ mad at you,” he murmurs into your skin. Joel grabs your jaw, holding you still as he licks a slow stripe through the spit on your chin, then up the tear tracks on your cheek. A startled gasp leaves you. The filthiness of it makes you ache. Joel catches your noise and smirks. He ghosts his mouth over yours. “Mess or not, you’re mine. All of it, mine,” he declares, sealing it with a kiss.

He claims your lips, hard and searing, stealing the breath from your lungs, before he breaks away. “Take off your clothes.” You’re too slow for his liking; he’s already grabbing the hem of your shirt, stripping you with little patience. Your boots thud across the floor—socks flying after, your jeans and panties roughly yanked down your legs. Your bare skin prickles in the cold air. You squeak in surprise when he spins you, forcing you to kneel on the worn leather sofa, bracing yourself against the back of it.

You feel him behind you. Looking over your shoulder, you see he’s still dressed. “I don’t wanna be the only one naked,” you tell him. “Strip.”

His gaze burns, his lips downturned. “You really think you’re in a position to order me around?”

“What? Are you saying you prefer to be clothed? Don’t tell me you’re a sex-with-socks-on guy.”

He actually looks offended. “Who the fuck only wears socks?” His shirt’s gone in one motion, pants and boxers shoved down.

“You’d be surprised.” He does the awkward balancing act to remove each sock. “They did not get a second date.”

“Gotta add that to your list.” Of what you want in a man.

You smile, laughing breathlessly. “It’s already on the list, I just don’t broadcast it to catch the guys that do.”

Joel’s on you in seconds, the front of his body pressed to the back of yours, his skin hot, his cock thick and heavy against your ass. He holds your hips, his lips brushing your ear. “Better?”

You reach behind, pushing your fingers into his hair. “Mhmm, much better.”

He kisses a spot below your ear, then again on your neck. “Here’s how this goes,” he rasps. “I’m gonna fuck you, but you don’t come ‘til I say you can. You do, and I pull out. I won’t touch you again the rest of the night. Am I clear?”

The warning has heat curling low in your core, your thighs squeezing tight together. “Yes.”

His lips graze your shoulder. “Good girl.”

The praise has you biting your lip, rocking your hips back against the heft of him.

Joel chuckles low in his chest, “So needy for me.” He surprises you, slipping his hand down to tease along your inner thigh. “You want my fingers first? Or do you think you can take me?”

You shake your head. “No. I can take it.”

A little pain didn’t hurt anyone. Plus, you know he’ll make it worth it.

“That’s my girl.” He presses his palm between your shoulder blades, and that’s all of the instruction you need—automatically, you’re bending forward and arching your back to stick out your ass.

His length is still covered in your saliva, but Joel is extra cautious. He spits in his palm and works it over his dick, the obscenely slick sound it makes causing your insides to clench in need. He notches himself at your sopping entrance before he starts to nudge in, the thickness of his cock prying you open and stealing your breath.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

He pushes in slowly, your body resisting, the stretch burning sharply enough to make your inner walls clamp helplessly around him.

“Easy,” Joel rasps, in a tone that’s low and tender, like he’s breaking a wild horse. “I got you.” He inches in deeper, then retreats a little, before pressing in again, slowly working himself into you. “That’s it.” He’s cupping your hip, steadying you while sinking in further. “Doin’ so good for me.” You whimper, caught between the sting and the overwhelming relief of finally being filled. “Just a little more.”

He bottoms out, burying himself to the root. “Christ,” he murmurs, leaning forward to press his forehead to your shoulder. “Nothin’ in the fuckin’ world like bein’ inside you.”

You’re stretched to your limits and beyond full, every nerve in your body screaming. He doesn’t move right away. He stays still, his mouth kissing anywhere he can reach—your shoulder, the side of your neck, behind your ear. His lips are everywhere as you get used to the fullness. “My good girl, takin’ all of me,” he says into your skin. “This pussy is mine. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

“You’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

You’re thankful he’s gracious enough to give you time to adjust to what feels like him splitting you open.

What you expect is for him to fuck you hard, to work out all the anger you caused him. What you get is slow—torturously slow. His thrusts are shallow, grinding his pelvis into your ass, savoring you like he’s afraid to waste even a second of it. It makes you whine, your nails digging into the back of the couch, desperate for him to just take you the way you thought he would. It has you pushing back, trying to speed up his pace.

He doesn’t like that.

A sharp smack lands on your ass before his hips slam forward, knocking the wind from your lungs. His other hand grips the back of your neck, forcing you to stay put. “Quit it,” he growls. His tone is rough, but his touch is gentle when he rubs a comforting palm along your side. “You’ll take what I give you, and you’ll love every fuckin’ second. Understand?”

“Yes.” Your voice trembles.

“Good girl.”

If you thought his leisurely pace was maddening, that was only the beginning.

Joel pulls you upright, your spine colliding with his solid front, his cock stretching you open as he cages you in. He’s got one arm locked across your chest, squeezing your breast with his calloused hand, his free palm sliding down to the apex of your thighs. He rubs your clit in slow, merciless circles that sync with the lazy roll of his hips, your arousal dripping down his shaft to coat his balls.

His lips are at your ear. “You were hopin’ I’d fuck you, mean, weren’t you? Wanted me to take out my frustration on your greedy little pussy.”

The heat in your core gets hotter with every drag of his cock and swirl of his fingers. You don’t answer him quickly enough—he slaps your cunt, soothing the sting, by stroking his palm over it right after.

“Is that what you were hopin’?” he asks again.

“Yes,” you breathe.

He chuckles darkly. “Too bad. I want you to feel every inch of me—every fuckin’ inch of what you almost threw away.” His teeth graze the shell of your ear. “And then I wanna hear the sweet sound of you beggin’ me to come.”

No words leave your mouth; you just moan.

Joel’s hand moves down your swollen sex, spreading his fingers around where he’s sliding in and out of you. “Fuck, baby,” he groans, “you’re soakin’ me.” He smears the slick before gathering it onto his fingertips to circle your clit—you jolt, his cock grinding in deeper. “I love how wet you get for me—how your body knows who it belongs to.”

You’re fluttering around him, clenching at what he says because he’s right, your body does belong to him, you belong to him. He has ownership over you and your pleasure, filling you so completely that there isn’t any space inside you he hasn’t claimed.

He’s moving slowly, languidly as if he has all the time in the world, and it’s a special kind of hell. It doesn’t matter that every swirl of his fingers and every shallow thrust winds you tighter; you want more. You want the hard, fast, feral, fucking you within an inch of your life pace he had the first time he put his cock in you. That didn’t mean his slow, steady strokes were any less devastating—he has you at the cusp of combusting. Your thighs tremble, fighting with everything you’ve got against the sharp heat swelling in your belly, because Joel’s threat of pulling out if you come before he gives you permission is at the forefront of your mind, but you’re close, you’re so close it hurts.

Tears form in the corners of your eyes, your body begging to let go. A broken sob tumbles from your mouth. Joel’s hand moves from your chest, gliding up your throat to grab your jaw, turning your head. He catches your earlobe between his teeth, tugging it just enough to make you gasp. “Can feel how close you are,” he growls in your ear. “Can feel you fightin’ it. My good girl knowin’ she’s not gettin’ off easy.” He drives into you hard, burying himself balls deep inside you where he stays, unmoving, while his hand abandons your aching clit.

The sudden loss is a welcome respite. Still, all of your nerves are on fire, your body quivering at being so close to the edge, now with nowhere to go. Your eyes are closed, a thin layer of sweat coating your skin, making you stick to him wherever you touch.

“Joel,” you whimper.

“I know, baby.” He kisses you at the awkward angle, your lips misaligned, with his wet fingers splayed on your stomach. “You can take it.” He lets go of your jaw, bracing his arm across your chest again like he knows you’ll need the extra support. “Gotta ruin you before I let you come.”

You’re already ruined, and somehow he’s going to ruin you even more? Jesus. What have you gotten yourself into? You’re about to find out.

He starts moving again, his hips keeping to that same slow, savoring pace as before. It’s juxtaposed by the perfect strokes of his fingers on your clit, circling the needy bundle of nerves until your body quakes and shakes for release, bringing you to the precipice before stopping once more.

“Please, Joel,” you try, but you know he isn’t going to give in—it’s too soon.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “Not ‘til I say.”

You gulp, your pussy squeezing him as electricity dances just below your skin.

He may not let you come, but he isn’t cruel about it. You’re still stuffed to the brim with his thick cock, his chest pressed against your back, his touches softer now—his thumb strokes little arcs over your hip bone, his lips mapping the slope of your shoulder, the curve of your neck, and the damp skin just below your ear, soothing you, grounding you.

Joel begins again, slowly thrusting while his fingers work you to the point of snapping, only to deny you of your orgasm again. He does that once, twice, three times, edging you until you’re a mewling, crying fucked out mess. Your nails claw at his forearm, locked over your chest, your cunt clenching down on him helplessly, every nerve in your body raw.

Tears spill freely down your cheeks. “Please, Joel,” you beg. “I can’t—I can’t. Please, I need it. I need to come. Please.” If you didn’t, you were sure you’d die. That’d be a new one. Dying of sexual frustration. What a way to go out.

His movements have ceased again, staying buried to the hilt inside you. He groans in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “That’s it. My perfect girl, beggin’ so prettily. You’ve earned it.” His fingers return to your clit, and finally—fucking finally—his hips snap harder, faster, pummeling your pussy just the way you wanted. “Come for me, baby,” he says through gritted teeth, his other hand pinching your stiff nipple. “Give me what’s mine.”

There’s no other way to describe it: the permission is like a match to gasoline, it has pleasure exploding out from your core so violently, you see stars. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, Joel fucking you through it with a drawn-out moan, your body convulsing around him.

“Fuck, yes. Just like that,” his words come out strained, probably from how your cunt chokes his dick. “My good girl, my good fuckin’ girl.”

And then things go fuzzy, your brain short-circuits. Do you lose consciousness? Maybe. All you know is one minute you are experiencing the most Earth-shattering orgasm of your entire life, and the next you’re coming to, sucking in a big gulp of air as if in those lost seconds you forgot to breathe.

His fingers on your clit are too much. It feels like he’s touching a live wire inside you, the overstimulation causing you to yank your hips back, his hand coming off in reflex. This is when you register that he’s still slowly rocking in and out of you, while your pussy continues spasming with aftershocks, drooling your arousal along his cock. His arm is locked firmly around your middle, keeping you up because your legs are too shaky to hold your weight.

“You alright?” he asks, voice low. His mouth ghosts over the hollow of your shoulder, leaving soft kisses, as his palm slides down your side in comforting strokes.

You’re still clutching his forearm that’s across your front and let go, reaching your hand back to press your fingers into his sweaty hair, smiling dreamily. “Yes,” you croak.

His head turns, kissing the inside of your wrist, and you can’t help thinking about how much you love how affectionate he is. It’s not something you’d expect from someone who’s lived the life he has. You’d think that after all these years, the softness inside him would’ve hardened, and yet it hasn’t. Or maybe it had at one point. He did tell you he was a shell of a man before Ellie, and maybe you have her to thank for softening him up—maybe you have her to thank for the tenderness no one before him ever cared to show you.

His nose nuzzles the side of your neck, followed by the gentle press of his lips. “Think you can give me another?” he asks.

The fact that he’s giving you a choice warms your heart. Not that you dislike when he’s in charge and you’re at his mercy. That’s great, too. But his asking shows he has your comfort in mind and doesn’t want to overstimulate you further.

“Later,” you answer, your nails lightly scratching his scalp. “When we christen your bed, and you eat me out to your heart’s content.”

A groan rumbles from his chest, his cock twitching inside you, making you smile. “God, I fuckin’ missed you,” he tells you.

“I missed you, too.”

He slowly withdraws from you, and the sound you make is a half-sigh, half-whimper. It only takes a few seconds for him to move from behind you to sit down on the couch cushion, and tug you to straddle him, the leather creaking under your knees that bracket his hips.

For a moment, he just stares at you, his big hands coming up to caress your cheeks. He’s got that expression on his face, the one where he looks upon you with a sort of awe, almost like he can’t believe you’re real, and actually there. Then his eyes turn hungry as they take you in, roving over your face and body, before they flick up to meet yours. “How’d I get so lucky?” he asks. You’re the lucky one, but you don’t get a chance to say it because as soon as the words leave his lips, he’s pulling you in, crushing his mouth against yours.

This kiss is much more fervent than the last, feeling his need, his desperation, his relief. You take it upon yourself to lift your hips, lining his straining cock up with your entrance, then start to lower yourself, taking him inch by glorious inch until you’re flush against him. The two of you moan into the kiss. Even with how much he’s worked you open and your orgasm loosening your muscles, there’s still a slight stretch that feels so fucking incredible, it has a shiver crawling up your spine.

You can feel him throbbing inside you as you stay still, reveling in how right it feels to have him buried in you again, filling you so perfectly. The kiss melts into something deeper, your tongues tangling, his hands roaming down your back, grabbing the globes of your ass. Now that you’re cognizant, having come down from your peak, Joel consumes your every thought; he’s taken over your senses, feeling him everywhere. Nothing exists outside this moment with him. He’s everything. He’s all that matters, and you want him to feel as good as he makes you feel.

Joel gets to a point where kissing while you sit on his dick isn’t enough—his feet are planted on the floor, his back pressed into the cushion behind him, giving him the leverage he needs to start moving, slowly thrusting up into you. He keeps himself fully sheathed, his grip on your backside helping you grind down on him. You’ve got your arms around his neck, your fingers in his hair, rolling your hips in sync with his movements.

The kiss turns sloppy as the rhythm builds, feeling the tension coiling through his muscles—he’s close. His lips break away from yours, panting as his mouth trails down your throat, lavishing open-mouthed kisses lower over your collarbone. You bite your lip. “You gonna come for me, baby?” you ask through heavy breaths.

He roughly groans into your skin, and you take that as a yes, smiling. His head dips, closing his lips around a pebbled nipple, circling his tongue. Between that and how his strokes have gotten faster, you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair.

“Yes,” you moan. “Come, I want it. Fill me up, make me yours.”

You thought you were spent after coming so hard, but the attention Joel is giving your tits and how amazing his cock feels inside you has pleasure blooming at the base of your spine. He switches from one breast to the other, sucking and teasing your nipples, his teeth grazing over the hard buds, then soothing them with his tongue.

You’re a little surprised how quickly the heat is building in your gut. Now, you’re bouncing in his lap to keep up with his thrusts, each movement growing needier.

“Come inside me.” You sound breathless, a bead of sweat rolling down your forehead. You’re getting lost in how good he makes you feel, and it loosens your lips, words spilling from your mouth. “Give it to me, Joel. Claim me, ruin me. I want it. I want your come, want you to fuck it deep and get me—” Your eyes fly open as you suck in a breath, completely caught off guard by what you were about to say.

Where did that even come from?

Wherever you had it buried in your subconscious, now it’s come to light, and for the first time in your entire life, the thought that someone—Joel—could get you pregnant has you coming undone. Your orgasm is sudden, all of your muscles pulling taut as sweet euphoria spreads through your body. It’s softer this time, a ripple instead of a crashing wave, which you’re thankful for with how worn out you already feel.

When your cunt clamps down on him, Joel groans loudly. It has him finally looking up at you, and it’s clear on his face how fucking gone he is—his eyes glazed over, his cheeks pink, and his jaw slack. He’s so far gone, you don’t think he’ll last even a minute longer. He captures your lips, hungrily kissing you as the rhythm of his hips stutters, his fingers digging hard into your asscheeks.

“You can have it,” he murmurs into your mouth. “‘M gonna give it to you. Fuck my come deep. Give your greedy little pussy what it wants.” And that’s it for him—he didn’t even make it thirty seconds before he’s coming. He pulls your ass down, burying himself all the way to the root as he follows you over the edge. The sound that tears from his throat comes from somewhere deep in his chest. It’s rough and strangled. It’s what losing control sounds like, and it’s so unbelievably hot that your pussy clenches, bearing down on him, keeping him in place. He thickens inside you, his dick jerking with each spurt of his come, feeling the warmth of him filling the deepest depths of you. When you’ve wrung him of every last drop, his body goes lax, and his head falls, face planting between your breasts—it makes you smile, your nails lightly scratching at the nape of his neck, while you rest your cheek on his sweat-damp hair. You don’t move as you both come down from your highs. Your breaths evening, your hearts slowing, closing your eyes as you bask in the afterglow.

Maybe it’s because you only slept a handful of hours the night before, or the emotionally charged day. It could also be the result of getting thoroughly fucked, but you find exhaustion has seeped into your bones, your eyelids feeling weighed down.

You’re about to ask Joel if he wants to head up to his bedroom and take what you know would be an amazing nap, when you’re silenced by a loud snore against your chest. In any other circumstance, you’d giggle. Instead, it reminds you that he’s probably beyond tired from staying up, worrying all night about Ellie. Guilt and shame creep up the back of your throat at the memory of how you treated him that morning, and you hug his head closer, kissing his hair.

Seconds pass, maybe a minute ticks by, with Joel still asleep. You don’t want to wake him, but you also like the idea of getting some shut eye yourself, so very carefully you push his upper body back against the cushion, pausing to see if he wakes—he snores. You let out a relieved breath, grabbing the blanket from the back of the couch and wrapping it around you both as you lean into him, getting comfortable with your face tucked against his neck.

Now that you’re relaxed and cozy, you find yourself wondering why in the world it got you off thinking about getting knocked up, when you did everything you could to prevent it with past partners. That’s it, your partner. Joel isn’t like the men before him. You know for a fact he’s dependable and a damn good father. You know that if you have his child and things don’t work out between you, you wouldn’t have to parent alone; he’d still be there. You trust Joel. Not only that, but he also checks all your boxes. He’s everything you could dream of in a partner and father to your future children. You got off at the thought of getting pregnant, because for the first time, you had nothing to fear—it doesn’t hurt that you’d love to have his kid, too.

And even feeling that trust and security, there’s still a whisper of doubt in the back of your mind, that all of this is too good to be true—you squash it down as best you can, relishing in the comfort and safety of right now.

Between the warmth and the knowledge that you have nothing to worry about, you fall asleep in record time.

Time goes by, minutes, an hour, two, safe in your cocoon, the house quiet.

A side effect of surviving an apocalypse is a sensitivity to sound. At the faintest noise, you can go from sleeping deeply to fully alert in a second flat. The scrape of metal in the front door’s deadbolt cuts through your dreamless sleep. Your eyes widen, sitting up immediately with your heart pounding in your chest.

There’s only one other person who lives here.

“Joel,” you harshly whisper, shaking his shoulder.

His eyes blink open, all bleary-eyed and confused, but when he registers it’s you, his lips quirk up in a lazy smile, his big hands sliding along your sides. “Yeah?” he groggily asks.

“Ellie’s here.”

That wakes him up, his expression turning panicked. “Shit,” he whispers, looking side to side like he’s trying to figure out an escape plan. You don’t think, you move because your first interaction with your boyfriend’s daughter is not going to be scarring the poor girl at finding you both naked. Thankfully, there’s a wall separating the living room from the entryway that buys you some seconds—quickly you unwrap the blanket from around you, ungracefully dismounting Joel, and ignoring his come leaking down your leg, as you scoop up your clothes.

Well, fuck. Where can you hide?

It’s your turn to look around to figure out your escape plan, spotting a closet door on the other side of the room that you quietly rush to, and manage to slip inside just as you hear from the foyer, “Joel?” You catch a glimpse of the man in question as you close the door, impressed that he was able to get his sweatpants on, before lying across the couch with the blanket covering himself from the neck down to make it look like he’d been napping. The closet door clicks shut, the small space going dark, save for the sliver of light coming through the crack near your feet.

Your ears perk at the young girl’s muffled words. “Oh, shit,” she says. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“It’s okay,” Joel replies, through a yawn. You can hear him sit up, the sofa’s leather complaining under his movements. “What are you doin’ home?” he asks, his voice rough from sleep. “I thought you were stayin’ the night at Dina’s.”

Carefully, so as not to make any noise, you set your clothes on the floor and start dressing as you listen, pulling on your panties first.

“Is that why you’re not wearing a shirt?” You want to laugh at how disgusted she sounds.

He sighs. “I got hot while sleepin’, and there was no one here to complain.” He grunts, before asking a handful of seconds later, “Better?” You think he grabbed his shirt off the floor and put it back on.

“Much.”

“Did you forget somethin’?” he asks.

“No—I found out Jesse and Dina have never played Monopoly, and I’m pretty sure I can kick their asses.”

“By goin’ bankrupt twenty turns in ‘cause you buy every property you land on and put houses on the shittiest ones?”

“Hey, if you had landed on one of those blue ones, I would’ve owned your ass.”

“But I didn’t, and you wasted your money and the money I loaned you.”

“Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway because I’ve got a better strategy that will make me unbeatable,” she says, sounding very confident in herself.

“Right,” Joel replies flatly, clearly unconvinced. “And what’s this unbeatable strategy?”

She scoffs. “Like I’d tell you. You’ll find out next time we play.”

At this point, you’ve gotten your jeans on and are now working on getting your sports bra over your head and down to cover your chest.

“If you say so,” he says. “Let me grab you the game. Do you need anthin’ else from the closet?” He emphasizes the last word, your stomach dropping—the board game is in here with you. Your heart is pounding in your ears as you’re frozen in your spot listening. Leather creaks loudly—he must be standing up.

“I’m fine, Joel,” Ellie insists. “I don’t need your help. I can get it myself.” You can hear the light thump of her shoes on the hardwood floor getting closer. “I wanna see what else we have anyway—definitely gonna grab that Twister game you refuse to play.”

The doorknob jiggles and starts to open. “NO,” Joel says a little louder than necessary, his body thudding against the door, slamming it shut.

“What the fuck is going on?” Ellie asks, the words laced with annoyance. “Why won’t you let me in the closet?”

Joel lets out a defeated sigh and mumbles something you can’t make out.

“What?” Ellie replies. “What did you say?”

He says it softly, but you hear him this time. “There’s someone in there…”

“What do you mean there’s someone in there?”

“Jesus Christ,” Joel mutters. “This isn’t how I wanted you to meet.”

“Meet, who? Who the fuck’s in the closet, Joel?”

This seems like a good time to finish dressing. You lean down to snag your shirt off the ground, but when you do, you find nothing there.

Where’s your shirt?

Did you drop it when you rushed to the closet?

You crouch, feeling all around on the floor, touching shoes, a box, a metal baseball bat, but nothing that resembles your shirt—fuck.

“The woman I’m datin’...”

Even though you’re now panicking at being shirtless, that admission makes you smile.

“The woman you’re dating…?” she asks, drawing the words out like she doesn’t quite comprehend. “There’s someone who likes you, like romantically…? You…?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just you’re an old, grumpy asshole and your face looks like that.”

“What’s wrong with my face?”

“I mean, have you looked in a mirror?”

This time when Joel sighs, it's that of a father at his wits’ end with his child’s bullshit—you can admit they’re adorable.

“Yes, I have looked in a mirror, and yes, there is someone who likes me romantically. If you will be polite and stop embarrassin’ me, I will introduce you to her.”

“Chill, Joel. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

He mumbles something that sounds an awful lot like, “I doubt that.” The pressure of his body lifts from the door, and you’re next met with two soft knocks. “You can come out—that is, if you’re ready,” he quickly adds. “If you need us to give you a minute, that’s fine, too.”

There’s no point in dragging this out. You’re going to have to bite the bullet. You stand back up. “Um, Joel?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you, uh, please, grab me my shirt? It’s somewhere out there…”

“Oh. Yes. Gimme a second.”

He pads away.

“Wait,” you hear Ellie say. “Why isn’t your girlfriend wearing a shirt?”

“She got hot while sleepin’.” He returns and softly knocks again. “I’ve got it, sweetheart.” You crack the door open and close it after he hands you the t-shirt, which you immediately put on.

“Sweetheart?” Ellie questions. “Did you just call her sweetheart?”

Joel sighs. “Yes.”

“Ew.”

Now that you’re dressed, you quickly comb your fingers through your hair to try and make yourself look a bit more presentable—thankfully, the tears and spit have dried on your face, so it isn’t too obvious to Ellie that you fucked her dad earlier. At least, you hope it isn’t.

Taking a deep breath, you open the door a little. Joel’s standing there, blocking your view of the rest of the room with an apologetic look on his face. You give him a reassuring smile and open the door wider. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “You would’ve introduced us eventually, and this is totally fine.”

“I appreciate you bein’ so understandin’, but I’m still sorry.”

“You really don’t need to be.” Pointing at your face, you mouth ‘Do I look okay?’

Joel smirks—he fucking smirks. His hand comes up and ever so gently brushes some stray hairs off your cheek, tucking them behind your ear as he nods, saying for only you to hear, “You look beautiful.”

Your mouth opens to respond when another voice chimes in, “Holy shit, she’s pretty—” You see Ellie peeking around Joel with wide eyes. “—and young. Was not expecting someone that young.”

“Uh, thank you?” you reply.

“Ellie,” Joel warns, his attention going to her. His hand fell from your face.

She steps to the side of him, unaffected by his pointed stare. “What?” she asks, meeting his eyes. “I didn’t say anything rude. They were compliments!”

“I’m not offended,” you add.

She smiles. “See, I didn’t offend her.” Joel takes a deep breath, and the young girl looks at you again. “I figured someone interested in this old fucker—” She juts her thumb his way. “—would be closer to his age, but you definitely are not. Are you sure you like this dude? You know, someone who looks like you can do a lot better than him—no offense, Joel.” She pats his arm.

He presses his fingers to his brow, grumbling, “You’re not wrong.”

Ellie has no filter, and you find it delightful. Her father, on the other hand, looks as though he wishes the ground would swallow him whole—poor guy.

You smile and introduce yourself to Ellie. “—It’s nice to finally meet you, and yes, I am sure that I like him. It might not make much sense to you, but I like him quite a lot.”

“Yeah, I don’t get it, but whatever.” She shrugs. “If Joel’s happy, I’m happy.”

Joel’s eyes go to her again, but this time they’ve softened. His fond expression shows how much he loves her, even if she’s a pain in his ass. And Ellie loves him, too. You can tell by how her ribbing is laced with affection and void of any malice. She just gets immense joy from eliciting a reaction from him.

“So,” Ellie continues. “How long has this been a thing?” She points back and forth between you and her dad.

Joel glances your way, and you give him a look that says, ‘You’re taking this one.’

“Uh, it’s pretty recent,” Joel replies, scratching the back of his neck.

“Cool.” She focuses on him. “Is it serious?”

“Yes.”

You love hearing that.

“Is she moving in?”

“Not right this second.”

“You’d tell me if she was moving in, though, right?”

His eyebrows furrow. “What? Yes. Of course I’d tell you. That isn’t somethin’ that’d happen without talkin’ to you first.”

“Okay.” She nods. She turns to you, pointing past your head. “Can I get in there to grab my games? I gotta get going. My friends are waiting for me.”

“Oh! Right,” you reply, pushing the door fully open and moving out of her way to stand beside Joel. You watch as the girl rises on her tiptoes to go through the collection of game boxes on the upper shelf—they have just about every board game you can think of. She tucks Monopoly, Twister, and The Game of Life under her arm, but ends up putting The Game of Life back, grabbing Hungry Hungry Hippos and Mouse Trap instead.

You’re not entirely sure what to do. Should you go sit on the couch? Excuse yourself to take a much-needed trip to the bathroom? Head to the kitchen for a cup of water? You end up staying beside Joel, resting your head against his arm. You smile when his pinkie slides along the side of your hand to loop around your smaller one—he wants to hold your hand, but probably isn’t sure if you’re okay with Ellie seeing. You give him what he wants, twining your fingers together.

“I’m impressed by how many games there are,” you whisper. “None of them are missing pieces?”

“If they were, I found replacements—at least, the majority of them I did. Still haven’t been able to find a fucking wishbone for Operation.”

You snort. “People probably wanted the good luck. Plus, the wishbone was always a bitch to remove anyway, so I’m sure it’s not missed.”

“Maybe, but I’d like the game to have all its parts.”

“Then I will keep my eye out for the ever-elusive wishbone.”

He huffs out an amused breath and kisses your hair. “Thank you.”

Ellie takes a couple of minutes to make her final decision. Monopoly and Twister never leave her arm. She keeps Hungry Hungry Hippos, but switches out Mouse Trap for Clue—solid choices. Once she’s finished, she shuts the door, turning in place.

“Well, guys,” Ellie says, addressing you both. “This has been fun—weird, but fun. I’m gonna head out.” She looks at Joel. “I promise I won’t be back home until tomorrow. I’ll meet you for breakfast. Will she be joining us?” She nods your way.

“No,” you answer for him. “I’ll be working. I’ll be helping make the breakfast.”

Her eyes meet yours. “A cook. That’s rad.”

You smile. “Actually, a baker. I made your cake, which I hope you liked. Happy Birthday, by the way.”

That has her face lighting up. “No shit, that was you?! That was the best fucking cake I’ve ever had.”

You giggle. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“She also made the apple pie from the other night,” Joel adds. “And that peach cobbler you wouldn’t shut up about.”

Her eyes widen. “No fucking way, and you’re dating Joel? Does that mean you’ll bake me stuff if I ask?”

“Within reason. I promise if I can get my hands on some peaches, I’ll definitely make you a peach cobbler, though.”

“Fuck yeah!” She turns her attention to Joel. “I have no fucking clue how you got her to date you, but good job. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you, I guess,” he replies.

“Okay, I really have to leave. Bye!” She briskly walks past the two of you. “Oh, and Joel?” You both turn around to see her standing at the doorway.

“Yeah?”

“I’m cool with you having a girlfriend, but the shit that happens in your bedroom stays in your bedroom. I don’t want to hear it, I definitely don’t want to see it, I don’t want to fucking think about it.” She shudders in disgust. “God. I’m never sitting on that couch again.”

“Fuck,” Joel says under his breath. “I’m sorry, Ellie,” he tells her. “I won’t let it happen again.”

“You better not. Glad that’s over. Bye, guys!”

And with that, she left the room, and the house, the front door slamming shut behind her.

“Told you that you liked to play with fire,” you tease.

“She probably knew somethin’ was up the moment she stepped foot in here.”

“Probably. I mean, your boxers are over there on the floor.” You gesture to where they are crumpled under the coffee table. “You were shirtless, I was shirtless, and hiding in the closet, plus your lame ass excuse that we were undressed because we—” You do air quotes. “—’got too hot,’ it’s very obvious what we were getting up to. But look on the bright side.” You turn your head to look at him, meeting his eyes. “At least she didn’t walk in when your dick was down my throat. I don’t know about you, but I count that as a win.”

“You’re right. It could’ve been worse.”

“Much worse. Now, you wanna take a shower with me?” You really want to clean up the mess between your legs.

He smiles and pulls you into his arms. “Yeah, I wanna shower with you,” he says, punctuating the sentence with a toe-curling kiss—it ends, Joel’s lips brushing yours as he quietly asks, “Will you stay the night?”

“I’ll stay as long as you want.”

He nudges the tip of your nose with his own. “Because you’re mine?”

“Because my bed is still broken and my back is killing me from sleeping on the couch last night.” He stills, and you can tell he’s frowning. “And yes,” you continue in exasperation, “because I’m yours, you ridiculous man. I’ll always be yours.”

He pinches your hip, and you giggle. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours.”

“Yes, you are, and you know what?”

“What?”

“I’m yours. I can promise you that, I’ll always be yours.”

“Say it again.”

The story of how you met Joel Miller is a wholesome one—until it isn’t. He’d come to your apartment the previous day to see about having a birthday cake made for his kid—that’s your side hustle, making cakes and other pastries people request in exchange for goods and favors. Joel was willing to get you anything you wanted for your services, and isn’t that just the sweetest thing? A father going out of his way to ensure his new, adopted child gets to experience a real birthday with cake and presents for the first time in their life? See? Wholesome. Then came your price, which was practically a steal given the order and the timeframe he needed it by. He got lucky older, single dads are your kryptonite, and that he’s a sweetheart. All you asked in return were a few easy-to-find items and to have a drink with him. This is when things escalated from an innocent PG-rated flick to an X-rated amateur porno, and you discovered Joel Miller can fuck.

In the span of a few hours of knowing him, he made you come multiple times, rightfully ruined you for anyone else, broke your bed, and was so good you asked him to marry you and offered to have his babies.

You’re his now. You belong to him, and the best part? He’s yours.

Joel came to your apartment for a cake and left with a girlfriend young enough to make some townspeople wonder if he’s having a late midlife crisis, and others jealous of his luck.

It’s just past five a.m. on a Wednesday, the sun still hours from rising. The chill outside has the tip of your nose numb, but you’re warm in Joel’s jacket that he wouldn’t let you leave his house without wearing. You stayed at his place last night, secretly, without Ellie knowing, and were very surprised when he got up to walk you home. Why are you up so early? You’re one of the town’s few resident bakers, and you need to get to the community kitchen to start baking the bread for the day. But before that, you’re making a quick pitstop at your apartment to change your clothes.

How was your secret, impromptu sleepover with Joel? Well, it didn’t go the way you expected…

See, when men invited you to their homes in the past, it was usually for one reason. So, it didn’t surprise you when Joel got you alone in his bedroom, locked the door, and stripped you both of your clothes. Seemed pretty par for the course, and to be honest, you were down to have another go with him between the sheets.

But something unexpected happened: absolutely nothing.

No groping, no grinding, no impatient, wandering hands beneath the covers. Instead, you were treated to a warm arm around your waist, holding you close, with his nose buried in the hair on the back of your head. He didn’t have any intention to fuck you in his bed that night. He just wanted you there with him, like your presence was something comforting, that he needed, and that kind of tenderness had felt far more intimate than sex ever could.

You’d never slept so soundly.

It scares you how much you liked it.

Here you are silently walking down the dark road with Joel, the stars above, and porch lights you pass offering some light to guide your way. You told him you were fine in just your long-sleeved shirt and leggings, but his protective nature wouldn’t let you leave his house without putting his jacket on you first. Was Joel bundled up, too? No, you suspect his hotness—his literal hotness—the man’s body is like a furnace, makes him immune to the cold, so he’s only wearing jeans and a flannel shirt.

He's beside you, walking a bit slower than his normal gait to match yours, and he’s so close that his hand keeps brushing yours. You’re pretty sure he wants to hold it, and confused why he isn’t, unless maybe he’s waiting for you to make the first move. That’d be silly, but you test the waters anyway, trying to hook your pinkie around his—you smile when he grabs it instead.

“You can hold my hand.” You glance his way, inviting him.

He huffs, meeting your eyes and giving your digit a small squeeze. “Was tryin’ to be respectful and not assume.” He finally threads your fingers together, his hand so much bigger and warmer than yours.

His response makes you giggle.“Trying to be respectful? Babe, within a couple of hours of knowing each other, you had me face down, ass up, screaming your name. I think we’re past the point of handholding etiquette. But, it’s fucking adorable, that’s where you didn’t want to overstep.”

He lifts his eyebrow. “What? Because I fuck you silly, I can’t be a gentleman, too? I respect you.” His lips curve into a smirk. “Even if it might not seem like it when I’ve got you pinned to the mattress, makin’ you beg.”

“You’re a menace.”

He gently knocks his shoulder against yours, looking ahead. “Your menace.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m also rusty with all this datin’ stuff, and don’t wanna press my luck.”

“You’re doing great,” you reassure him, hugging his arm. “I love that you’re pro-PDA.”

Joel kisses your hair. “I’m pro-touchin’ you, and if anyone sees, then so be it.”

“Even Ellie?”

“Pigs would be flyin’ if she were up at this hour. She sleeps in until at least seven-thirty. We don’t have to worry about runnin’ into her.”

“You really enjoy playing with fire, don’t you?”

With you staying over while Ellie was home, and now walking with him, it certainly seems that way.

“I wouldn’t say I’m playin’ with fire. I just know my kid.”

“Who, you’re very cute with, by the way.”

When he snuck you into his house, you overheard a sweet conversation between him and Ellie that gave you a glimpse into their relationship. The way he spoke and looked fondly at her made it clear how much he adores and loves her as his own.

“You think so?”

“Yep. I’m not kidding when I say it turns me on that you’re a good dad.”

“And why's that?” You can hear the smile in his voice, and you see it when you turn your head toward him, finding he’s already looking at you.

“Why does it turn me on that you’re a loving and caring father who puts in the effort to have a relationship with your kid and wants nothing more than for them to be happy? Hmmm, why would that turn me, a woman who wants to have her own children one day, on?”

“One of life’s great mysteries.” His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles.

You fail to keep yourself from smiling and playfully swat his arm. “Shut up. You know exactly why I’m into it.”

Joel chuckles, lifting your hand he’s holding to kiss the back of it. “Maybe. But I like hearin’ you say I turn you on. Makes me feel pretty fuckin’ great about myself.”

Your eyes roll. “Glad I could stroke your ego, babe.” You pat his chest.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” He kisses your hand again, then lowers it. There’s a lull in the conversation, the two of you focusing forward, continuing to walk. A minute passes, and Joel breaks the silence. “It really gets you all hot and bothered that I care about my kid…?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s sexy.”

“Huh. Never thought of it as bein’ panty-droppin’ behavior.”

“It definitely is for me.” You wonder something. “You don’t have to answer this question, but back in the time before—” The outbreak. “—were you in a relationship?”

“No. I raised Sarah alone and had a hard time datin’.”

“It’s absolutely none of my business, and again, you don’t have to answer. Why did you have a hard time dating?”

“Well, for one thing, I didn’t really have the time. I was a single dad workin’ my ass off to make ends meet. Then there was Sarah bein’ my top priority, and women—at least back then—weren’t too keen to play second fiddle to her. So, I gave up tryin’ when she was about five.”

“If you're going to date a single dad, you have to know his kid is the most important person to him. At least that's how it should be, and honestly, if Ellie weren't your top priority, I wouldn't have even considered a relationship with you.”

“Gotta add that to your list.”

Your head turns his way to look at him, your eyebrows pulling together. “What list?”

“For what you’re lookin’ for in a man.”

When you first met and told him you were romantically interested in him, he didn’t understand why and even tried to convince you to find someone your own age. It took some explaining that you had a thing for older men, particularly in their fifties—you’ve found they’re the best in bed—and that he checked all of your boxes for what you were looking for: caring, fun to talk to, handsome, strong, not creepy, and he’s fifty-six.

“Oh, being a good dad has always been on the list.”

“I really do check all your boxes, then.”

“Yeah, you do.”

He smiles. “Thank Christ for that.”

The apartment complex where you live has six units—three downstairs, three upstairs. Yours happens to be the first you reached when you led Joel up the stairs. At your front door, you let go of his hand to dig your house key out of his jacket pocket, unlocking the deadbolt.

You sense Joel behind you, finding his tall, broad presence comforting. You turn around to face him, hesitating as you try to figure out what to say. "So…" you start.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “So.”

“Definitely my favorite customer of all time.”

He chuckles. “And you’re definitely my favorite baker. You’ve got a customer for life.”

“Because I fucked you?”

The look he gives you says you know that’s not why. “No.” He shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “Because you’re a great baker. I wasn’t tryin’ to butter you up when I said the apple pie you made was really fuckin’ good.” Yesterday, for dinner in the mess hall, you made apple pie for dessert. “Did you hear Ellie talkin’ about it last night?” You did overhear her saying how much she liked it.

You smile. “Yes. My peach cobbler is her favorite.”

He mirrors your expression. “Should’ve known you made that, too. Ellie fuckin’ loves peaches, and I had to tell her to slow down eatin’ it so she didn’t choke.” He huffs a small laugh, then he’s smirking, his eyes sparkling with mischief. It makes you wonder what’s got him so tickled. “Now, keep your clothes on for this next part,” he says. “We’re out in public.”

You squint in confusion. “What…?”

“You’ll understand in a second. The peach cobbler?”

“Yeah?”

“I gave Ellie my bowl. I always give her my share when we’re together, and there’s somethin’ sweet.”

Your eyes widen. “You always give her your dessert?” you whisper.

Dessert doesn’t happen all the time. It depends on supplies and usually occurs when there’s an excess of something that needs to be used before it spoils, such as fruit.

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Makes me happy to see her happy.”

Your breath catches a little.

Of course he does.

Of course, Joel Miller would hand over his portion of dessert just to see Ellie smile. And why is that so goddamn sexy? It’s not just those broad shoulders or that voice that drives you wild; it’s the way he loves. Quietly. Steadily. Without expecting anything in return.

“God, that’s so hot,” you admit.

His expression is a mix of delight and amusement. “I knew it’d get you.”

“First of all, rude of you to exploit my weaknesses.” He laughs. “Secondly, yeah, it got me. I think you can’t get any dreamier, and then you prove me wrong.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Keep it up, and you won’t be able to get rid of me.”

“I better not stop, then, ‘cause I don’t want you goin’ anywhere.”

His words hang there between you. I don’t want you goin’ anywhere. And you know he means it from the sincerity in his eyes. This is new. You’re used to men wanting your body—a night, maybe a few—but they never want you. Not all of you, at least. But Joel? He wants it all, the good, the bad, and everything in between. He wants you, and truth be told, it frightens you. Why? Because you know you’re going to fall in love with him, and that, being so completely at the mercy of a man, is fucking terrifying.

But the scariest part?

You’re willing to risk it.

You know this thing between you and Joel isn’t a fling or some temporary distraction; he was upfront that he didn’t do casual. This is something serious that’ll eventually lead to marriage and children.

It’s what drew you to him.

With Joel, you have a chance at stability, at having the comfort and security you’ve missed after losing your family. He’s your shot at finding that kind of love you’ve longed for since your world got turned upside down. But even with all of that hope, you still have doubts. You’ve been burned in the past, let down, and abandoned, and those fears linger at the edges of your mind. Still, you trust him. You believe what he says, and when he tells you he doesn’t want you going anywhere, it makes you go so soft you practically melt into goo.

There’s no thought, you act on impulse, gripping the open collar of his shirt, pulling him toward you to crush your smiling mouth against his. He grunts in surprise, but in an instant, he has his hands on your waist, stepping forward, his body crowding yours, backing you up until your spine hits the cool surface with a soft thud. This kiss isn’t as frantic as the first from the previous day. It’s soft, lingering, full of all the hope you have, and the things you can’t find the words to say. He kisses you back with a kind of patience that feels like a promise, as if he’s got all the time in the world if it means he’s with you.

"I can't get enough of you," he whispers. Then he's kissing you like he means it—slowly, consuming you, his tongue slipping into your mouth, swallowing the moan you can't hold back.

Joel presses closer, his chest solid against your front, sliding his thigh between your legs. You're so worked up that your body moves without permission, rocking your hips, chasing the friction of the rough denim that ignites heat at the base of your spine.

He groans when you grind down, the sound vibrating into your mouth. He’s got one hand firm on your hip, the other cupping your face, the kiss turning dizzying with how his tongue intertwines with yours. Feeling his heat, smelling his scent, tasting his lips, having him surrounding you makes it impossible to think of anything else except him, and you need more. At this point, your panties are soaked, and you’re worried there’s going to be a wet spot on his jean-covered thigh.

When the kissing ends, you’re both panting. “Come inside,” you tell him.

His thumb strokes your cheek, and you can see it on his face that he wants to. “You gotta get to work.”

“I will—after my boyfriend fucks me.”

His brow lifts. “Boyfriend?”

“Yeah. You got a problem with that, big guy?”

“I’m too damn old to be called that.”

“Then pick a title. Are you coming in or not?” You reach behind you to turn the doorknob and push the door open.

He doesn’t give you a verbal response. Instead, his lips are suddenly on yours again, walking you backwards into your apartment, making you smile into the kiss. He kicks your front door closed, both of you ignoring that your key is still in the deadbolt—Jackson’s a relatively safe place. His hands drag his jacket you’re wearing down your arms until it falls to the floor, followed closely by your long-sleeved shirt and sports bra, while you toe off your shoes.

The kiss turns messy, his mouth slanting over yours with a quiet hunger. He gets you to the couch, his lips leaving yours as he coaxes you to lie down, the soft, familiar cushions giving under you. Joel’s kneeling between your legs, and within seconds, he has your leggings and underwear discarded unceremoniously onto the ground.

“Just look at you.” His big hands push open your thighs before he rolls up his shirt sleeves. The only light comes from above the stove in the kitchen, but you can make out his pupils, blown pitch-black, staring at your glistening pussy, the front of his jeans bulging. He licks his lips like he wants to taste you, his free hand squeezing his hard cock. “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

God, you want him inside you. You’re a little sore from last night, but you don’t care. You have no self-control when it comes to him, and you’ll happily feel the ache all day, to keep him fresh on your mind.

He seems to understand that time is of the essence, and this needs to be quick—he’s unbuckling his belt and getting his pants undone. His gaze rises to yours with a frown, shoving down his boxer briefs to release his dick—he’s thick with a nice length, precum leaking from the flushed tip. “I’m eatin’ you out tonight,” he states. “For as long as I want.”

His declaration sends a shock of excitement to your center. You smile. “Are you?”

He nods, giving his length a few strokes. “Yes. Then I’m takin’ my time fuckin’ you ‘til there ain’t a chance in hell you forget a single inch of me.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Good. Now be a good boy and fuck me like you mean it.”

His eyes narrow, his voice dropping dangerously low. “Good boy? We’ve talked about that smart mouth of yours.” There wasn’t much talking—he fucked you within an inch of your life, though. “You wanna try that again?” he asks.

Earlier, you questioned if he enjoys playing with fire, and you’re starting to think it’s you who does.

“Ummm, now be a good boy and fuck me like you mean it, please?” You blink up at him innocently.

His jaw ticks. “You’re lucky you have work.” He shuffles back enough to bend forward, his palms on your open thighs.

“Why?”

He spits, a hot, wet wad of saliva landing on your clit, and your brain short-circuits. Why is that so fucking hot? Is it that he’s marking you, claiming you as his? Saying, ‘This is mine and only mine.’ His head lifts, and you meet his dark gaze, feeling as he drags two fingers through the mess he made to spread it over your entrance. “‘Cause, I would’ve edged you ‘til you cried for that shit.” You don’t have a chance to respond—he pushes his thick digits into you, his other hand pressing down on your belly, right above your mound. The stretch burns for half a second before melting into pure pleasure when Joel curls his fingers just right, zeroing in on that one magical spot that makes your vision blur.

“Joel,” you gasp, your hips twitching, eyes closing, “oh, fuck—”

“Yeah?” He has the audacity to sound smug. “I know how to touch you, don’t I?” Each push and pull of his digits is rough and deliberate, hitting your g-spot so perfectly you’re unable to stop squirming. “Answer me,” he orders.

“Yes.”

Your thighs threaten to close around his hand as an orgasm forms in your core, the tension rising with each passing second.

He’s using his fingers for good and evil—the good, preparing you to take him. The evil, how he’s not going to let you come yet. He’ll draw it out, torturing you with every press of his digits, but you’re not finishing like this. No, you’re at his mercy; he’s entirely in control of how close you’ll get and when you’ll fall.

“Who owns this pussy?”

Your body is screaming for release, the coil twisting tighter. You both love and hate that he knows exactly how to work you up. It’s hard to think, let alone answer. You don’t want him to stop, so you force out, “You.”

The obscene wet squelch of his fingers working in and out of you fills the room, your body wound tight, legs trembling. Maybe you were wrong, and he will let you come—it’s highly unlikely, but a girl can dream. You’re almost there, you just need a little bit more.

“Yeah, I do, and don’t fuckin’ forget it.”

You’re right on the cusp of falling apart, and that’s when he stops. You knew it was coming, yet when he removes his hands, your eyes fly open, groaning in frustration. “You’re so mean.”

He rolls his eyes, wiping your juices onto his cock, then spitting in his hand to slick it up even more. “I’m not mean.” Joel inches forward, one palm on your thigh, holding you open as he drags the fat tip of himself through your wetness. “I’m teachin’ you manners.” He teases your opening. “Now, we don’t have much time, so this is gonna be quick and dirty. Got it?”

“Yes.”

He smiles. “That’s my girl.” Without another word, he’s thrusting into you with one hard stroke, bottoming out with a rumbling groan—you cry out, clawing at the couch cushions for something to hold onto, the sudden fullness knocking the air from your chest. He’s so big it feels like you’re being split in two, savoring the burn.

For a moment, he stays buried deep, his hand spreading over where he’s inside you, low in your belly. “You feel that?” he asks in a deep husk. “That’s all me.”

When Joel said this was going to be quick and dirty, he didn’t mince words. As soon as he starts moving, he’s fucking into you hard and fast, the brutal pace stuttering your breath.

“Oh, god,” you moan. He has your tits jiggling, something you know he’s loving.

“He’s got nothin’ to do with this,” Joel grits out. He licks the pad of his thumb, pressing it to your swollen clit, the added pressure making your back bow, gasping his name. “Yeah, I know, baby. That’s it.” He doesn’t let up, thrusting hard while he circles your bundle of nerves with practiced, filthy precision that’s driving you crazy.

“Joel, oh fuck. Joel—”

“I’ve got you.” His free hand palms your breast, brushing his calloused thumb over your stiff nipple, before pinching it. You mewl, writhing under him. “This what you wanted? This how you wanted me to fuck you?”

​ Yes, you think, but can’t say out loud. The fast, punishing rhythm combined with the attention to your tits and clit has you dizzy with pleasure. He’s hitting you everywhere, inside and out, and it borders on too much, your body trembling uncontrollably. It’s a little embarrassing how quickly he builds you right back up to the edge.

“You gonna come for me?” he asks. His hand comes off your breast to brace himself when he leans over you, his mouth trailing hot kisses down your neck. “Are you? You gonna give it to me?”

His thumb continues rubbing tight, fast circles in sync with the steady strokes of his cock.

“Yes, don’t stop—oh god—please, don’t stop.” Your arms go around his back, your nails digging into the flannel over his shoulders.

“We’re not done ‘til you soak me, baby. Come for me, let me have it.” He sucks hard on your pulse point.

It all boils over—the rough pad of his thumb, the heat of his mouth on your neck, his dick railing into you—the tension snaps, and you’re coming, crying out as pleasure wracks through you, your inner walls clenching around him like a vice.

“There we go,” Joel groans, his pace faltering. “My good girl—my good fuckin’ girl.” He doesn’t let you come down; his hips keep moving, drawing out every tremor, every helpless gasp until you’re boneless and shaking under him, completely wrung out.

“That’s it, baby,” he rasps. “You did so good for me.”

His praise is a balm and a brand, soothing and burning all at once.

He leaves you no chance to recover; he’s chasing his own high now. His arms are on either side of your head, his thrusts turning rough, almost frantic, the wet, slick sound of him working into you mixing with his harsh breathing. He wants it, and you can feel it in every hard, punishing stroke.

Something you’ve learned about Joel is that he likes to kiss when he comes—he likes to kiss in general, but especially when he’s coming. So, you’re expecting it when his mouth crashes onto yours, kissing you deep and messily. His hips snap faster, his breath turning hot and ragged against your lips.

“Gonna come,” he mutters into your mouth. “Gonna fuck you full of me, baby. Fill you up. You want that? You want my come?”

You moan ‘yes’ into the kiss, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him as deep as he’ll go, and that’s it for him. Joel slams into you to the hilt and stays there, a raw, guttural moan tearing from his chest as his cock throbs hard inside you. You feel it—every hot, thick pulse flooding you, spilling into your inner depths. He grinds, rolling his hips to fuck it deeper, kissing you like he's starving for you and can't get enough. Once he's milked himself of every last drop, he collapses, shoving his face into the crook of your neck with a happy sigh.

Another thing about Joel is that he gets very cuddly after sex and loves it if you play with his hair. Your fingers go into the sweat-damp waves on his head, lovingly scratching his scalp. He hums in the back of his throat, nuzzling your skin.

“Tha’s nice,” he slurs.

You smile. “Please don’t pass out. I really do need to get to work.”

He sighs. “Gimme a minute.”

“Okay.” You’ll give him five and work a little later—you live in the apocalypse, no one will care if you’re forty-five minutes late to your shift.

God, this is nice—it’d be better if he were naked, still, his flannel shirt isn’t uncomfortable against your skin.

His weight on you is grounding, like nothing bad can reach you here. But that’s how it always is with Joel. He makes you feel safe and wanted. Maybe a better word is cherished—he makes you feel safe and cherished. Your body is warm, your limbs heavy, and your mind swimming in a soft haze. Is it ridiculous to think that you could stay like this forever? Tangled up with him, breathing him in, your hearts beating in sync. Is that too much to wish for?

Probably.

You’re not naive. You know he’s not as perfect as he seems. You just haven’t known him long enough to figure out his flaws. Hell, odds are, all of this is too good to be true, and he’ll have his fun with you before he decides to settle down with a woman of a more appropriate age. He wouldn’t be the first man to do that to you. Even with that in the back of your mind, you’re falling harder for him than anyone else, and you’re hoping he doesn’t break your heart. But if he does, and worst comes to worst, you’ve got Gail, the town’s therapist, who’ll help you get over him. Wouldn’t be the first time, and she’d be pretty excited to start getting those shortbread cookies she loves again.

Joel shifts slightly on top of you, kissing the side of your neck. He drags his lips across your sweaty skin. “You okay, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his voice rough.

“I’m wonderful.” You slide your fingers through his surprisingly soft hair.

“Good.” He kisses your collarbone, then the hollow of your throat. “Was it everythin’ you wanted?”

The question makes you snort. “Are you asking me to review your performance?”

His head pops up to give you a look. “Are you tellin’ me you didn’t enjoy it?”

Your eyes roll. “It was mindblowing. It’s always mindblowing. Five out of five stars.”

He nods once. “That’s what I thought.”

“Wow, I’m deducting half a point for your smugness. Four and a half stars now.”

He frowns, his expression turning grumpy. He mutters under his breath as he starts to move off of you, “Four and a half stars my ass… “ Your giggle evolves into a whimper at the sudden emptiness of him pulling out. Of course, Joel notices, his lips lifting into a smirk. “Miss me already?” he asks.

“Why do I like you?”

“I check all your boxes, and sweetheart, you don’t just like me, you wanna marry me.”

The day before, after he rocked your world the first time, you proposed marriage when you discovered you both shared the same desires for the future, one of them being children—it’s rare for a man his age to actually want a baby, and with people moving fast these days due to the uncertainty, it wasn’t too crazy a proposal. It’s not uncommon to marry someone you barely know, but Joel is from a different time, and politely declined, simply because he wants to date you properly, which is very sweet. He also said that if you’re still together in six months, he will marry you, so you’ve got something to—hopefully—look forward to.

You sit up on your elbows. “I’m second-guessing that right now.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, you agreed to marry me… in six months.”

“Or if I knock you up first.” He says it so nonchalantly that it leaves you speechless. His dark gaze is on yours as his hand goes between your thighs, two thick fingers catching his come as it drips out of you, and when he slowly pushes it back inside, you just about lose your fucking mind, unsure whether to shiver or melt. “So, keep that in there for me. Every drop.” Why is that so hot? “Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

He smiles. “That’s my girl. I also like knowin’ you’ll have some of me with you today while we’re apart.” Why is that romantic? How can come be romantic? What is he doing to you? Joel removes his two soaked fingers from you, glistening with both of you, and holds them up to your mouth. “Open.” That brings you back to yourself, things feeling normal again. You don’t hesitate, parting your lips for him to push them in. You grab his wrist with one hand, holding it still, keeping eye contact as you swirl your tongue, sucking his digits clean.

“You like how we taste?” he asks. You hum an affirmative.

This is where you show him that two can play this dirty little game.

You press forward, taking his fingers all the way to the back of your throat, your lips touching his knuckles, moaning for the hell of it. His eyes round, a sharp breath escaping him, which delights you.

"Jesus Christ," he whispers. "You keep showin' off like that, and you're not leavin’."

You pull off of him. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.” You grab a fistful of his shirt, tugging him down for a quick kiss, and push him back. “I need to take a quick shower, get dressed, and go to work.” You get off the couch and stand up. His come leaks down your inner thigh—yeah, a shower is a must. “Feel free to hang or let yourself out,” you tell him. Turning around, you start heading to your bedroom at the end of the hall. “Thanks for the quickie! Can’t wait to see you tonight!”

You’ve barely made it three steps when out of nowhere, a big hand latches around your arm, stopping you. You yelp in surprise, spinning round to find Joel standing there, with flushed cheeks and his jeans hastily pulled up, looking like you just insulted him or something.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

"That's not how you say goodbye to your boyfriend," he firmly answers.

You blink, caught off guard. “I thought you were too old to be my boyfriend?”

“I am, but that’s beside the point.”

“Is it, though? ‘Cause you seem pretty upset I didn’t give you whatever the fuck a boyfriend goodbye is. The kiss wasn’t enough?”

“That wasn’t a goodbye kiss. That was a fuckin’ drive-by. You don’t give a man a quick peck and walk off like that.”

“Okay? Then explain to me what the proper way is to say goodbye to my title-pending not-boyfriend.”

“Like this—” His hands frame your face, his rough palms warm against your cheeks, and then his mouth is on yours. Oh, this is one of those kisses. The kind that steals every coherent thought, that you’ll replay in your head later while impatiently counting down until you can have another. The kind that makes your knees go weak and leaves you dazed, smiling like an idiot all day—a solid five out of five stars, maybe the best you’ve ever had.

When you finally break away, you’re breathless. “Better?” you whisper.

His eyes are heavy-lidded, his gaze hungry. He, honest to god, pouts. “Yeah, but now I don’t wanna go. I’m gonna miss you too much.”

His response makes you smile, and you throw your arms around his neck. “You’re adorable. You’ll see me tonight. What time are you coming over?”

“I don’t know. Depends on how long it’s gonna take me for Ellie’s present.” He’s putting together a guitar for her birthday tomorrow. “Then, if she wants to have dinner with me or watch a movie, it’ll be after all that. I’m hopin’ seven or eight. Earlier, if I can make it happen.”

“God, it’s such a turn-on when you talk about being a good dad.”

He chuckles and kisses you. “Is that okay?” he asks when he leans back.

“Is what okay?”

“That I won’t be able to come over until later tonight?”

“Oh, yeah. Ellie comes first. Always. I can make her cake this afternoon when I get off work.”

“Then it’s a date.”

“It’s a date.”

“Now, kiss me goodbye correctly.”

Work was uneventful, or so you thought. You were distracted, replaying the last twenty-four hours on repeat in your head like one of those old sports highlight reels your dad used to watch on cable (before the world ended and he, you know, died). It was hard not to think about Joel and all the things he did to you, especially with how you could still feel him, the soreness between your legs, and the come he left behind.

You finished in the community kitchen around one in the afternoon, picking up eggs and a glass bottle of fresh milk on your way home. Once you got back to your apartment, you tidied up, then got to work on Ellie’s birthday cake, which Joel requested to be chocolate. Where does a person get chocolate in a post-apocalyptic North America where cocoa beans don’t grow? Traders. It’s the same way you get coffee beans. Traders brave the wilds to bring the highly sought-after goods up from Central and South America—there’s a reason they’re so expensive.

There are a couple of traders who come through town every once in a while, you’ve hooked up with. They were sweet and gave you discounts on your stash of cocoa powder and coffee beans—not that you slept with them for the deals. It was just an added perk you’d be stupid to turn down.

Now, it’s later in the evening, sometime after seven. Ellie’s cake was made hours ago, carefully frosted and covered, waiting in your fridge. That’s something you’ve been doing, too—waiting. Waiting for Joel. Waiting for that knock on your door. Waiting for him.

An hour passes. The movie you put on has ended, and the credits are over. You stare at the black screen into the void for a moment, then sigh, getting up to start another, something to fill the silence. To keep yourself from looking at your front door every five minutes, you grab your pile of holey socks and start darning them.

9 p.m.

You’ve moved on from socks to patching up other clothes just to keep your hands busy. Your thoughts keep circling back to Joel, to Ellie, how he lights up when he talks about her. That’s a good thing, you remind yourself. You love that. You love that she’s his world. She should be. But there’s a thought that’s crept into your brain that won’t go away: Is that why he’s with you? She has friends now and prefers to hang out with them rather than with Joel, and he’s lonely? Are you filling the space she’s leaving behind? That’s fine if you are. You don’t mind it. Hell, you’re lonely, too. You can be two lonely people finding happiness in each other. It makes you wonder, though, if he would’ve even looked at you twice if he weren’t lonely.

10 p.m.

You’ve run out of clothes to patch up and are now on your knees, scrubbing the hell out of the inside of your oven. Joel still hasn’t shown up, and that is totally okay. Truly. The man is busy, and you’re well aware of how devoted he is to his kid, a quality you love so much. These are things you keep telling yourself, over and over again, needing to believe them. You’ve put on a record because you were driving yourself insane thinking every tiny noise you heard was him, because when it ended up not being him, it just made you feel a little bit sadder. A little bit more foolish.

11 p.m.

The doubt starts to sink its claws into you. So, what do you do? You reorganize your kitchen cabinets to try to drown it out. Does it work? No. The thoughts are louder than the clinking of dishes and Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” playing on your record player. What bothers you most is that if Joel wanted to be here, he’d be here, and if he couldn’t make it, he would’ve had the decency to stop by and let you know—there are no phones, and that’s just what you do. That’s the kind of man he is… isn’t he? Do you have it all wrong? There's a voice in the back of your head, feeding your doubt, reminding you that you hardly know Joel at all.

12 a.m.

Midnight comes. You don’t know what else to do, so you put on another movie. It was a random VHS you plucked from the shelf, not bothering to look at the title. Even with your heater on, your apartment is cold. You wrap a blanket around your shoulders to try to stave off the chill, but it's useless. They say never to trust how you feel after 9 p.m., and yet here you are, feeling pathetic that you're still holding out hope he'll knock on your door. You keep glancing at it, trying to will him there. He would’ve come by now for your date, or to tell you he needed to cancel, and even with knowing that, you still hope.

1 a.m.

He didn’t come over.

With the way the world is, your first instinct is to think something happened to him. People don’t show, and it sometimes means they’re hurt, or worse, dead. But Joel? He’s fine. You know where he was. He had the day off and was at home working on Ellie’s gift. Nothing happened to him, which leaves the only other reason for his absence:

He didn’t want to be here.

Knowing that he didn't want to be here—that he didn't want you—is a knife to the heart.

Then you start spiraling, wondering if you misread things or if it all meant more to you than it did to him. Did all of the time you spent together, the promises, and hopes for the future mean nothing?

You don’t know, but tonight shows you he never cared about you, because if he actually gave a damn, he would’ve come. He would’ve done something, anything, to ensure you knew he was okay and that he wasn’t blowing you off.

And he didn’t.

That silence? It tells you how he really feels.

It pisses you off that he led you on like that, then didn’t have the decency to cancel or break up with you. Instead, he left you wondering where he was for hours, like a dog whose person isn’t coming home.

"Fuck him," you say it out loud, like speaking it into existence will ease the tightness in your chest. It doesn’t.

You had a feeling this was all too good to be true, and you should’ve listened to your gut. You shouldn’t have let yourself get so attached. It annoys you that you’re so upset. You hate that you want to cry. Your anger won’t let you—he doesn’t deserve your tears.

And to think you let him come inside you, risking pregnancy, something you’ve done your best to avoid, all because you trusted him and thought you had a future with him. Why? Why did you trust him so easily? He was different, at least different from anyone else in your past. He made you think he wanted something real by being upfront about not having any interest in anything casual. You fell for the sincerity in his eyes. Was it all a game to him? What was the point of all of this?

What you know for sure is that you are never trusting a man again.

And your bed. Your broken bed that sits in your room, reminding you of your stupidity for thinking someone like Joel would want anything more from you than sex. He’s like all the other men who don’t see you as partner material—you’re just the good time they have before they settle down with someone different.

God, it’s embarrassing how late you stayed up hoping he’d show. Well, fuck him.

You don’t have the energy to do anything about your bed, so you curl up on the couch under a blanket, and as you drift off to sleep, one question won’t leave your mind:

Why am I unlovable?

It’s half past five the next morning. With how heated you feel, you barely register the cold, or maybe it’s the jeans and sweater you’re wearing doing their job to keep away the chill. You’re almost to Joel’s house, carefully carrying Ellie’s small cake, protected in a plastic container—you never even considered not delivering it. The whole walk over here, you’ve been thinking about what you’ll say to him, each step amplifying the anger in your chest.

You’re not sad, you’re mad. You’re pissed off that you let your guard down and allowed a man into your heart, only for him to break it. You don’t want to hear his excuses. You don’t want to hear his apologies. You want this to be over and to never talk to him again.

Stepping up onto his porch, your heart pounds. You knock on the front door.

He must’ve already been downstairs; the door opens almost immediately, and there he is, Joel Miller. He’s got dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep—good. When you stayed with him the other night, he told you he struggles with sleeping, and that having you in bed with him was the best rest he’d gotten in a long time. It cheers you up a little to see that he looks like shit.

When he sees you, his shoulders relax, a breath leaving him like he’s been holding it in all night.

“Thank Christ you’re here.” He sounds relieved. You assume he was freaking out that you weren’t going to bring over the cake.

“Of course, I’m here. I’m not going to ruin an innocent child’s birthday because their father is an asshole. Here.” You carefully shove the container into his chest. “I hope Ellie has a great birthday, and us?” You point between you. “We’re done. Don’t talk to me again. Don’t come near my apartment. Don’t even fucking look at me.”

His brow furrows. “Now, hold on—”

“No,” you cut him off. “I don’t want to hear it. Your silence last night said enough.”

“Baby—”

“I’m not your baby. I’m nothing to you.”

His jaw clenches. “Let me talk,” he growls.

“No!” you snap. “I don’t wanna hear your bullshit excuses.”

His voice rises. “Let me fuckin’ explain!”

You don’t flinch at his outburst. “No!” you say just as loudly. “I’m done. Goodbye, Joel.” You turn around, your boots thudding as you walk down the porch step.

“You’re makin’ a mistake!”

The door slams behind you. Or maybe it doesn’t. Either way, you don’t look back.

What do you do?

There’s no way in hell you’re going home to cry over a man who couldn’t be bothered to show up. You’re better than that. Stronger. Smarter. Done. It doesn’t matter if he made you feel seen and cherished, or if you could imagine a future with him. Nope. No tears for that asshole.

So, you go to work.

You bake bread.

You bake too much bread.

More than is needed for the day, and probably tomorrow, too. Just means you don’t have to be in as early in the morning. With everything that happened over the last couple of days, you can use the extra sleep.

While helping prep lunch, you overhear two workers whispering about the dishwashing kid from yesterday burning themselves badly on a pot of boiling water after you left–skin sloughed off their arm. Had to be rushed to the clinic. You didn’t catch their name or whether they were male or female. You try to remember who had dish duty, and you can’t, because they rotate out the teens in town for the job daily, so it’s always a different kid each day.

After work, you go home for a little while. You don’t sit still; instead, you keep yourself busy, then shower, changing into jeans and a t-shirt before leaving.

The house you go to, you’ve been to more times than you can count. You knock on the front door. “One second!” comes the familiar voice.

The door cracks open. Then it opens wider.

“What happened?” Gail asks in a knowing tone.

“You got time?”

“You got the stuff?”

You hold up the cookie tin. “Two dozen ‘cause I’m fucked up.”

She takes the container, opens it, and nods in approval. “A man?” She moves out of the way for you to come inside.

“Isn’t it always?” You walk past her, knowing exactly where to go.

“Sometimes we talk about your childhood. Who’s the guy?”

In the living room, you flop back on Gail’s couch, shifting the pillows behind your head and being careful to keep your boots off the old upholstery.

“Have you met Joel Miller?”

“Tommy’s brother?”

Gail takes a seat in her chair across from you, the cookies in her lap. She leans forward to grab her ancient kitchen timer on the coffee table between you, cranking it to your allotted sixty minutes, and sets it down again. Then she sits back, popping the tin’s lid to grab a shortbread cookie, and takes a bite, humming her enjoyment.

“Yeah.”

She swallows. “Briefly. We’ve been introduced. Handsome. Definitely your type.” You hear her crunching.

“We fucked.”

She finishes her cookie and closes the container, putting it on the end table beside her. “I figured. Cookies are amazing as always.”

“Thanks. He wasn’t like the others. Or at least I thought he wasn’t. He talked about serious stuff like marriage and kids. It really felt like we could have a future together. Not only that, I felt so comfortable with him, I didn’t tell him to pull out.”

Usually, with older men, you didn’t have to because they were careful and didn’t want children. With the younger men, you were the cautious one, telling them to pull out.

“That’s interesting,” she muses. “You’re usually careful, or as careful as you can be. Why him?”

“Because he’s a dad. A really good dad. He’s solid, attentive, hot—obviously—but also sweet. Funny, when he wants to be, and the sex. My god, is it truly the best sex I’ve ever had.”

“And you’ve had a lot of sex, so that’s saying something.” There’s zero judgment in her tone.

“Right? I just thought he might be—it’s too fucking cheesy to say out loud.”

“The one?”

“Yeah…”

“Sorry, kiddo, but this circles back to your favorite subject.”

You groan. “Ugh, not the childhood trauma. Why is it always the childhood trauma?”

“It’s a real bitch, isn’t it? Crazy how a single, life-altering event during brain development haunts you into adulthood.”

“I hate it,” you mutter. “But, whatever. Go on.”

“You lost your family in the worst way. It was violent, sudden, and you had no chance to say goodbye. Then came Seth and Rita, who took you in, but we both know you never really felt like you belonged with them. That’s left you chasing that feeling of real, unconditional love, you just have shitty taste in men.”

“Hey!”

“Am I wrong? You go after guys twice your age, who are emotionally constipated, and are only interested in fucking you, when you need someone you can build a life with. This is where Joel comes in. He looked good on paper. Older, handsome, has a kid, and knows how to use his words sometimes. With him, you saw your chance at finding that love you lost.”

“Well, Joel was a bust.”

“Let’s dig into that. What happened?”

Taking a deep breath, you tell her everything that happened over the last seventy-two hours. “—and I went to this house this morning to drop off the cake and refused to hear what he had to say.”

“If you didn’t let him speak, how do you know he stood you up?”

“Because he didn’t come over or stop by to tell me what was going on.”

“What if he wasn’t able to contact you? It’s not like communication is easy these days without phones. Maybe he couldn’t go to your apartment.”

You frown. When you look at her, she’s got her glasses on, busy scribbling something into her black notebook. “What do you mean?” you ask.

Her eyes meet yours. “You got to find out early that people can just be gone with no warning. So, now your default is the worst-case scenario. But here’s the thing: this time, you knew Joel was safe at home. He wasn’t dead or dying in a ditch. What you did instead of worrying he got hurt, is you jumped straight to 'he doesn't care about me' and 'he was just using me.' I hate to break it to you, kid, but I don't think that's what happened here.

“Then why didn’t he show up?” you quietly ask.

“He has a daughter, right? What if something happened to her?”

You gasp, sitting up. “The kid who got burned!”

You’ve never met Ellie, but you know what she looks like. You’ve seen her with Joel around town. Were you really so distracted that you didn’t notice she was the dishwasher?

How did you miss that?

“Is that what happened to her? She was hopped up on some good shit when I saw Tommy walking her home from the clinic yesterday.”

“Dammit, Gail! Why didn’t you lead with that?”

“You needed clarity.” She shrugs. “And to know your brain is an asshole.”

This is when it hits you like a truck: you've jumped to baseless conclusions and ruined the best thing to ever happen to you. You feel sick to your stomach as your heart rate doubles. You get up because you feel you need to leave, but you end up pacing instead.

“Oh my god.” Your vision blurs from watery eyes. “I didn’t let him speak. I told him not to talk to me. He tried to explain, and I shut him down.” Tears begin falling down your cheeks. “I thought—I really fucking thought he didn’t care, and the poor man was probably just taking care of his kid.” You stop in your tracks, remembering how he told you Sarah died in his arms. He must’ve been beside himself with worry over Ellie’s injury. The relief on his face when he saw you at his door this morning wasn’t because of the cake; it was because you were there. How could you be so cruel?

The weight of what you did is closing in, your breaths coming out quick and shallow. Sending you on the verge of hyperventilating, your vision tunneling, the edges going dark as the world caves in all around you.

Gail is suddenly up and in front of you, gripping your arms. "Hey, breathe. Look at me and breathe."

Your wide eyes go to hers, and you try, but your throat is too tight, the panic pressing in everywhere.

“Come on, kid, just breathe. You made a mistake. It happens. Nobody’s perfect. What you did isn’t unforgivable. Let’s focus on your breathing—you got this—in through your nose.” She does it with you. “There you go. Now let it out.” You do. “Again.” She coaches you to breathe, little by little, the heaviness in your chest easing, and your vision clearing, until you’ve calmed down. “There we go. You good?” she asks.

“Yeah.” You nod. “What do I do?” You sound desperate, your bottom lip wobbling. “I don’t want to lose him.”

“You talk to him. You own up to your shit. Tell him you assumed the worst because your brain’s an asshole, and you were heartbroken. If he’s worth a damn, and I have high hopes he is, he’ll forgive you.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then at least you tried and did all you could.”

What you feel like you need to do is head to Joel’s immediately to apologize and explain, but you can’t. It's Ellie's birthday, and you do not want to intrude on her special day.

The air outside is warm, the sun shining with hardly any clouds in the sky. The weather doesn’t reflect what you’re feeling inside, regret rolling through you like a thunderstorm, consuming you. You’re walking home, thinking of what you could possibly say to fix what happened.

Hey, so I may have overreacted over a misunderstanding. I didn’t know that your kid got hurt, and that’s why you missed our date, which is totally my bad. Please forgive me.

Yeah, he definitely won’t accept that.

Every idea you’ve had since leaving Gail’s has sounded pathetic. To be honest, you don’t even know what would right your wrongs and earn Joel’s forgiveness. You’re beyond angry at yourself for not giving him a chance to speak; not only that, but you also feel so fucking guilty. He looked like he hadn’t slept when you saw him, and instead of checking how he was, you treated him like shit.

What’s worse is that you knew Joel wasn’t playing games, and you treated him like he did anyway. But as Gail said, your past still haunts you, and it sabotaged your best chance at happiness.

Fuck.

What are you going to do?

What can you do?

Nothing until tomorrow.

You have the night to figure out a plan that will hopefully earn Joel’s forgiveness. Or maybe you’re being too optimistic, and nothing can be done to repair what you ruined.

You’re starting to spiral again, when loud laughter stops you in your tracks. You look toward the noise, spotting three teenagers heading your way down the road. What has your stomach somersaulting is who's in the middle of the trio—it's Ellie, wearing a short-sleeved shirt that reveals her bandaged forearm. You’re glad to see that her injury isn’t keeping her from having fun.

Your thoughts start to race. If Ellie is hanging out with her friends, then that means Joel should be at home… alone.

Your heart is thudding a mile a minute.

You don’t remember deciding to turn. It’s your body that makes the call before your brain can talk you out of it.

You’re going.

Do you know what you’ll say? No. Do you know if he’ll even listen? Also, no. But you have to try. You have to do something if there’s any chance to make this right.

You’re back on Joel Miller’s porch. Same day. Same door. But where this morning you were fire and fury, now you’re just… scared.

It takes you a moment to gather your thoughts, then finally, you suck in a deep breath and knock, three raps against the door.

Now comes the worst part: the wait. The time when you’re stuck in a limbo of whether or not Joel is going to answer the door. It’s nerve-wracking enough to make you a little queasy and your hands, as the seconds seem to stretch on for an eternity.

Enough seconds pass that make you wonder if he’s not home.

Or, the likelier reason he hasn’t answered yet is that he saw you and doesn’t want to talk to you. That thought is like a punch to the gut.

But then the deadbolt clicks.

The door opens, and there’s Joel, the picture of a man who’s just been awoken from a nap. His hair is messy, and he’s squinting a little at the bright sunlight, wearing a white t-shirt and comfy-looking gray sweatpants.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

“You were right, I made a mistake.”

“No shit. So what is this? You here to make yourself feel better?”

“I’m here to apologize and explain. I thought you stood me up.”

“Yeah.” His tone’s sharp. “I got that part.”

“I was hurt. I lashed out when I shouldn’t have. I’m so fucking sorry, Joel.”

His eyebrows rise. “Sorry, huh?” He scoffs. “Well, sorry don’t cut it. Not with the way you treated me.”

He starts to close the door, but your hand hits it with a thud to stop it. “Joel, please.”

He doesn’t budge. “Don’t. Don’t give me that shit, standing there and acting like you care now.”

“I do!” You say it too quickly, too loudly. “I do care. I was wrong, and I fucked up.”

“Well, I don’t wanna hear your bullshit excuses,” he snaps.

It’s a slap to the face hearing your own words thrown back at you.

The door starts to move again, and you panic.

“You know how your world ended when Sarah died?” you blurt out.

He freezes, his expression darkening. “You don’t get to talk about her.”

"My world ended when I lost my family." You don't want his sympathy. You don’t even want to talk about this, but telling him about your past will give him a better understanding of who you are. "I was twelve,” you continue. “It was me, my parents, and my two little sisters traveling. We were trying to reach a safer QZ. The day before, we had a close call with some infected. My dad took care of them, so we thought we were fine, but…” Your throat tightens. “I like to believe my mom didn’t know she’d been bitten.”

“Anyways, we stayed the night in an abandoned house. The next morning, I was doing a perimeter check with my dad when we heard screaming. We ran in—” You pause to swallow around the lump in your throat. “We ran in,” you try again, “and there was blood on the floor. My sisters were already gone. They didn’t stand a chance, and my mom… she wasn’t my mom anymore. In that moment, my dad didn’t just lose his wife; he lost his will to live. It didn’t matter how much I needed him, there was no way he’d keep going without her, so I lost him, too. He made me leave before he…” You don’t want to say what he did to himself out loud. It’s bad enough that you can remember the sound of the gunshot. With the back of your hand, you wipe away the tears in your eyes. “So… Yeah…”

For half a second, his eyes flicker with something—recognition? Maybe pain? His gaze drops to the space between you, silence falling over you both. You hate the quiet. It's filled with too much unknown—will he give you a chance to explain the reason you acted the way you did that morning? Is he going to shut the door in your face? Is he going to tell you off, then shut the door in your face? Joel isn't a man of many words, and even less so, someone who openly shows their emotions. It makes sense that he doesn't offer you his condolences or welcome you into his home. It is very Joel when he clears his throat and steps back for you to walk in, shutting and locking the door behind you.

“My brain is an asshole,” you say, your eyes on the floor. “Gail says it’s the childhood trauma. It makes me jump to the worst-case scenario.”

“Gail the therapist…?”

“Yes.” You lift your head. “She’s the one who told me Ellie got hurt. Is she okay?”

“She’s fine.”

“That’s good.” You nod. “She looked happy with Dina and Jesse when I saw her after my session.”

He walks past you toward the kitchen and doesn’t look back. “You want a drink?”

“If you don’t mind.”

If he’s getting you a drink, then maybe you should go into the living room. You head that way, stopping beside the leather couch in the middle of the room.

When you stayed over the other night, the house was too dark for you to see much of anything. Now, the late afternoon sunlight leaks through the window’s curtains to softly illuminate the area. You take in your surroundings, the blanket hastily thrown over the back of the sofa, the throw pillow near one of the armrests, indented with the shape of a head—he’d definitely been napping.

You’re an intruder in his space with no idea what you should do, so you stand there awkwardly.

A few moments later, he’s returning, holding a small glass in each hand. He offers you one that you take, raising it to your lips immediately, but pausing when you get a whiff of the liquor. It isn’t the harsh, homebrewed shit most people choke down these days. You take a sip. Yep, this is old-world whiskey. Smooth, warm, and extremely rare. Another perk of being a smuggler, you suppose.

He doesn’t sit right away; he just gestures toward the couch with his chin. “Sit down.”

You’re not sure if he’s ordering you or just being gruffly polite. You sit down anyway.

Joel sinks into the old armchair in the corner. He sits there, silent, pensive, turning his cup slowly in his hand as if to buy time to figure out what to say. “So…” he starts. “What happened to you. What’s that got to do with this mornin’?”

A valid question. Personal tragedies are a dime a dozen these days. Everyone who’s survived this long is bound to have losses. Look at Joel. It’s just a part of life.

When he finally looks at you, the anger in his eyes is replaced with exhaustion.

“‘Cause for the life of me,” he says, “I haven’t been able to make sense of where I went wrong for you to think so little of me.”

“That’s the thing, you didn’t do anything wrong. You were beyond perfect. A gentleman, a good guy, it was me and my fucked-up brain.” You sigh. “With how I lost my family, I kinda just expect everyone to leave, one way or another. So, when you didn’t come over, my first thought wasn’t a sane, ‘maybe something happened.’ It was a dramatic, ‘he’s gone like the rest of them.’ And that fucking destroyed me. It was worse than anything I’ve ever felt.”

He doesn’t say anything; he only hums his acknowledgment as he takes a slow drink of his whiskey.

You press on. “I coped by lashing out. I ended it before you could, thinking it’d hurt less, but it didn’t. It was worse. Nothing can excuse how I treated you, Joel. I fucked up. I majorly fucked up and hate myself for it. If there were any way for me to take it back, I would. All I can do now is beg for another chance. Let me prove it to you. Let me prove that I won’t run again.”

It's hard to tell from his demeanor what he’s thinking.

He rubs a palm over his jaw, the scrape of his stubble loud in the quiet. “Let me get this straight,” he starts. “You thought I was fuckin’ perfect and you still had the gall to treat me like that?” He lets out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes, taking another sip of his drink.

That’s not a good start—you shoot back the two fingers of liquor in your cup, appreciating the burn as it slides down your throat and warms your belly.

His glass rests on his thigh. He gazes into the amber liquid before his eyes meet yours again. “I get it,” he says, “the world is fuckin’ cruel. People leave, they die, they disappear, but aren’t you sick of that shit? Don’t you want to be happy? I was offerin’ to stay, to marry you, to have children with you, and you just threw me away like I was nothin’.”

“Joel—”

“No,” he cuts you off, making you flinch. “It’s my turn to talk, and you’re gonna fuckin’ listen to what I have to say.” Your gaze drops to the empty cup in your lap, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s clear as day that you’ve never been in a real relationship. You’ve had flings and men who strung you along, the bastards. Never anythin’ that lasted, and because of your inexperience, I will give you some grace.” Your eyes return to his, feeling the tiniest inkling of hope. “But even with that, I’m too fuckin’ old to be chasin’ a girl as young as you, who runs so easy. The smart thing for me to do is nip this in the bud and end it now.”

The admission makes your heart sink. He averts his eyes, rubbing at his chin again, thinking.

Dread has you feeling sick as you wait for him to kick you out.

His hair is already messy, but still, he runs his fingers through it and takes a deep breath. His gaze lifts to yours. “However,” he starts, “against my better judgement, I wanna give you another chance.” The hope is back, you perk up in your seat. “I don’t need you to be perfect. What I need is for you to meet me halfway—that’s it—you’ll get everythin’ I’ve got, but you can’t be boltin’ or shuttin’ me out when things get tough. I need to know that if I let you into my life—into Ellie’s life, that you plan to stick around. So, how do I know I can trust you?”

A great question that you don’t have the answer to.

What could you say or do to regain his trust?

“You can speak now,” he says softly, gently nudging you.

“You won’t know until I prove it to you, and I’m asking that you please give me a chance to show you. You were right that I’ve never been in a relationship. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but I’ll figure it out, because I want you, Joel, and everything you’re offering. Losing this, losing you, is worse than anything imaginable, and I swear that even if things get tough, I’m not going anywhere. I won’t run. I won’t shut you out. I’ll talk to you like I should’ve done in the first place. Just please give me the chance to prove that I’m worthy of your love.”

It's palpable how the tension between you loosens. He nods his head once, then lifts his drink to his lips, downing it all in one gulp, the empty glass getting set onto the table next to him. "You've always been worthy of love." He pushes himself up from the chair with a pained grunt.

You’re not sure how to respond. He stands there, his eyes slightly squinting, studying you, searching your face for any signs of deception. You assume he’s found none when he steps your way, gently prying your cup from your hands, that he puts down onto the coffee table in front of the couch.

"Up." He reaches for your hands and helps you to your feet. As soon as you're standing, he pulls you into his arms in a full-body hug, practically wrapping himself around you like he never wants to let you go. You smile when he presses his face in the crook of your neck, his stubble scratching your skin. He lets out a contented sigh, his body relaxing. “I missed you,” his voice is muffled. “Don’t fuckin’ do that again.”

“I won’t.” The promise leaves your mouth before you even think.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. He’s holding you, keeping you as close as possible, reminding yourselves of what this feels like. You press your face into his shoulder, getting a faint trace of his thyme soap, earthy with a hint of mint.

To think you almost walked away from this—from him—from these arms that feel like home and a man willing to love you with no plans to leave. Insane.

His palm smooths up your spine to cradle the back of your head. “Needed you last night,” he softly admits.

Your chest aches. From the look of him this morning and the nap you interrupted, he must’ve been up half the night. “I’m here now.” Your head turns, trailing your lips across his prickly jaw, as you whisper, “I’m not going anywhere.”

He leans back just enough to see your face, his big hand cupping your cheek. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, moving lower to trace the corner of your mouth. “Good,” he says, his gaze flicking to your lips. “‘Cause you’re mine.” It’s not up for debate. It’s stated as a fact, and all you can do is nod before the space between you disappears, and he’s kissing you.

At first, it’s slow, tentative; he’s reacquainting himself with the shape of your lips.

It’s not enough.

The dam breaks, Joel deepening the kiss. His arm around your back, drawing you flush against him, moaning when he licks into your mouth. His tongue intertwines with yours, tasting the whiskey—warm, smoky with a slight bite, that melts into something sweeter. Your arms circle his neck, giving in to all of the feelings washing over you—relief, want, drowning out that fear of losing him.

He pulls away long enough to say with his lips brushing yours, “Missed this.” Then his mouth is on yours again, rougher now, hungrier, kissing you like he’s staking his claim.

When your lungs begin to ache, you finally come up for air, panting. Joel peppers kisses along the line of your jaw and lower down your neck, your eyes rolling back when he sucks over your pulse.

The words stumble out of your mouth before you can stop them. “Can I make it up to you?”

His head rises to meet your gaze. “What’d you have in mind?”

“Let me suck your dick.”

His face is unreadable, his pupils blowing wide. “On your knees.”

The command has your breath hitching, your cunt clenching hard around nothing.

“Here?” you ask, surprised he doesn’t want to go somewhere more private. “What if someone comes home?”

“Someone is spendin’ the night at their friend’s. Knees,” he orders.

You obey, dropping without hesitation to kneel on the rug at his feet. He looms over you, tracking your every movement with a burning gaze as you look up at him. “Good girl,” he purrs, rubbing his thumb across your wet bottom lip. “Get me out.”

Here’s the thing, you could do exactly as he says—you should do exactly as he says, but where’s the fun in that?

Instead of your hands going to the waistband of his sweatpants, you plant them on his thighs, and lean in, pressing your cheek against where he’s beginning to bulge. Heat radiates through the cotton as you nuzzle your face over his half-hard cock.

“Is that what I told you to do?” he asks.

Locking your eyes onto his, you ensure he's watching as you finally reach to curl your fingers into the stretchy waistband, pulling his pants down agonizingly slow. You get them down his thighs until all that separates you from his straining length are his blue boxer briefs.

“That’s it.” His voice deepens.

Keeping your gaze on his, you’re blatantly disobedient, slowly mouthing along his shaft through the material covering him, your lips mapping him, darkening the fabric with your saliva. Joel’s frown deepens, his jaw flexing. The warning’s clear on his face; his patience is wearing thin. Any second now, he’ll take back control.

“The longer you keep teasin’ me,” he says, “the longer I keep you from comin’.”

There it is. You expected him to stop you sooner.

You sit back on your heels and smile up at him. “I love when you threaten me.”

“What you love is pushin’ my buttons.”

“You’re not wrong.” You hook your fingers into his boxers, pulling them down just far enough for his cock to spring free—he’s thick, the tip reddened, and bobbing between his legs, making your mouth water at the pure perfection. You wrap your hand around the base, slowly pumping him, “Better?” you ask with a smirk.

His throat works as he swallows, eyes growing darker. “Almost. Tongue out.”

Arousal flares low in your belly. You let go of him and do as you're told, sticking it out, wide and waiting, resting your hands on his thighs again.

​ “Good girl.” He guides his length forward, laying it heavy across your tongue for you to feel the full weight of him, reminding you of just how big he is. He teases you, tapping the tip of his dick against your tongue, once, twice, a low groan slipping from him when you moan.

You don’t wait for his next command—you close your lips around the swollen head and suck, slow at first, letting him feel you working him into your mouth. Joel’s jaw goes tight, his hand finding the back of your head, threading his fingers into your hair.

“Christ,” he mutters. “That mouth.”

You swirl your tongue, hollowing your cheeks, then come off him with a wet pop. You look up at him through your lashes. “I told you I wanted to make it up to you. So, use me. Fuck my mouth. I want it.”

For a beat, he just stares down at you, a flush rising up his neck. His hand in your hair tightens. “Open wider.”

A thrill moves through you as you do as he commands, opening as wide as you can. Joel doesn’t hesitate, pushing his hips forward, filling you even deeper. He slides hot and heavy along your tongue until he’s hitting the back of your throat—you don’t gag, you never do, and that makes him lose it a little bit, his pace quickening.

“Fuck, you take me so well,” he groans, and the way he says it makes your pussy throb.

He pulls back only to thrust in again, finding a rhythm. It’s rough, his grip firm in your hair, guiding your head, watching himself fuck his cock into your mouth. It turns you on, being on your knees for him, drool slipping down your chin, your eyes watering while he uses you how he wants.

“So fuckin’ pretty.” His voice is ragged. He’s got one hand in your hair, the other wiping away a stray tear with his thumb. “Look at this mess you’re makin’ for me. All mine.”

His hips snap harder, the back of your throat taking a pounding. You moan around him, making him groan even louder. His eyes are hooded, his cheeks rosy, and he looks wrecked. “My perfect girl, bein’ so good to me.”

Your cunt feels achingly empty, wetness pooling between your thighs. Your panties had to be drenched.

Trailing your hand down, you go to slip your fingers beneath your pants to quell the need that’s been building since the moment you kissed. Joel notices and comes to a halt. He growls down at you, “Don’t. Hands stay where they are.”

Your eyes lift to his, big and pleading, but he just feeds himself further into your mouth. “You don’t get to come until I say you can,” he says.

The denial makes it hotter, your body trembling with want. You return your palm to his thigh.

With his hand on the back of your head, he urges you forward, sliding his dick deeper and deeper, until you’re having to swallow around him, taking him into the tight space of your throat.

“That’s it, baby,” he sounds strained. “You’re doin’ so good for me. Just like that.”

Your nose bumps the coarse hair at his base, smelling the soap he showered with and his natural musk. Your eyes water, but you don’t gag around the stretch, you won’t, and the fact that you take him so easily drives him wild. “Fuck,” he rasps, his hips jerking. He free-hand cradles your jaw, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth where drool spills over. “That’s my girl, takin’ it all the way down.”

God, you shouldn’t love this as much as you do—drooling, crying, your throat stretched full, but you do.

Your nails dig into his thighs, the slick mess dripping from your lips, keeping him buried until your lungs scream for air. He lets you come off him, gasping in a big breath, a string of spit connecting you to his cock, before he shoves you down again, moaning when you swallow him whole.

His dark eyes are on your watery ones. “Good girl,” it comes out ragged, his lips parted. His hands cup your cheeks as he stares down at you with a surprisingly tender gaze. ”You’re so fuckin’ beautiful. You like bein’ ruined by me, don’t you?”

You hum around him, ‘yes.’

“Yeah, you do. You like bein’ mine.” He pulls out of your mouth, curling his fist around his hard cock. His other hand catches your jaw, tilting your face up toward him. “But do you deserve to come?” Your eyes round, your chest heaving. “After the way you treated me?”

“Joel,” you whimper—it’s pathetic how desperate you sound, but you are desperate. He’s got you wound up tight, your pussy aching, throbbing with need. Now terror rears its ugly head, splashing over you like ice-cold water because he has every right to deny you. He could leave you hanging, keep you here without ever allowing you to come, and you’re not sure you’d survive it. “Joel, please.”

“Don’t ever doubt me again. You hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He lets go of your face, grunting when he hauls you to stand. He’s on you, ducking his head to spread open-mouthed kisses up your throat. “I hated bein’ mad at you,” he murmurs into your skin. Joel grabs your jaw, holding you still as he licks a slow stripe through the spit on your chin, then up the tear tracks on your cheek. A startled gasp leaves you. The filthiness of it makes you ache. Joel catches your noise and smirks. He ghosts his mouth over yours. “Mess or not, you’re mine. All of it, mine,” he declares, sealing it with a kiss.

He claims your lips, hard and searing, stealing the breath from your lungs, before he breaks away. “Take off your clothes.” You’re too slow for his liking; he’s already grabbing the hem of your shirt, stripping you with little patience. Your boots thud across the floor—socks flying after, your jeans and panties roughly yanked down your legs. Your bare skin prickles in the cold air. You squeak in surprise when he spins you, forcing you to kneel on the worn leather sofa, bracing yourself against the back of it.

You feel him behind you. Looking over your shoulder, you see he’s still dressed. “I don’t wanna be the only one naked,” you tell him. “Strip.”

His gaze burns, his lips downturned. “You really think you’re in a position to order me around?”

“What? Are you saying you prefer to be clothed? Don’t tell me you’re a sex-with-socks-on guy.”

He actually looks offended. “Who the fuck only wears socks?” His shirt’s gone in one motion, pants and boxers shoved down.

“You’d be surprised.” He does the awkward balancing act to remove each sock. “They did not get a second date.”

“Gotta add that to your list.” Of what you want in a man.

You smile, laughing breathlessly. “It’s already on the list, I just don’t broadcast it to catch the guys that do.”

Joel’s on you in seconds, the front of his body pressed to the back of yours, his skin hot, his cock thick and heavy against your ass. He holds your hips, his lips brushing your ear. “Better?”

You reach behind, pushing your fingers into his hair. “Mhmm, much better.”

He kisses a spot below your ear, then again on your neck. “Here’s how this goes,” he rasps. “I’m gonna fuck you, but you don’t come ‘til I say you can. You do, and I pull out. I won’t touch you again the rest of the night. Am I clear?”

The warning has heat curling low in your core, your thighs squeezing tight together. “Yes.”

His lips graze your shoulder. “Good girl.”

The praise has you biting your lip, rocking your hips back against the heft of him.

Joel chuckles low in his chest, “So needy for me.” He surprises you, slipping his hand down to tease along your inner thigh. “You want my fingers first? Or do you think you can take me?”

You shake your head. “No. I can take it.”

A little pain didn’t hurt anyone. Plus, you know he’ll make it worth it.

“That’s my girl.” He presses his palm between your shoulder blades, and that’s all of the instruction you need—automatically, you’re bending forward and arching your back to stick out your ass.

His length is still covered in your saliva, but Joel is extra cautious. He spits in his palm and works it over his dick, the obscenely slick sound it makes causing your insides to clench in need. He notches himself at your sopping entrance before he starts to nudge in, the thickness of his cock prying you open and stealing your breath.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

He pushes in slowly, your body resisting, the stretch burning sharply enough to make your inner walls clamp helplessly around him.

“Easy,” Joel rasps, in a tone that’s low and tender, like he’s breaking a wild horse. “I got you.” He inches in deeper, then retreats a little, before pressing in again, slowly working himself into you. “That’s it.” He’s cupping your hip, steadying you while sinking in further. “Doin’ so good for me.” You whimper, caught between the sting and the overwhelming relief of finally being filled. “Just a little more.”

He bottoms out, burying himself to the root. “Christ,” he murmurs, leaning forward to press his forehead to your shoulder. “Nothin’ in the fuckin’ world like bein’ inside you.”

You’re stretched to your limits and beyond full, every nerve in your body screaming. He doesn’t move right away. He stays still, his mouth kissing anywhere he can reach—your shoulder, the side of your neck, behind your ear. His lips are everywhere as you get used to the fullness. “My good girl, takin’ all of me,” he says into your skin. “This pussy is mine. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

“You’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

You’re thankful he’s gracious enough to give you time to adjust to what feels like him splitting you open.

What you expect is for him to fuck you hard, to work out all the anger you caused him. What you get is slow—torturously slow. His thrusts are shallow, grinding his pelvis into your ass, savoring you like he’s afraid to waste even a second of it. It makes you whine, your nails digging into the back of the couch, desperate for him to just take you the way you thought he would. It has you pushing back, trying to speed up his pace.

He doesn’t like that.

A sharp smack lands on your ass before his hips slam forward, knocking the wind from your lungs. His other hand grips the back of your neck, forcing you to stay put. “Quit it,” he growls. His tone is rough, but his touch is gentle when he rubs a comforting palm along your side. “You’ll take what I give you, and you’ll love every fuckin’ second. Understand?”

“Yes.” Your voice trembles.

“Good girl.”

If you thought his leisurely pace was maddening, that was only the beginning.

Joel pulls you upright, your spine colliding with his solid front, his cock stretching you open as he cages you in. He’s got one arm locked across your chest, squeezing your breast with his calloused hand, his free palm sliding down to the apex of your thighs. He rubs your clit in slow, merciless circles that sync with the lazy roll of his hips, your arousal dripping down his shaft to coat his balls.

His lips are at your ear. “You were hopin’ I’d fuck you, mean, weren’t you? Wanted me to take out my frustration on your greedy little pussy.”

The heat in your core gets hotter with every drag of his cock and swirl of his fingers. You don’t answer him quickly enough—he slaps your cunt, soothing the sting, by stroking his palm over it right after.

“Is that what you were hopin’?” he asks again.

“Yes,” you breathe.

He chuckles darkly. “Too bad. I want you to feel every inch of me—every fuckin’ inch of what you almost threw away.” His teeth graze the shell of your ear. “And then I wanna hear the sweet sound of you beggin’ me to come.”

No words leave your mouth; you just moan.

Joel’s hand moves down your swollen sex, spreading his fingers around where he’s sliding in and out of you. “Fuck, baby,” he groans, “you’re soakin’ me.” He smears the slick before gathering it onto his fingertips to circle your clit—you jolt, his cock grinding in deeper. “I love how wet you get for me—how your body knows who it belongs to.”

You’re fluttering around him, clenching at what he says because he’s right, your body does belong to him, you belong to him. He has ownership over you and your pleasure, filling you so completely that there isn’t any space inside you he hasn’t claimed.

He’s moving slowly, languidly as if he has all the time in the world, and it’s a special kind of hell. It doesn’t matter that every swirl of his fingers and every shallow thrust winds you tighter; you want more. You want the hard, fast, feral, fucking you within an inch of your life pace he had the first time he put his cock in you. That didn’t mean his slow, steady strokes were any less devastating—he has you at the cusp of combusting. Your thighs tremble, fighting with everything you’ve got against the sharp heat swelling in your belly, because Joel’s threat of pulling out if you come before he gives you permission is at the forefront of your mind, but you’re close, you’re so close it hurts.

Tears form in the corners of your eyes, your body begging to let go. A broken sob tumbles from your mouth. Joel’s hand moves from your chest, gliding up your throat to grab your jaw, turning your head. He catches your earlobe between his teeth, tugging it just enough to make you gasp. “Can feel how close you are,” he growls in your ear. “Can feel you fightin’ it. My good girl knowin’ she’s not gettin’ off easy.” He drives into you hard, burying himself balls deep inside you where he stays, unmoving, while his hand abandons your aching clit.

The sudden loss is a welcome respite. Still, all of your nerves are on fire, your body quivering at being so close to the edge, now with nowhere to go. Your eyes are closed, a thin layer of sweat coating your skin, making you stick to him wherever you touch.

“Joel,” you whimper.

“I know, baby.” He kisses you at the awkward angle, your lips misaligned, with his wet fingers splayed on your stomach. “You can take it.” He lets go of your jaw, bracing his arm across your chest again like he knows you’ll need the extra support. “Gotta ruin you before I let you come.”

You’re already ruined, and somehow he’s going to ruin you even more? Jesus. What have you gotten yourself into? You’re about to find out.

He starts moving again, his hips keeping to that same slow, savoring pace as before. It’s juxtaposed by the perfect strokes of his fingers on your clit, circling the needy bundle of nerves until your body quakes and shakes for release, bringing you to the precipice before stopping once more.

“Please, Joel,” you try, but you know he isn’t going to give in—it’s too soon.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “Not ‘til I say.”

You gulp, your pussy squeezing him as electricity dances just below your skin.

He may not let you come, but he isn’t cruel about it. You’re still stuffed to the brim with his thick cock, his chest pressed against your back, his touches softer now—his thumb strokes little arcs over your hip bone, his lips mapping the slope of your shoulder, the curve of your neck, and the damp skin just below your ear, soothing you, grounding you.

Joel begins again, slowly thrusting while his fingers work you to the point of snapping, only to deny you of your orgasm again. He does that once, twice, three times, edging you until you’re a mewling, crying fucked out mess. Your nails claw at his forearm, locked over your chest, your cunt clenching down on him helplessly, every nerve in your body raw.

Tears spill freely down your cheeks. “Please, Joel,” you beg. “I can’t—I can’t. Please, I need it. I need to come. Please.” If you didn’t, you were sure you’d die. That’d be a new one. Dying of sexual frustration. What a way to go out.

His movements have ceased again, staying buried to the hilt inside you. He groans in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “That’s it. My perfect girl, beggin’ so prettily. You’ve earned it.” His fingers return to your clit, and finally—fucking finally—his hips snap harder, faster, pummeling your pussy just the way you wanted. “Come for me, baby,” he says through gritted teeth, his other hand pinching your stiff nipple. “Give me what’s mine.”

There’s no other way to describe it: the permission is like a match to gasoline, it has pleasure exploding out from your core so violently, you see stars. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, Joel fucking you through it with a drawn-out moan, your body convulsing around him.

“Fuck, yes. Just like that,” his words come out strained, probably from how your cunt chokes his dick. “My good girl, my good fuckin’ girl.”

And then things go fuzzy, your brain short-circuits. Do you lose consciousness? Maybe. All you know is one minute you are experiencing the most Earth-shattering orgasm of your entire life, and the next you’re coming to, sucking in a big gulp of air as if in those lost seconds you forgot to breathe.

His fingers on your clit are too much. It feels like he’s touching a live wire inside you, the overstimulation causing you to yank your hips back, his hand coming off in reflex. This is when you register that he’s still slowly rocking in and out of you, while your pussy continues spasming with aftershocks, drooling your arousal along his cock. His arm is locked firmly around your middle, keeping you up because your legs are too shaky to hold your weight.

“You alright?” he asks, voice low. His mouth ghosts over the hollow of your shoulder, leaving soft kisses, as his palm slides down your side in comforting strokes.

You’re still clutching his forearm that’s across your front and let go, reaching your hand back to press your fingers into his sweaty hair, smiling dreamily. “Yes,” you croak.

His head turns, kissing the inside of your wrist, and you can’t help thinking about how much you love how affectionate he is. It’s not something you’d expect from someone who’s lived the life he has. You’d think that after all these years, the softness inside him would’ve hardened, and yet it hasn’t. Or maybe it had at one point. He did tell you he was a shell of a man before Ellie, and maybe you have her to thank for softening him up—maybe you have her to thank for the tenderness no one before him ever cared to show you.

His nose nuzzles the side of your neck, followed by the gentle press of his lips. “Think you can give me another?” he asks.

The fact that he’s giving you a choice warms your heart. Not that you dislike when he’s in charge and you’re at his mercy. That’s great, too. But his asking shows he has your comfort in mind and doesn’t want to overstimulate you further.

“Later,” you answer, your nails lightly scratching his scalp. “When we christen your bed, and you eat me out to your heart’s content.”

A groan rumbles from his chest, his cock twitching inside you, making you smile. “God, I fuckin’ missed you,” he tells you.

“I missed you, too.”

He slowly withdraws from you, and the sound you make is a half-sigh, half-whimper. It only takes a few seconds for him to move from behind you to sit down on the couch cushion, and tug you to straddle him, the leather creaking under your knees that bracket his hips.

For a moment, he just stares at you, his big hands coming up to caress your cheeks. He’s got that expression on his face, the one where he looks upon you with a sort of awe, almost like he can’t believe you’re real, and actually there. Then his eyes turn hungry as they take you in, roving over your face and body, before they flick up to meet yours. “How’d I get so lucky?” he asks. You’re the lucky one, but you don’t get a chance to say it because as soon as the words leave his lips, he’s pulling you in, crushing his mouth against yours.

This kiss is much more fervent than the last, feeling his need, his desperation, his relief. You take it upon yourself to lift your hips, lining his straining cock up with your entrance, then start to lower yourself, taking him inch by glorious inch until you’re flush against him. The two of you moan into the kiss. Even with how much he’s worked you open and your orgasm loosening your muscles, there’s still a slight stretch that feels so fucking incredible, it has a shiver crawling up your spine.

You can feel him throbbing inside you as you stay still, reveling in how right it feels to have him buried in you again, filling you so perfectly. The kiss melts into something deeper, your tongues tangling, his hands roaming down your back, grabbing the globes of your ass. Now that you’re cognizant, having come down from your peak, Joel consumes your every thought; he’s taken over your senses, feeling him everywhere. Nothing exists outside this moment with him. He’s everything. He’s all that matters, and you want him to feel as good as he makes you feel.

Joel gets to a point where kissing while you sit on his dick isn’t enough—his feet are planted on the floor, his back pressed into the cushion behind him, giving him the leverage he needs to start moving, slowly thrusting up into you. He keeps himself fully sheathed, his grip on your backside helping you grind down on him. You’ve got your arms around his neck, your fingers in his hair, rolling your hips in sync with his movements.

The kiss turns sloppy as the rhythm builds, feeling the tension coiling through his muscles—he’s close. His lips break away from yours, panting as his mouth trails down your throat, lavishing open-mouthed kisses lower over your collarbone. You bite your lip. “You gonna come for me, baby?” you ask through heavy breaths.

He roughly groans into your skin, and you take that as a yes, smiling. His head dips, closing his lips around a pebbled nipple, circling his tongue. Between that and how his strokes have gotten faster, you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair.

“Yes,” you moan. “Come, I want it. Fill me up, make me yours.”

You thought you were spent after coming so hard, but the attention Joel is giving your tits and how amazing his cock feels inside you has pleasure blooming at the base of your spine. He switches from one breast to the other, sucking and teasing your nipples, his teeth grazing over the hard buds, then soothing them with his tongue.

You’re a little surprised how quickly the heat is building in your gut. Now, you’re bouncing in his lap to keep up with his thrusts, each movement growing needier.

“Come inside me.” You sound breathless, a bead of sweat rolling down your forehead. You’re getting lost in how good he makes you feel, and it loosens your lips, words spilling from your mouth. “Give it to me, Joel. Claim me, ruin me. I want it. I want your come, want you to fuck it deep and get me—” Your eyes fly open as you suck in a breath, completely caught off guard by what you were about to say.

Where did that even come from?

Wherever you had it buried in your subconscious, now it’s come to light, and for the first time in your entire life, the thought that someone—Joel—could get you pregnant has you coming undone. Your orgasm is sudden, all of your muscles pulling taut as sweet euphoria spreads through your body. It’s softer this time, a ripple instead of a crashing wave, which you’re thankful for with how worn out you already feel.

When your cunt clamps down on him, Joel groans loudly. It has him finally looking up at you, and it’s clear on his face how fucking gone he is—his eyes glazed over, his cheeks pink, and his jaw slack. He’s so far gone, you don’t think he’ll last even a minute longer. He captures your lips, hungrily kissing you as the rhythm of his hips stutters, his fingers digging hard into your asscheeks.

“You can have it,” he murmurs into your mouth. “‘M gonna give it to you. Fuck my come deep. Give your greedy little pussy what it wants.” And that’s it for him—he didn’t even make it thirty seconds before he’s coming. He pulls your ass down, burying himself all the way to the root as he follows you over the edge. The sound that tears from his throat comes from somewhere deep in his chest. It’s rough and strangled. It’s what losing control sounds like, and it’s so unbelievably hot that your pussy clenches, bearing down on him, keeping him in place. He thickens inside you, his dick jerking with each spurt of his come, feeling the warmth of him filling the deepest depths of you. When you’ve wrung him of every last drop, his body goes lax, and his head falls, face planting between your breasts—it makes you smile, your nails lightly scratching at the nape of his neck, while you rest your cheek on his sweat-damp hair. You don’t move as you both come down from your highs. Your breaths evening, your hearts slowing, closing your eyes as you bask in the afterglow.

Maybe it’s because you only slept a handful of hours the night before, or the emotionally charged day. It could also be the result of getting thoroughly fucked, but you find exhaustion has seeped into your bones, your eyelids feeling weighed down.

You’re about to ask Joel if he wants to head up to his bedroom and take what you know would be an amazing nap, when you’re silenced by a loud snore against your chest. In any other circumstance, you’d giggle. Instead, it reminds you that he’s probably beyond tired from staying up, worrying all night about Ellie. Guilt and shame creep up the back of your throat at the memory of how you treated him that morning, and you hug his head closer, kissing his hair.

Seconds pass, maybe a minute ticks by, with Joel still asleep. You don’t want to wake him, but you also like the idea of getting some shut eye yourself, so very carefully you push his upper body back against the cushion, pausing to see if he wakes—he snores. You let out a relieved breath, grabbing the blanket from the back of the couch and wrapping it around you both as you lean into him, getting comfortable with your face tucked against his neck.

Now that you’re relaxed and cozy, you find yourself wondering why in the world it got you off thinking about getting knocked up, when you did everything you could to prevent it with past partners. That’s it, your partner. Joel isn’t like the men before him. You know for a fact he’s dependable and a damn good father. You know that if you have his child and things don’t work out between you, you wouldn’t have to parent alone; he’d still be there. You trust Joel. Not only that, but he also checks all your boxes. He’s everything you could dream of in a partner and father to your future children. You got off at the thought of getting pregnant, because for the first time, you had nothing to fear—it doesn’t hurt that you’d love to have his kid, too.

And even feeling that trust and security, there’s still a whisper of doubt in the back of your mind, that all of this is too good to be true—you squash it down as best you can, relishing in the comfort and safety of right now.

Between the warmth and the knowledge that you have nothing to worry about, you fall asleep in record time.

Time goes by, minutes, an hour, two, safe in your cocoon, the house quiet.

A side effect of surviving an apocalypse is a sensitivity to sound. At the faintest noise, you can go from sleeping deeply to fully alert in a second flat. The scrape of metal in the front door’s deadbolt cuts through your dreamless sleep. Your eyes widen, sitting up immediately with your heart pounding in your chest.

There’s only one other person who lives here.

“Joel,” you harshly whisper, shaking his shoulder.

His eyes blink open, all bleary-eyed and confused, but when he registers it’s you, his lips quirk up in a lazy smile, his big hands sliding along your sides. “Yeah?” he groggily asks.

“Ellie’s here.”

That wakes him up, his expression turning panicked. “Shit,” he whispers, looking side to side like he’s trying to figure out an escape plan. You don’t think, you move because your first interaction with your boyfriend’s daughter is not going to be scarring the poor girl at finding you both naked. Thankfully, there’s a wall separating the living room from the entryway that buys you some seconds—quickly you unwrap the blanket from around you, ungracefully dismounting Joel, and ignoring his come leaking down your leg, as you scoop up your clothes.

Well, fuck. Where can you hide?

It’s your turn to look around to figure out your escape plan, spotting a closet door on the other side of the room that you quietly rush to, and manage to slip inside just as you hear from the foyer, “Joel?” You catch a glimpse of the man in question as you close the door, impressed that he was able to get his sweatpants on, before lying across the couch with the blanket covering himself from the neck down to make it look like he’d been napping. The closet door clicks shut, the small space going dark, save for the sliver of light coming through the crack near your feet.

Your ears perk at the young girl’s muffled words. “Oh, shit,” she says. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“It’s okay,” Joel replies, through a yawn. You can hear him sit up, the sofa’s leather complaining under his movements. “What are you doin’ home?” he asks, his voice rough from sleep. “I thought you were stayin’ the night at Dina’s.”

Carefully, so as not to make any noise, you set your clothes on the floor and start dressing as you listen, pulling on your panties first.

“Is that why you’re not wearing a shirt?” You want to laugh at how disgusted she sounds.

He sighs. “I got hot while sleepin’, and there was no one here to complain.” He grunts, before asking a handful of seconds later, “Better?” You think he grabbed his shirt off the floor and put it back on.

“Much.”

“Did you forget somethin’?” he asks.

“No—I found out Jesse and Dina have never played Monopoly, and I’m pretty sure I can kick their asses.”

“By goin’ bankrupt twenty turns in ‘cause you buy every property you land on and put houses on the shittiest ones?”

“Hey, if you had landed on one of those blue ones, I would’ve owned your ass.”

“But I didn’t, and you wasted your money and the money I loaned you.”

“Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway because I’ve got a better strategy that will make me unbeatable,” she says, sounding very confident in herself.

“Right,” Joel replies flatly, clearly unconvinced. “And what’s this unbeatable strategy?”

She scoffs. “Like I’d tell you. You’ll find out next time we play.”

At this point, you’ve gotten your jeans on and are now working on getting your sports bra over your head and down to cover your chest.

“If you say so,” he says. “Let me grab you the game. Do you need anthin’ else from the closet?” He emphasizes the last word, your stomach dropping—the board game is in here with you. Your heart is pounding in your ears as you’re frozen in your spot listening. Leather creaks loudly—he must be standing up.

“I’m fine, Joel,” Ellie insists. “I don’t need your help. I can get it myself.” You can hear the light thump of her shoes on the hardwood floor getting closer. “I wanna see what else we have anyway—definitely gonna grab that Twister game you refuse to play.”

The doorknob jiggles and starts to open. “NO,” Joel says a little louder than necessary, his body thudding against the door, slamming it shut.

“What the fuck is going on?” Ellie asks, the words laced with annoyance. “Why won’t you let me in the closet?”

Joel lets out a defeated sigh and mumbles something you can’t make out.

“What?” Ellie replies. “What did you say?”

He says it softly, but you hear him this time. “There’s someone in there…”

“What do you mean there’s someone in there?”

“Jesus Christ,” Joel mutters. “This isn’t how I wanted you to meet.”

“Meet, who? Who the fuck’s in the closet, Joel?”

This seems like a good time to finish dressing. You lean down to snag your shirt off the ground, but when you do, you find nothing there.

Where’s your shirt?

Did you drop it when you rushed to the closet?

You crouch, feeling all around on the floor, touching shoes, a box, a metal baseball bat, but nothing that resembles your shirt—fuck.

“The woman I’m datin’...”

Even though you’re now panicking at being shirtless, that admission makes you smile.

“The woman you’re dating…?” she asks, drawing the words out like she doesn’t quite comprehend. “There’s someone who likes you, like romantically…? You…?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just you’re an old, grumpy asshole and your face looks like that.”

“What’s wrong with my face?”

“I mean, have you looked in a mirror?”

This time when Joel sighs, it's that of a father at his wits’ end with his child’s bullshit—you can admit they’re adorable.

“Yes, I have looked in a mirror, and yes, there is someone who likes me romantically. If you will be polite and stop embarrassin’ me, I will introduce you to her.”

“Chill, Joel. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

He mumbles something that sounds an awful lot like, “I doubt that.” The pressure of his body lifts from the door, and you’re next met with two soft knocks. “You can come out—that is, if you’re ready,” he quickly adds. “If you need us to give you a minute, that’s fine, too.”

There’s no point in dragging this out. You’re going to have to bite the bullet. You stand back up. “Um, Joel?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you, uh, please, grab me my shirt? It’s somewhere out there…”

“Oh. Yes. Gimme a second.”

He pads away.

“Wait,” you hear Ellie say. “Why isn’t your girlfriend wearing a shirt?”

“She got hot while sleepin’.” He returns and softly knocks again. “I’ve got it, sweetheart.” You crack the door open and close it after he hands you the t-shirt, which you immediately put on.

“Sweetheart?” Ellie questions. “Did you just call her sweetheart?”

Joel sighs. “Yes.”

“Ew.”

Now that you’re dressed, you quickly comb your fingers through your hair to try and make yourself look a bit more presentable—thankfully, the tears and spit have dried on your face, so it isn’t too obvious to Ellie that you fucked her dad earlier. At least, you hope it isn’t.

Taking a deep breath, you open the door a little. Joel’s standing there, blocking your view of the rest of the room with an apologetic look on his face. You give him a reassuring smile and open the door wider. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “You would’ve introduced us eventually, and this is totally fine.”

“I appreciate you bein’ so understandin’, but I’m still sorry.”

“You really don’t need to be.” Pointing at your face, you mouth ‘Do I look okay?’

Joel smirks—he fucking smirks. His hand comes up and ever so gently brushes some stray hairs off your cheek, tucking them behind your ear as he nods, saying for only you to hear, “You look beautiful.”

Your mouth opens to respond when another voice chimes in, “Holy shit, she’s pretty—” You see Ellie peeking around Joel with wide eyes. “—and young. Was not expecting someone that young.”

“Uh, thank you?” you reply.

“Ellie,” Joel warns, his attention going to her. His hand fell from your face.

She steps to the side of him, unaffected by his pointed stare. “What?” she asks, meeting his eyes. “I didn’t say anything rude. They were compliments!”

“I’m not offended,” you add.

She smiles. “See, I didn’t offend her.” Joel takes a deep breath, and the young girl looks at you again. “I figured someone interested in this old fucker—” She juts her thumb his way. “—would be closer to his age, but you definitely are not. Are you sure you like this dude? You know, someone who looks like you can do a lot better than him—no offense, Joel.” She pats his arm.

He presses his fingers to his brow, grumbling, “You’re not wrong.”

Ellie has no filter, and you find it delightful. Her father, on the other hand, looks as though he wishes the ground would swallow him whole—poor guy.

You smile and introduce yourself to Ellie. “—It’s nice to finally meet you, and yes, I am sure that I like him. It might not make much sense to you, but I like him quite a lot.”

“Yeah, I don’t get it, but whatever.” She shrugs. “If Joel’s happy, I’m happy.”

Joel’s eyes go to her again, but this time they’ve softened. His fond expression shows how much he loves her, even if she’s a pain in his ass. And Ellie loves him, too. You can tell by how her ribbing is laced with affection and void of any malice. She just gets immense joy from eliciting a reaction from him.

“So,” Ellie continues. “How long has this been a thing?” She points back and forth between you and her dad.

Joel glances your way, and you give him a look that says, ‘You’re taking this one.’

“Uh, it’s pretty recent,” Joel replies, scratching the back of his neck.

“Cool.” She focuses on him. “Is it serious?”

“Yes.”

You love hearing that.

“Is she moving in?”

“Not right this second.”

“You’d tell me if she was moving in, though, right?”

His eyebrows furrow. “What? Yes. Of course I’d tell you. That isn’t somethin’ that’d happen without talkin’ to you first.”

“Okay.” She nods. She turns to you, pointing past your head. “Can I get in there to grab my games? I gotta get going. My friends are waiting for me.”

“Oh! Right,” you reply, pushing the door fully open and moving out of her way to stand beside Joel. You watch as the girl rises on her tiptoes to go through the collection of game boxes on the upper shelf—they have just about every board game you can think of. She tucks Monopoly, Twister, and The Game of Life under her arm, but ends up putting The Game of Life back, grabbing Hungry Hungry Hippos and Mouse Trap instead.

You’re not entirely sure what to do. Should you go sit on the couch? Excuse yourself to take a much-needed trip to the bathroom? Head to the kitchen for a cup of water? You end up staying beside Joel, resting your head against his arm. You smile when his pinkie slides along the side of your hand to loop around your smaller one—he wants to hold your hand, but probably isn’t sure if you’re okay with Ellie seeing. You give him what he wants, twining your fingers together.

“I’m impressed by how many games there are,” you whisper. “None of them are missing pieces?”

“If they were, I found replacements—at least, the majority of them I did. Still haven’t been able to find a fucking wishbone for Operation.”

You snort. “People probably wanted the good luck. Plus, the wishbone was always a bitch to remove anyway, so I’m sure it’s not missed.”

“Maybe, but I’d like the game to have all its parts.”

“Then I will keep my eye out for the ever-elusive wishbone.”

He huffs out an amused breath and kisses your hair. “Thank you.”

Ellie takes a couple of minutes to make her final decision. Monopoly and Twister never leave her arm. She keeps Hungry Hungry Hippos, but switches out Mouse Trap for Clue—solid choices. Once she’s finished, she shuts the door, turning in place.

“Well, guys,” Ellie says, addressing you both. “This has been fun—weird, but fun. I’m gonna head out.” She looks at Joel. “I promise I won’t be back home until tomorrow. I’ll meet you for breakfast. Will she be joining us?” She nods your way.

“No,” you answer for him. “I’ll be working. I’ll be helping make the breakfast.”

Her eyes meet yours. “A cook. That’s rad.”

You smile. “Actually, a baker. I made your cake, which I hope you liked. Happy Birthday, by the way.”

That has her face lighting up. “No shit, that was you?! That was the best fucking cake I’ve ever had.”

You giggle. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“She also made the apple pie from the other night,” Joel adds. “And that peach cobbler you wouldn’t shut up about.”

Her eyes widen. “No fucking way, and you’re dating Joel? Does that mean you’ll bake me stuff if I ask?”

“Within reason. I promise if I can get my hands on some peaches, I’ll definitely make you a peach cobbler, though.”

“Fuck yeah!” She turns her attention to Joel. “I have no fucking clue how you got her to date you, but good job. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you, I guess,” he replies.

“Okay, I really have to leave. Bye!” She briskly walks past the two of you. “Oh, and Joel?” You both turn around to see her standing at the doorway.

“Yeah?”

“I’m cool with you having a girlfriend, but the shit that happens in your bedroom stays in your bedroom. I don’t want to hear it, I definitely don’t want to see it, I don’t want to fucking think about it.” She shudders in disgust. “God. I’m never sitting on that couch again.”

“Fuck,” Joel says under his breath. “I’m sorry, Ellie,” he tells her. “I won’t let it happen again.”

“You better not. Glad that’s over. Bye, guys!”

And with that, she left the room, and the house, the front door slamming shut behind her.

“Told you that you liked to play with fire,” you tease.

“She probably knew somethin’ was up the moment she stepped foot in here.”

“Probably. I mean, your boxers are over there on the floor.” You gesture to where they are crumpled under the coffee table. “You were shirtless, I was shirtless, and hiding in the closet, plus your lame ass excuse that we were undressed because we—” You do air quotes. “—’got too hot,’ it’s very obvious what we were getting up to. But look on the bright side.” You turn your head to look at him, meeting his eyes. “At least she didn’t walk in when your dick was down my throat. I don’t know about you, but I count that as a win.”

“You’re right. It could’ve been worse.”

“Much worse. Now, you wanna take a shower with me?” You really want to clean up the mess between your legs.

He smiles and pulls you into his arms. “Yeah, I wanna shower with you,” he says, punctuating the sentence with a toe-curling kiss—it ends, Joel’s lips brushing yours as he quietly asks, “Will you stay the night?”

“I’ll stay as long as you want.”

He nudges the tip of your nose with his own. “Because you’re mine?”

“Because my bed is still broken and my back is killing me from sleeping on the couch last night.” He stills, and you can tell he’s frowning. “And yes,” you continue in exasperation, “because I’m yours, you ridiculous man. I’ll always be yours.”

He pinches your hip, and you giggle. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours.”

“Yes, you are, and you know what?”

“What?”

“I’m yours. I can promise you that, I’ll always be yours.”

“Say it again.”

The story of how you met Joel Miller is a wholesome one—until it isn’t. He’d come to your apartment the previous day to see about having a birthday cake made for his kid—that’s your side hustle, making cakes and other pastries people request in exchange for goods and favors. Joel was willing to get you anything you wanted for your services, and isn’t that just the sweetest thing? A father going out of his way to ensure his new, adopted child gets to experience a real birthday with cake and presents for the first time in their life? See? Wholesome. Then came your price, which was practically a steal given the order and the timeframe he needed it by. He got lucky older, single dads are your kryptonite, and that he’s a sweetheart. All you asked in return were a few easy-to-find items and to have a drink with him. This is when things escalated from an innocent PG-rated flick to an X-rated amateur porno, and you discovered Joel Miller can fuck.

In the span of a few hours of knowing him, he made you come multiple times, rightfully ruined you for anyone else, broke your bed, and was so good you asked him to marry you and offered to have his babies.

You’re his now. You belong to him, and the best part? He’s yours.

Joel came to your apartment for a cake and left with a girlfriend young enough to make some townspeople wonder if he’s having a late midlife crisis, and others jealous of his luck.

It’s just past five a.m. on a Wednesday, the sun still hours from rising. The chill outside has the tip of your nose numb, but you’re warm in Joel’s jacket that he wouldn’t let you leave his house without wearing. You stayed at his place last night, secretly, without Ellie knowing, and were very surprised when he got up to walk you home. Why are you up so early? You’re one of the town’s few resident bakers, and you need to get to the community kitchen to start baking the bread for the day. But before that, you’re making a quick pitstop at your apartment to change your clothes.

How was your secret, impromptu sleepover with Joel? Well, it didn’t go the way you expected…

See, when men invited you to their homes in the past, it was usually for one reason. So, it didn’t surprise you when Joel got you alone in his bedroom, locked the door, and stripped you both of your clothes. Seemed pretty par for the course, and to be honest, you were down to have another go with him between the sheets.

But something unexpected happened: absolutely nothing.

No groping, no grinding, no impatient, wandering hands beneath the covers. Instead, you were treated to a warm arm around your waist, holding you close, with his nose buried in the hair on the back of your head. He didn’t have any intention to fuck you in his bed that night. He just wanted you there with him, like your presence was something comforting, that he needed, and that kind of tenderness had felt far more intimate than sex ever could.

You’d never slept so soundly.

It scares you how much you liked it.

Here you are silently walking down the dark road with Joel, the stars above, and porch lights you pass offering some light to guide your way. You told him you were fine in just your long-sleeved shirt and leggings, but his protective nature wouldn’t let you leave his house without putting his jacket on you first. Was Joel bundled up, too? No, you suspect his hotness—his literal hotness—the man’s body is like a furnace, makes him immune to the cold, so he’s only wearing jeans and a flannel shirt.

He's beside you, walking a bit slower than his normal gait to match yours, and he’s so close that his hand keeps brushing yours. You’re pretty sure he wants to hold it, and confused why he isn’t, unless maybe he’s waiting for you to make the first move. That’d be silly, but you test the waters anyway, trying to hook your pinkie around his—you smile when he grabs it instead.

“You can hold my hand.” You glance his way, inviting him.

He huffs, meeting your eyes and giving your digit a small squeeze. “Was tryin’ to be respectful and not assume.” He finally threads your fingers together, his hand so much bigger and warmer than yours.

His response makes you giggle.“Trying to be respectful? Babe, within a couple of hours of knowing each other, you had me face down, ass up, screaming your name. I think we’re past the point of handholding etiquette. But, it’s fucking adorable, that’s where you didn’t want to overstep.”

He lifts his eyebrow. “What? Because I fuck you silly, I can’t be a gentleman, too? I respect you.” His lips curve into a smirk. “Even if it might not seem like it when I’ve got you pinned to the mattress, makin’ you beg.”

“You’re a menace.”

He gently knocks his shoulder against yours, looking ahead. “Your menace.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m also rusty with all this datin’ stuff, and don’t wanna press my luck.”

“You’re doing great,” you reassure him, hugging his arm. “I love that you’re pro-PDA.”

Joel kisses your hair. “I’m pro-touchin’ you, and if anyone sees, then so be it.”

“Even Ellie?”

“Pigs would be flyin’ if she were up at this hour. She sleeps in until at least seven-thirty. We don’t have to worry about runnin’ into her.”

“You really enjoy playing with fire, don’t you?”

With you staying over while Ellie was home, and now walking with him, it certainly seems that way.

“I wouldn’t say I’m playin’ with fire. I just know my kid.”

“Who, you’re very cute with, by the way.”

When he snuck you into his house, you overheard a sweet conversation between him and Ellie that gave you a glimpse into their relationship. The way he spoke and looked fondly at her made it clear how much he adores and loves her as his own.

“You think so?”

“Yep. I’m not kidding when I say it turns me on that you’re a good dad.”

“And why's that?” You can hear the smile in his voice, and you see it when you turn your head toward him, finding he’s already looking at you.

“Why does it turn me on that you’re a loving and caring father who puts in the effort to have a relationship with your kid and wants nothing more than for them to be happy? Hmmm, why would that turn me, a woman who wants to have her own children one day, on?”

“One of life’s great mysteries.” His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles.

You fail to keep yourself from smiling and playfully swat his arm. “Shut up. You know exactly why I’m into it.”

Joel chuckles, lifting your hand he’s holding to kiss the back of it. “Maybe. But I like hearin’ you say I turn you on. Makes me feel pretty fuckin’ great about myself.”

Your eyes roll. “Glad I could stroke your ego, babe.” You pat his chest.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” He kisses your hand again, then lowers it. There’s a lull in the conversation, the two of you focusing forward, continuing to walk. A minute passes, and Joel breaks the silence. “It really gets you all hot and bothered that I care about my kid…?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s sexy.”

“Huh. Never thought of it as bein’ panty-droppin’ behavior.”

“It definitely is for me.” You wonder something. “You don’t have to answer this question, but back in the time before—” The outbreak. “—were you in a relationship?”

“No. I raised Sarah alone and had a hard time datin’.”

“It’s absolutely none of my business, and again, you don’t have to answer. Why did you have a hard time dating?”

“Well, for one thing, I didn’t really have the time. I was a single dad workin’ my ass off to make ends meet. Then there was Sarah bein’ my top priority, and women—at least back then—weren’t too keen to play second fiddle to her. So, I gave up tryin’ when she was about five.”

“If you're going to date a single dad, you have to know his kid is the most important person to him. At least that's how it should be, and honestly, if Ellie weren't your top priority, I wouldn't have even considered a relationship with you.”

“Gotta add that to your list.”

Your head turns his way to look at him, your eyebrows pulling together. “What list?”

“For what you’re lookin’ for in a man.”

When you first met and told him you were romantically interested in him, he didn’t understand why and even tried to convince you to find someone your own age. It took some explaining that you had a thing for older men, particularly in their fifties—you’ve found they’re the best in bed—and that he checked all of your boxes for what you were looking for: caring, fun to talk to, handsome, strong, not creepy, and he’s fifty-six.

“Oh, being a good dad has always been on the list.”

“I really do check all your boxes, then.”

“Yeah, you do.”

He smiles. “Thank Christ for that.”

The apartment complex where you live has six units—three downstairs, three upstairs. Yours happens to be the first you reached when you led Joel up the stairs. At your front door, you let go of his hand to dig your house key out of his jacket pocket, unlocking the deadbolt.

You sense Joel behind you, finding his tall, broad presence comforting. You turn around to face him, hesitating as you try to figure out what to say. "So…" you start.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “So.”

“Definitely my favorite customer of all time.”

He chuckles. “And you’re definitely my favorite baker. You’ve got a customer for life.”

“Because I fucked you?”

The look he gives you says you know that’s not why. “No.” He shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “Because you’re a great baker. I wasn’t tryin’ to butter you up when I said the apple pie you made was really fuckin’ good.” Yesterday, for dinner in the mess hall, you made apple pie for dessert. “Did you hear Ellie talkin’ about it last night?” You did overhear her saying how much she liked it.

You smile. “Yes. My peach cobbler is her favorite.”

He mirrors your expression. “Should’ve known you made that, too. Ellie fuckin’ loves peaches, and I had to tell her to slow down eatin’ it so she didn’t choke.” He huffs a small laugh, then he’s smirking, his eyes sparkling with mischief. It makes you wonder what’s got him so tickled. “Now, keep your clothes on for this next part,” he says. “We’re out in public.”

You squint in confusion. “What…?”

“You’ll understand in a second. The peach cobbler?”

“Yeah?”

“I gave Ellie my bowl. I always give her my share when we’re together, and there’s somethin’ sweet.”

Your eyes widen. “You always give her your dessert?” you whisper.

Dessert doesn’t happen all the time. It depends on supplies and usually occurs when there’s an excess of something that needs to be used before it spoils, such as fruit.

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Makes me happy to see her happy.”

Your breath catches a little.

Of course he does.

Of course, Joel Miller would hand over his portion of dessert just to see Ellie smile. And why is that so goddamn sexy? It’s not just those broad shoulders or that voice that drives you wild; it’s the way he loves. Quietly. Steadily. Without expecting anything in return.

“God, that’s so hot,” you admit.

His expression is a mix of delight and amusement. “I knew it’d get you.”

“First of all, rude of you to exploit my weaknesses.” He laughs. “Secondly, yeah, it got me. I think you can’t get any dreamier, and then you prove me wrong.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Keep it up, and you won’t be able to get rid of me.”

“I better not stop, then, ‘cause I don’t want you goin’ anywhere.”

His words hang there between you. I don’t want you goin’ anywhere. And you know he means it from the sincerity in his eyes. This is new. You’re used to men wanting your body—a night, maybe a few—but they never want you. Not all of you, at least. But Joel? He wants it all, the good, the bad, and everything in between. He wants you, and truth be told, it frightens you. Why? Because you know you’re going to fall in love with him, and that, being so completely at the mercy of a man, is fucking terrifying.

But the scariest part?

You’re willing to risk it.

You know this thing between you and Joel isn’t a fling or some temporary distraction; he was upfront that he didn’t do casual. This is something serious that’ll eventually lead to marriage and children.

It’s what drew you to him.

With Joel, you have a chance at stability, at having the comfort and security you’ve missed after losing your family. He’s your shot at finding that kind of love you’ve longed for since your world got turned upside down. But even with all of that hope, you still have doubts. You’ve been burned in the past, let down, and abandoned, and those fears linger at the edges of your mind. Still, you trust him. You believe what he says, and when he tells you he doesn’t want you going anywhere, it makes you go so soft you practically melt into goo.

There’s no thought, you act on impulse, gripping the open collar of his shirt, pulling him toward you to crush your smiling mouth against his. He grunts in surprise, but in an instant, he has his hands on your waist, stepping forward, his body crowding yours, backing you up until your spine hits the cool surface with a soft thud. This kiss isn’t as frantic as the first from the previous day. It’s soft, lingering, full of all the hope you have, and the things you can’t find the words to say. He kisses you back with a kind of patience that feels like a promise, as if he’s got all the time in the world if it means he’s with you.

"I can't get enough of you," he whispers. Then he's kissing you like he means it—slowly, consuming you, his tongue slipping into your mouth, swallowing the moan you can't hold back.

Joel presses closer, his chest solid against your front, sliding his thigh between your legs. You're so worked up that your body moves without permission, rocking your hips, chasing the friction of the rough denim that ignites heat at the base of your spine.

He groans when you grind down, the sound vibrating into your mouth. He’s got one hand firm on your hip, the other cupping your face, the kiss turning dizzying with how his tongue intertwines with yours. Feeling his heat, smelling his scent, tasting his lips, having him surrounding you makes it impossible to think of anything else except him, and you need more. At this point, your panties are soaked, and you’re worried there’s going to be a wet spot on his jean-covered thigh.

When the kissing ends, you’re both panting. “Come inside,” you tell him.

His thumb strokes your cheek, and you can see it on his face that he wants to. “You gotta get to work.”

“I will—after my boyfriend fucks me.”

His brow lifts. “Boyfriend?”

“Yeah. You got a problem with that, big guy?”

“I’m too damn old to be called that.”

“Then pick a title. Are you coming in or not?” You reach behind you to turn the doorknob and push the door open.

He doesn’t give you a verbal response. Instead, his lips are suddenly on yours again, walking you backwards into your apartment, making you smile into the kiss. He kicks your front door closed, both of you ignoring that your key is still in the deadbolt—Jackson’s a relatively safe place. His hands drag his jacket you’re wearing down your arms until it falls to the floor, followed closely by your long-sleeved shirt and sports bra, while you toe off your shoes.

The kiss turns messy, his mouth slanting over yours with a quiet hunger. He gets you to the couch, his lips leaving yours as he coaxes you to lie down, the soft, familiar cushions giving under you. Joel’s kneeling between your legs, and within seconds, he has your leggings and underwear discarded unceremoniously onto the ground.

“Just look at you.” His big hands push open your thighs before he rolls up his shirt sleeves. The only light comes from above the stove in the kitchen, but you can make out his pupils, blown pitch-black, staring at your glistening pussy, the front of his jeans bulging. He licks his lips like he wants to taste you, his free hand squeezing his hard cock. “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

God, you want him inside you. You’re a little sore from last night, but you don’t care. You have no self-control when it comes to him, and you’ll happily feel the ache all day, to keep him fresh on your mind.

He seems to understand that time is of the essence, and this needs to be quick—he’s unbuckling his belt and getting his pants undone. His gaze rises to yours with a frown, shoving down his boxer briefs to release his dick—he’s thick with a nice length, precum leaking from the flushed tip. “I’m eatin’ you out tonight,” he states. “For as long as I want.”

His declaration sends a shock of excitement to your center. You smile. “Are you?”

He nods, giving his length a few strokes. “Yes. Then I’m takin’ my time fuckin’ you ‘til there ain’t a chance in hell you forget a single inch of me.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Good. Now be a good boy and fuck me like you mean it.”

His eyes narrow, his voice dropping dangerously low. “Good boy? We’ve talked about that smart mouth of yours.” There wasn’t much talking—he fucked you within an inch of your life, though. “You wanna try that again?” he asks.

Earlier, you questioned if he enjoys playing with fire, and you’re starting to think it’s you who does.

“Ummm, now be a good boy and fuck me like you mean it, please?” You blink up at him innocently.

His jaw ticks. “You’re lucky you have work.” He shuffles back enough to bend forward, his palms on your open thighs.

“Why?”

He spits, a hot, wet wad of saliva landing on your clit, and your brain short-circuits. Why is that so fucking hot? Is it that he’s marking you, claiming you as his? Saying, ‘This is mine and only mine.’ His head lifts, and you meet his dark gaze, feeling as he drags two fingers through the mess he made to spread it over your entrance. “‘Cause, I would’ve edged you ‘til you cried for that shit.” You don’t have a chance to respond—he pushes his thick digits into you, his other hand pressing down on your belly, right above your mound. The stretch burns for half a second before melting into pure pleasure when Joel curls his fingers just right, zeroing in on that one magical spot that makes your vision blur.

“Joel,” you gasp, your hips twitching, eyes closing, “oh, fuck—”

“Yeah?” He has the audacity to sound smug. “I know how to touch you, don’t I?” Each push and pull of his digits is rough and deliberate, hitting your g-spot so perfectly you’re unable to stop squirming. “Answer me,” he orders.

“Yes.”

Your thighs threaten to close around his hand as an orgasm forms in your core, the tension rising with each passing second.

He’s using his fingers for good and evil—the good, preparing you to take him. The evil, how he’s not going to let you come yet. He’ll draw it out, torturing you with every press of his digits, but you’re not finishing like this. No, you’re at his mercy; he’s entirely in control of how close you’ll get and when you’ll fall.

“Who owns this pussy?”

Your body is screaming for release, the coil twisting tighter. You both love and hate that he knows exactly how to work you up. It’s hard to think, let alone answer. You don’t want him to stop, so you force out, “You.”

The obscene wet squelch of his fingers working in and out of you fills the room, your body wound tight, legs trembling. Maybe you were wrong, and he will let you come—it’s highly unlikely, but a girl can dream. You’re almost there, you just need a little bit more.

“Yeah, I do, and don’t fuckin’ forget it.”

You’re right on the cusp of falling apart, and that’s when he stops. You knew it was coming, yet when he removes his hands, your eyes fly open, groaning in frustration. “You’re so mean.”

He rolls his eyes, wiping your juices onto his cock, then spitting in his hand to slick it up even more. “I’m not mean.” Joel inches forward, one palm on your thigh, holding you open as he drags the fat tip of himself through your wetness. “I’m teachin’ you manners.” He teases your opening. “Now, we don’t have much time, so this is gonna be quick and dirty. Got it?”

“Yes.”

He smiles. “That’s my girl.” Without another word, he’s thrusting into you with one hard stroke, bottoming out with a rumbling groan—you cry out, clawing at the couch cushions for something to hold onto, the sudden fullness knocking the air from your chest. He’s so big it feels like you’re being split in two, savoring the burn.

For a moment, he stays buried deep, his hand spreading over where he’s inside you, low in your belly. “You feel that?” he asks in a deep husk. “That’s all me.”

When Joel said this was going to be quick and dirty, he didn’t mince words. As soon as he starts moving, he’s fucking into you hard and fast, the brutal pace stuttering your breath.

“Oh, god,” you moan. He has your tits jiggling, something you know he’s loving.

“He’s got nothin’ to do with this,” Joel grits out. He licks the pad of his thumb, pressing it to your swollen clit, the added pressure making your back bow, gasping his name. “Yeah, I know, baby. That’s it.” He doesn’t let up, thrusting hard while he circles your bundle of nerves with practiced, filthy precision that’s driving you crazy.

“Joel, oh fuck. Joel—”

“I’ve got you.” His free hand palms your breast, brushing his calloused thumb over your stiff nipple, before pinching it. You mewl, writhing under him. “This what you wanted? This how you wanted me to fuck you?”

​ Yes, you think, but can’t say out loud. The fast, punishing rhythm combined with the attention to your tits and clit has you dizzy with pleasure. He’s hitting you everywhere, inside and out, and it borders on too much, your body trembling uncontrollably. It’s a little embarrassing how quickly he builds you right back up to the edge.

“You gonna come for me?” he asks. His hand comes off your breast to brace himself when he leans over you, his mouth trailing hot kisses down your neck. “Are you? You gonna give it to me?”

His thumb continues rubbing tight, fast circles in sync with the steady strokes of his cock.

“Yes, don’t stop—oh god—please, don’t stop.” Your arms go around his back, your nails digging into the flannel over his shoulders.

“We’re not done ‘til you soak me, baby. Come for me, let me have it.” He sucks hard on your pulse point.

It all boils over—the rough pad of his thumb, the heat of his mouth on your neck, his dick railing into you—the tension snaps, and you’re coming, crying out as pleasure wracks through you, your inner walls clenching around him like a vice.

“There we go,” Joel groans, his pace faltering. “My good girl—my good fuckin’ girl.” He doesn’t let you come down; his hips keep moving, drawing out every tremor, every helpless gasp until you’re boneless and shaking under him, completely wrung out.

“That’s it, baby,” he rasps. “You did so good for me.”

His praise is a balm and a brand, soothing and burning all at once.

He leaves you no chance to recover; he’s chasing his own high now. His arms are on either side of your head, his thrusts turning rough, almost frantic, the wet, slick sound of him working into you mixing with his harsh breathing. He wants it, and you can feel it in every hard, punishing stroke.

Something you’ve learned about Joel is that he likes to kiss when he comes—he likes to kiss in general, but especially when he’s coming. So, you’re expecting it when his mouth crashes onto yours, kissing you deep and messily. His hips snap faster, his breath turning hot and ragged against your lips.

“Gonna come,” he mutters into your mouth. “Gonna fuck you full of me, baby. Fill you up. You want that? You want my come?”

You moan ‘yes’ into the kiss, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him as deep as he’ll go, and that’s it for him. Joel slams into you to the hilt and stays there, a raw, guttural moan tearing from his chest as his cock throbs hard inside you. You feel it—every hot, thick pulse flooding you, spilling into your inner depths. He grinds, rolling his hips to fuck it deeper, kissing you like he's starving for you and can't get enough. Once he's milked himself of every last drop, he collapses, shoving his face into the crook of your neck with a happy sigh.

Another thing about Joel is that he gets very cuddly after sex and loves it if you play with his hair. Your fingers go into the sweat-damp waves on his head, lovingly scratching his scalp. He hums in the back of his throat, nuzzling your skin.

“Tha’s nice,” he slurs.

You smile. “Please don’t pass out. I really do need to get to work.”

He sighs. “Gimme a minute.”

“Okay.” You’ll give him five and work a little later—you live in the apocalypse, no one will care if you’re forty-five minutes late to your shift.

God, this is nice—it’d be better if he were naked, still, his flannel shirt isn’t uncomfortable against your skin.

His weight on you is grounding, like nothing bad can reach you here. But that’s how it always is with Joel. He makes you feel safe and wanted. Maybe a better word is cherished—he makes you feel safe and cherished. Your body is warm, your limbs heavy, and your mind swimming in a soft haze. Is it ridiculous to think that you could stay like this forever? Tangled up with him, breathing him in, your hearts beating in sync. Is that too much to wish for?

Probably.

You’re not naive. You know he’s not as perfect as he seems. You just haven’t known him long enough to figure out his flaws. Hell, odds are, all of this is too good to be true, and he’ll have his fun with you before he decides to settle down with a woman of a more appropriate age. He wouldn’t be the first man to do that to you. Even with that in the back of your mind, you’re falling harder for him than anyone else, and you’re hoping he doesn’t break your heart. But if he does, and worst comes to worst, you’ve got Gail, the town’s therapist, who’ll help you get over him. Wouldn’t be the first time, and she’d be pretty excited to start getting those shortbread cookies she loves again.

Joel shifts slightly on top of you, kissing the side of your neck. He drags his lips across your sweaty skin. “You okay, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his voice rough.

“I’m wonderful.” You slide your fingers through his surprisingly soft hair.

“Good.” He kisses your collarbone, then the hollow of your throat. “Was it everythin’ you wanted?”

The question makes you snort. “Are you asking me to review your performance?”

His head pops up to give you a look. “Are you tellin’ me you didn’t enjoy it?”

Your eyes roll. “It was mindblowing. It’s always mindblowing. Five out of five stars.”

He nods once. “That’s what I thought.”

“Wow, I’m deducting half a point for your smugness. Four and a half stars now.”

He frowns, his expression turning grumpy. He mutters under his breath as he starts to move off of you, “Four and a half stars my ass… “ Your giggle evolves into a whimper at the sudden emptiness of him pulling out. Of course, Joel notices, his lips lifting into a smirk. “Miss me already?” he asks.

“Why do I like you?”

“I check all your boxes, and sweetheart, you don’t just like me, you wanna marry me.”

The day before, after he rocked your world the first time, you proposed marriage when you discovered you both shared the same desires for the future, one of them being children—it’s rare for a man his age to actually want a baby, and with people moving fast these days due to the uncertainty, it wasn’t too crazy a proposal. It’s not uncommon to marry someone you barely know, but Joel is from a different time, and politely declined, simply because he wants to date you properly, which is very sweet. He also said that if you’re still together in six months, he will marry you, so you’ve got something to—hopefully—look forward to.

You sit up on your elbows. “I’m second-guessing that right now.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, you agreed to marry me… in six months.”

“Or if I knock you up first.” He says it so nonchalantly that it leaves you speechless. His dark gaze is on yours as his hand goes between your thighs, two thick fingers catching his come as it drips out of you, and when he slowly pushes it back inside, you just about lose your fucking mind, unsure whether to shiver or melt. “So, keep that in there for me. Every drop.” Why is that so hot? “Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

He smiles. “That’s my girl. I also like knowin’ you’ll have some of me with you today while we’re apart.” Why is that romantic? How can come be romantic? What is he doing to you? Joel removes his two soaked fingers from you, glistening with both of you, and holds them up to your mouth. “Open.” That brings you back to yourself, things feeling normal again. You don’t hesitate, parting your lips for him to push them in. You grab his wrist with one hand, holding it still, keeping eye contact as you swirl your tongue, sucking his digits clean.

“You like how we taste?” he asks. You hum an affirmative.

This is where you show him that two can play this dirty little game.

You press forward, taking his fingers all the way to the back of your throat, your lips touching his knuckles, moaning for the hell of it. His eyes round, a sharp breath escaping him, which delights you.

"Jesus Christ," he whispers. "You keep showin' off like that, and you're not leavin’."

You pull off of him. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.” You grab a fistful of his shirt, tugging him down for a quick kiss, and push him back. “I need to take a quick shower, get dressed, and go to work.” You get off the couch and stand up. His come leaks down your inner thigh—yeah, a shower is a must. “Feel free to hang or let yourself out,” you tell him. Turning around, you start heading to your bedroom at the end of the hall. “Thanks for the quickie! Can’t wait to see you tonight!”

You’ve barely made it three steps when out of nowhere, a big hand latches around your arm, stopping you. You yelp in surprise, spinning round to find Joel standing there, with flushed cheeks and his jeans hastily pulled up, looking like you just insulted him or something.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

"That's not how you say goodbye to your boyfriend," he firmly answers.

You blink, caught off guard. “I thought you were too old to be my boyfriend?”

“I am, but that’s beside the point.”

“Is it, though? ‘Cause you seem pretty upset I didn’t give you whatever the fuck a boyfriend goodbye is. The kiss wasn’t enough?”

“That wasn’t a goodbye kiss. That was a fuckin’ drive-by. You don’t give a man a quick peck and walk off like that.”

“Okay? Then explain to me what the proper way is to say goodbye to my title-pending not-boyfriend.”

“Like this—” His hands frame your face, his rough palms warm against your cheeks, and then his mouth is on yours. Oh, this is one of those kisses. The kind that steals every coherent thought, that you’ll replay in your head later while impatiently counting down until you can have another. The kind that makes your knees go weak and leaves you dazed, smiling like an idiot all day—a solid five out of five stars, maybe the best you’ve ever had.

When you finally break away, you’re breathless. “Better?” you whisper.

His eyes are heavy-lidded, his gaze hungry. He, honest to god, pouts. “Yeah, but now I don’t wanna go. I’m gonna miss you too much.”

His response makes you smile, and you throw your arms around his neck. “You’re adorable. You’ll see me tonight. What time are you coming over?”

“I don’t know. Depends on how long it’s gonna take me for Ellie’s present.” He’s putting together a guitar for her birthday tomorrow. “Then, if she wants to have dinner with me or watch a movie, it’ll be after all that. I’m hopin’ seven or eight. Earlier, if I can make it happen.”

“God, it’s such a turn-on when you talk about being a good dad.”

He chuckles and kisses you. “Is that okay?” he asks when he leans back.

“Is what okay?”

“That I won’t be able to come over until later tonight?”

“Oh, yeah. Ellie comes first. Always. I can make her cake this afternoon when I get off work.”

“Then it’s a date.”

“It’s a date.”

“Now, kiss me goodbye correctly.”

Work was uneventful, or so you thought. You were distracted, replaying the last twenty-four hours on repeat in your head like one of those old sports highlight reels your dad used to watch on cable (before the world ended and he, you know, died). It was hard not to think about Joel and all the things he did to you, especially with how you could still feel him, the soreness between your legs, and the come he left behind.

You finished in the community kitchen around one in the afternoon, picking up eggs and a glass bottle of fresh milk on your way home. Once you got back to your apartment, you tidied up, then got to work on Ellie’s birthday cake, which Joel requested to be chocolate. Where does a person get chocolate in a post-apocalyptic North America where cocoa beans don’t grow? Traders. It’s the same way you get coffee beans. Traders brave the wilds to bring the highly sought-after goods up from Central and South America—there’s a reason they’re so expensive.

There are a couple of traders who come through town every once in a while, you’ve hooked up with. They were sweet and gave you discounts on your stash of cocoa powder and coffee beans—not that you slept with them for the deals. It was just an added perk you’d be stupid to turn down.

Now, it’s later in the evening, sometime after seven. Ellie’s cake was made hours ago, carefully frosted and covered, waiting in your fridge. That’s something you’ve been doing, too—waiting. Waiting for Joel. Waiting for that knock on your door. Waiting for him.

An hour passes. The movie you put on has ended, and the credits are over. You stare at the black screen into the void for a moment, then sigh, getting up to start another, something to fill the silence. To keep yourself from looking at your front door every five minutes, you grab your pile of holey socks and start darning them.

9 p.m.

You’ve moved on from socks to patching up other clothes just to keep your hands busy. Your thoughts keep circling back to Joel, to Ellie, how he lights up when he talks about her. That’s a good thing, you remind yourself. You love that. You love that she’s his world. She should be. But there’s a thought that’s crept into your brain that won’t go away: Is that why he’s with you? She has friends now and prefers to hang out with them rather than with Joel, and he’s lonely? Are you filling the space she’s leaving behind? That’s fine if you are. You don’t mind it. Hell, you’re lonely, too. You can be two lonely people finding happiness in each other. It makes you wonder, though, if he would’ve even looked at you twice if he weren’t lonely.

10 p.m.

You’ve run out of clothes to patch up and are now on your knees, scrubbing the hell out of the inside of your oven. Joel still hasn’t shown up, and that is totally okay. Truly. The man is busy, and you’re well aware of how devoted he is to his kid, a quality you love so much. These are things you keep telling yourself, over and over again, needing to believe them. You’ve put on a record because you were driving yourself insane thinking every tiny noise you heard was him, because when it ended up not being him, it just made you feel a little bit sadder. A little bit more foolish.

11 p.m.

The doubt starts to sink its claws into you. So, what do you do? You reorganize your kitchen cabinets to try to drown it out. Does it work? No. The thoughts are louder than the clinking of dishes and Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” playing on your record player. What bothers you most is that if Joel wanted to be here, he’d be here, and if he couldn’t make it, he would’ve had the decency to stop by and let you know—there are no phones, and that’s just what you do. That’s the kind of man he is… isn’t he? Do you have it all wrong? There's a voice in the back of your head, feeding your doubt, reminding you that you hardly know Joel at all.

12 a.m.

Midnight comes. You don’t know what else to do, so you put on another movie. It was a random VHS you plucked from the shelf, not bothering to look at the title. Even with your heater on, your apartment is cold. You wrap a blanket around your shoulders to try to stave off the chill, but it's useless. They say never to trust how you feel after 9 p.m., and yet here you are, feeling pathetic that you're still holding out hope he'll knock on your door. You keep glancing at it, trying to will him there. He would’ve come by now for your date, or to tell you he needed to cancel, and even with knowing that, you still hope.

1 a.m.

He didn’t come over.

With the way the world is, your first instinct is to think something happened to him. People don’t show, and it sometimes means they’re hurt, or worse, dead. But Joel? He’s fine. You know where he was. He had the day off and was at home working on Ellie’s gift. Nothing happened to him, which leaves the only other reason for his absence:

He didn’t want to be here.

Knowing that he didn't want to be here—that he didn't want you—is a knife to the heart.

Then you start spiraling, wondering if you misread things or if it all meant more to you than it did to him. Did all of the time you spent together, the promises, and hopes for the future mean nothing?

You don’t know, but tonight shows you he never cared about you, because if he actually gave a damn, he would’ve come. He would’ve done something, anything, to ensure you knew he was okay and that he wasn’t blowing you off.

And he didn’t.

That silence? It tells you how he really feels.

It pisses you off that he led you on like that, then didn’t have the decency to cancel or break up with you. Instead, he left you wondering where he was for hours, like a dog whose person isn’t coming home.

"Fuck him," you say it out loud, like speaking it into existence will ease the tightness in your chest. It doesn’t.

You had a feeling this was all too good to be true, and you should’ve listened to your gut. You shouldn’t have let yourself get so attached. It annoys you that you’re so upset. You hate that you want to cry. Your anger won’t let you—he doesn’t deserve your tears.

And to think you let him come inside you, risking pregnancy, something you’ve done your best to avoid, all because you trusted him and thought you had a future with him. Why? Why did you trust him so easily? He was different, at least different from anyone else in your past. He made you think he wanted something real by being upfront about not having any interest in anything casual. You fell for the sincerity in his eyes. Was it all a game to him? What was the point of all of this?

What you know for sure is that you are never trusting a man again.

And your bed. Your broken bed that sits in your room, reminding you of your stupidity for thinking someone like Joel would want anything more from you than sex. He’s like all the other men who don’t see you as partner material—you’re just the good time they have before they settle down with someone different.

God, it’s embarrassing how late you stayed up hoping he’d show. Well, fuck him.

You don’t have the energy to do anything about your bed, so you curl up on the couch under a blanket, and as you drift off to sleep, one question won’t leave your mind:

Why am I unlovable?

It’s half past five the next morning. With how heated you feel, you barely register the cold, or maybe it’s the jeans and sweater you’re wearing doing their job to keep away the chill. You’re almost to Joel’s house, carefully carrying Ellie’s small cake, protected in a plastic container—you never even considered not delivering it. The whole walk over here, you’ve been thinking about what you’ll say to him, each step amplifying the anger in your chest.

You’re not sad, you’re mad. You’re pissed off that you let your guard down and allowed a man into your heart, only for him to break it. You don’t want to hear his excuses. You don’t want to hear his apologies. You want this to be over and to never talk to him again.

Stepping up onto his porch, your heart pounds. You knock on the front door.

He must’ve already been downstairs; the door opens almost immediately, and there he is, Joel Miller. He’s got dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep—good. When you stayed with him the other night, he told you he struggles with sleeping, and that having you in bed with him was the best rest he’d gotten in a long time. It cheers you up a little to see that he looks like shit.

When he sees you, his shoulders relax, a breath leaving him like he’s been holding it in all night.

“Thank Christ you’re here.” He sounds relieved. You assume he was freaking out that you weren’t going to bring over the cake.

“Of course, I’m here. I’m not going to ruin an innocent child’s birthday because their father is an asshole. Here.” You carefully shove the container into his chest. “I hope Ellie has a great birthday, and us?” You point between you. “We’re done. Don’t talk to me again. Don’t come near my apartment. Don’t even fucking look at me.”

His brow furrows. “Now, hold on—”

“No,” you cut him off. “I don’t want to hear it. Your silence last night said enough.”

“Baby—”

“I’m not your baby. I’m nothing to you.”

His jaw clenches. “Let me talk,” he growls.

“No!” you snap. “I don’t wanna hear your bullshit excuses.”

His voice rises. “Let me fuckin’ explain!”

You don’t flinch at his outburst. “No!” you say just as loudly. “I’m done. Goodbye, Joel.” You turn around, your boots thudding as you walk down the porch step.

“You’re makin’ a mistake!”

The door slams behind you. Or maybe it doesn’t. Either way, you don’t look back.

What do you do?

There’s no way in hell you’re going home to cry over a man who couldn’t be bothered to show up. You’re better than that. Stronger. Smarter. Done. It doesn’t matter if he made you feel seen and cherished, or if you could imagine a future with him. Nope. No tears for that asshole.

So, you go to work.

You bake bread.

You bake too much bread.

More than is needed for the day, and probably tomorrow, too. Just means you don’t have to be in as early in the morning. With everything that happened over the last couple of days, you can use the extra sleep.

While helping prep lunch, you overhear two workers whispering about the dishwashing kid from yesterday burning themselves badly on a pot of boiling water after you left–skin sloughed off their arm. Had to be rushed to the clinic. You didn’t catch their name or whether they were male or female. You try to remember who had dish duty, and you can’t, because they rotate out the teens in town for the job daily, so it’s always a different kid each day.

After work, you go home for a little while. You don’t sit still; instead, you keep yourself busy, then shower, changing into jeans and a t-shirt before leaving.

The house you go to, you’ve been to more times than you can count. You knock on the front door. “One second!” comes the familiar voice.

The door cracks open. Then it opens wider.

“What happened?” Gail asks in a knowing tone.

“You got time?”

“You got the stuff?”

You hold up the cookie tin. “Two dozen ‘cause I’m fucked up.”

She takes the container, opens it, and nods in approval. “A man?” She moves out of the way for you to come inside.

“Isn’t it always?” You walk past her, knowing exactly where to go.

“Sometimes we talk about your childhood. Who’s the guy?”

In the living room, you flop back on Gail’s couch, shifting the pillows behind your head and being careful to keep your boots off the old upholstery.

“Have you met Joel Miller?”

“Tommy’s brother?”

Gail takes a seat in her chair across from you, the cookies in her lap. She leans forward to grab her ancient kitchen timer on the coffee table between you, cranking it to your allotted sixty minutes, and sets it down again. Then she sits back, popping the tin’s lid to grab a shortbread cookie, and takes a bite, humming her enjoyment.

“Yeah.”

She swallows. “Briefly. We’ve been introduced. Handsome. Definitely your type.” You hear her crunching.

“We fucked.”

She finishes her cookie and closes the container, putting it on the end table beside her. “I figured. Cookies are amazing as always.”

“Thanks. He wasn’t like the others. Or at least I thought he wasn’t. He talked about serious stuff like marriage and kids. It really felt like we could have a future together. Not only that, I felt so comfortable with him, I didn’t tell him to pull out.”

Usually, with older men, you didn’t have to because they were careful and didn’t want children. With the younger men, you were the cautious one, telling them to pull out.

“That’s interesting,” she muses. “You’re usually careful, or as careful as you can be. Why him?”

“Because he’s a dad. A really good dad. He’s solid, attentive, hot—obviously—but also sweet. Funny, when he wants to be, and the sex. My god, is it truly the best sex I’ve ever had.”

“And you’ve had a lot of sex, so that’s saying something.” There’s zero judgment in her tone.

“Right? I just thought he might be—it’s too fucking cheesy to say out loud.”

“The one?”

“Yeah…”

“Sorry, kiddo, but this circles back to your favorite subject.”

You groan. “Ugh, not the childhood trauma. Why is it always the childhood trauma?”

“It’s a real bitch, isn’t it? Crazy how a single, life-altering event during brain development haunts you into adulthood.”

“I hate it,” you mutter. “But, whatever. Go on.”

“You lost your family in the worst way. It was violent, sudden, and you had no chance to say goodbye. Then came Seth and Rita, who took you in, but we both know you never really felt like you belonged with them. That’s left you chasing that feeling of real, unconditional love, you just have shitty taste in men.”

“Hey!”

“Am I wrong? You go after guys twice your age, who are emotionally constipated, and are only interested in fucking you, when you need someone you can build a life with. This is where Joel comes in. He looked good on paper. Older, handsome, has a kid, and knows how to use his words sometimes. With him, you saw your chance at finding that love you lost.”

“Well, Joel was a bust.”

“Let’s dig into that. What happened?”

Taking a deep breath, you tell her everything that happened over the last seventy-two hours. “—and I went to this house this morning to drop off the cake and refused to hear what he had to say.”

“If you didn’t let him speak, how do you know he stood you up?”

“Because he didn’t come over or stop by to tell me what was going on.”

“What if he wasn’t able to contact you? It’s not like communication is easy these days without phones. Maybe he couldn’t go to your apartment.”

You frown. When you look at her, she’s got her glasses on, busy scribbling something into her black notebook. “What do you mean?” you ask.

Her eyes meet yours. “You got to find out early that people can just be gone with no warning. So, now your default is the worst-case scenario. But here’s the thing: this time, you knew Joel was safe at home. He wasn’t dead or dying in a ditch. What you did instead of worrying he got hurt, is you jumped straight to 'he doesn't care about me' and 'he was just using me.' I hate to break it to you, kid, but I don't think that's what happened here.

“Then why didn’t he show up?” you quietly ask.

“He has a daughter, right? What if something happened to her?”

You gasp, sitting up. “The kid who got burned!”

You’ve never met Ellie, but you know what she looks like. You’ve seen her with Joel around town. Were you really so distracted that you didn’t notice she was the dishwasher?

How did you miss that?

“Is that what happened to her? She was hopped up on some good shit when I saw Tommy walking her home from the clinic yesterday.”

“Dammit, Gail! Why didn’t you lead with that?”

“You needed clarity.” She shrugs. “And to know your brain is an asshole.”

This is when it hits you like a truck: you've jumped to baseless conclusions and ruined the best thing to ever happen to you. You feel sick to your stomach as your heart rate doubles. You get up because you feel you need to leave, but you end up pacing instead.

“Oh my god.” Your vision blurs from watery eyes. “I didn’t let him speak. I told him not to talk to me. He tried to explain, and I shut him down.” Tears begin falling down your cheeks. “I thought—I really fucking thought he didn’t care, and the poor man was probably just taking care of his kid.” You stop in your tracks, remembering how he told you Sarah died in his arms. He must’ve been beside himself with worry over Ellie’s injury. The relief on his face when he saw you at his door this morning wasn’t because of the cake; it was because you were there. How could you be so cruel?

The weight of what you did is closing in, your breaths coming out quick and shallow. Sending you on the verge of hyperventilating, your vision tunneling, the edges going dark as the world caves in all around you.

Gail is suddenly up and in front of you, gripping your arms. "Hey, breathe. Look at me and breathe."

Your wide eyes go to hers, and you try, but your throat is too tight, the panic pressing in everywhere.

“Come on, kid, just breathe. You made a mistake. It happens. Nobody’s perfect. What you did isn’t unforgivable. Let’s focus on your breathing—you got this—in through your nose.” She does it with you. “There you go. Now let it out.” You do. “Again.” She coaches you to breathe, little by little, the heaviness in your chest easing, and your vision clearing, until you’ve calmed down. “There we go. You good?” she asks.

“Yeah.” You nod. “What do I do?” You sound desperate, your bottom lip wobbling. “I don’t want to lose him.”

“You talk to him. You own up to your shit. Tell him you assumed the worst because your brain’s an asshole, and you were heartbroken. If he’s worth a damn, and I have high hopes he is, he’ll forgive you.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then at least you tried and did all you could.”

What you feel like you need to do is head to Joel’s immediately to apologize and explain, but you can’t. It's Ellie's birthday, and you do not want to intrude on her special day.

The air outside is warm, the sun shining with hardly any clouds in the sky. The weather doesn’t reflect what you’re feeling inside, regret rolling through you like a thunderstorm, consuming you. You’re walking home, thinking of what you could possibly say to fix what happened.

Hey, so I may have overreacted over a misunderstanding. I didn’t know that your kid got hurt, and that’s why you missed our date, which is totally my bad. Please forgive me.

Yeah, he definitely won’t accept that.

Every idea you’ve had since leaving Gail’s has sounded pathetic. To be honest, you don’t even know what would right your wrongs and earn Joel’s forgiveness. You’re beyond angry at yourself for not giving him a chance to speak; not only that, but you also feel so fucking guilty. He looked like he hadn’t slept when you saw him, and instead of checking how he was, you treated him like shit.

What’s worse is that you knew Joel wasn’t playing games, and you treated him like he did anyway. But as Gail said, your past still haunts you, and it sabotaged your best chance at happiness.

Fuck.

What are you going to do?

What can you do?

Nothing until tomorrow.

You have the night to figure out a plan that will hopefully earn Joel’s forgiveness. Or maybe you’re being too optimistic, and nothing can be done to repair what you ruined.

You’re starting to spiral again, when loud laughter stops you in your tracks. You look toward the noise, spotting three teenagers heading your way down the road. What has your stomach somersaulting is who's in the middle of the trio—it's Ellie, wearing a short-sleeved shirt that reveals her bandaged forearm. You’re glad to see that her injury isn’t keeping her from having fun.

Your thoughts start to race. If Ellie is hanging out with her friends, then that means Joel should be at home… alone.

Your heart is thudding a mile a minute.

You don’t remember deciding to turn. It’s your body that makes the call before your brain can talk you out of it.

You’re going.

Do you know what you’ll say? No. Do you know if he’ll even listen? Also, no. But you have to try. You have to do something if there’s any chance to make this right.

You’re back on Joel Miller’s porch. Same day. Same door. But where this morning you were fire and fury, now you’re just… scared.

It takes you a moment to gather your thoughts, then finally, you suck in a deep breath and knock, three raps against the door.

Now comes the worst part: the wait. The time when you’re stuck in a limbo of whether or not Joel is going to answer the door. It’s nerve-wracking enough to make you a little queasy and your hands, as the seconds seem to stretch on for an eternity.

Enough seconds pass that make you wonder if he’s not home.

Or, the likelier reason he hasn’t answered yet is that he saw you and doesn’t want to talk to you. That thought is like a punch to the gut.

But then the deadbolt clicks.

The door opens, and there’s Joel, the picture of a man who’s just been awoken from a nap. His hair is messy, and he’s squinting a little at the bright sunlight, wearing a white t-shirt and comfy-looking gray sweatpants.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

“You were right, I made a mistake.”

“No shit. So what is this? You here to make yourself feel better?”

“I’m here to apologize and explain. I thought you stood me up.”

“Yeah.” His tone’s sharp. “I got that part.”

“I was hurt. I lashed out when I shouldn’t have. I’m so fucking sorry, Joel.”

His eyebrows rise. “Sorry, huh?” He scoffs. “Well, sorry don’t cut it. Not with the way you treated me.”

He starts to close the door, but your hand hits it with a thud to stop it. “Joel, please.”

He doesn’t budge. “Don’t. Don’t give me that shit, standing there and acting like you care now.”

“I do!” You say it too quickly, too loudly. “I do care. I was wrong, and I fucked up.”

“Well, I don’t wanna hear your bullshit excuses,” he snaps.

It’s a slap to the face hearing your own words thrown back at you.

The door starts to move again, and you panic.

“You know how your world ended when Sarah died?” you blurt out.

He freezes, his expression darkening. “You don’t get to talk about her.”

"My world ended when I lost my family." You don't want his sympathy. You don’t even want to talk about this, but telling him about your past will give him a better understanding of who you are. "I was twelve,” you continue. “It was me, my parents, and my two little sisters traveling. We were trying to reach a safer QZ. The day before, we had a close call with some infected. My dad took care of them, so we thought we were fine, but…” Your throat tightens. “I like to believe my mom didn’t know she’d been bitten.”

“Anyways, we stayed the night in an abandoned house. The next morning, I was doing a perimeter check with my dad when we heard screaming. We ran in—” You pause to swallow around the lump in your throat. “We ran in,” you try again, “and there was blood on the floor. My sisters were already gone. They didn’t stand a chance, and my mom… she wasn’t my mom anymore. In that moment, my dad didn’t just lose his wife; he lost his will to live. It didn’t matter how much I needed him, there was no way he’d keep going without her, so I lost him, too. He made me leave before he…” You don’t want to say what he did to himself out loud. It’s bad enough that you can remember the sound of the gunshot. With the back of your hand, you wipe away the tears in your eyes. “So… Yeah…”

For half a second, his eyes flicker with something—recognition? Maybe pain? His gaze drops to the space between you, silence falling over you both. You hate the quiet. It's filled with too much unknown—will he give you a chance to explain the reason you acted the way you did that morning? Is he going to shut the door in your face? Is he going to tell you off, then shut the door in your face? Joel isn't a man of many words, and even less so, someone who openly shows their emotions. It makes sense that he doesn't offer you his condolences or welcome you into his home. It is very Joel when he clears his throat and steps back for you to walk in, shutting and locking the door behind you.

“My brain is an asshole,” you say, your eyes on the floor. “Gail says it’s the childhood trauma. It makes me jump to the worst-case scenario.”

“Gail the therapist…?”

“Yes.” You lift your head. “She’s the one who told me Ellie got hurt. Is she okay?”

“She’s fine.”

“That’s good.” You nod. “She looked happy with Dina and Jesse when I saw her after my session.”

He walks past you toward the kitchen and doesn’t look back. “You want a drink?”

“If you don’t mind.”

If he’s getting you a drink, then maybe you should go into the living room. You head that way, stopping beside the leather couch in the middle of the room.

When you stayed over the other night, the house was too dark for you to see much of anything. Now, the late afternoon sunlight leaks through the window’s curtains to softly illuminate the area. You take in your surroundings, the blanket hastily thrown over the back of the sofa, the throw pillow near one of the armrests, indented with the shape of a head—he’d definitely been napping.

You’re an intruder in his space with no idea what you should do, so you stand there awkwardly.

A few moments later, he’s returning, holding a small glass in each hand. He offers you one that you take, raising it to your lips immediately, but pausing when you get a whiff of the liquor. It isn’t the harsh, homebrewed shit most people choke down these days. You take a sip. Yep, this is old-world whiskey. Smooth, warm, and extremely rare. Another perk of being a smuggler, you suppose.

He doesn’t sit right away; he just gestures toward the couch with his chin. “Sit down.”

You’re not sure if he’s ordering you or just being gruffly polite. You sit down anyway.

Joel sinks into the old armchair in the corner. He sits there, silent, pensive, turning his cup slowly in his hand as if to buy time to figure out what to say. “So…” he starts. “What happened to you. What’s that got to do with this mornin’?”

A valid question. Personal tragedies are a dime a dozen these days. Everyone who’s survived this long is bound to have losses. Look at Joel. It’s just a part of life.

When he finally looks at you, the anger in his eyes is replaced with exhaustion.

“‘Cause for the life of me,” he says, “I haven’t been able to make sense of where I went wrong for you to think so little of me.”

“That’s the thing, you didn’t do anything wrong. You were beyond perfect. A gentleman, a good guy, it was me and my fucked-up brain.” You sigh. “With how I lost my family, I kinda just expect everyone to leave, one way or another. So, when you didn’t come over, my first thought wasn’t a sane, ‘maybe something happened.’ It was a dramatic, ‘he’s gone like the rest of them.’ And that fucking destroyed me. It was worse than anything I’ve ever felt.”

He doesn’t say anything; he only hums his acknowledgment as he takes a slow drink of his whiskey.

You press on. “I coped by lashing out. I ended it before you could, thinking it’d hurt less, but it didn’t. It was worse. Nothing can excuse how I treated you, Joel. I fucked up. I majorly fucked up and hate myself for it. If there were any way for me to take it back, I would. All I can do now is beg for another chance. Let me prove it to you. Let me prove that I won’t run again.”

It's hard to tell from his demeanor what he’s thinking.

He rubs a palm over his jaw, the scrape of his stubble loud in the quiet. “Let me get this straight,” he starts. “You thought I was fuckin’ perfect and you still had the gall to treat me like that?” He lets out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes, taking another sip of his drink.

That’s not a good start—you shoot back the two fingers of liquor in your cup, appreciating the burn as it slides down your throat and warms your belly.

His glass rests on his thigh. He gazes into the amber liquid before his eyes meet yours again. “I get it,” he says, “the world is fuckin’ cruel. People leave, they die, they disappear, but aren’t you sick of that shit? Don’t you want to be happy? I was offerin’ to stay, to marry you, to have children with you, and you just threw me away like I was nothin’.”

“Joel—”

“No,” he cuts you off, making you flinch. “It’s my turn to talk, and you’re gonna fuckin’ listen to what I have to say.” Your gaze drops to the empty cup in your lap, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s clear as day that you’ve never been in a real relationship. You’ve had flings and men who strung you along, the bastards. Never anythin’ that lasted, and because of your inexperience, I will give you some grace.” Your eyes return to his, feeling the tiniest inkling of hope. “But even with that, I’m too fuckin’ old to be chasin’ a girl as young as you, who runs so easy. The smart thing for me to do is nip this in the bud and end it now.”

The admission makes your heart sink. He averts his eyes, rubbing at his chin again, thinking.

Dread has you feeling sick as you wait for him to kick you out.

His hair is already messy, but still, he runs his fingers through it and takes a deep breath. His gaze lifts to yours. “However,” he starts, “against my better judgement, I wanna give you another chance.” The hope is back, you perk up in your seat. “I don’t need you to be perfect. What I need is for you to meet me halfway—that’s it—you’ll get everythin’ I’ve got, but you can’t be boltin’ or shuttin’ me out when things get tough. I need to know that if I let you into my life—into Ellie’s life, that you plan to stick around. So, how do I know I can trust you?”

A great question that you don’t have the answer to.

What could you say or do to regain his trust?

“You can speak now,” he says softly, gently nudging you.

“You won’t know until I prove it to you, and I’m asking that you please give me a chance to show you. You were right that I’ve never been in a relationship. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but I’ll figure it out, because I want you, Joel, and everything you’re offering. Losing this, losing you, is worse than anything imaginable, and I swear that even if things get tough, I’m not going anywhere. I won’t run. I won’t shut you out. I’ll talk to you like I should’ve done in the first place. Just please give me the chance to prove that I’m worthy of your love.”

It's palpable how the tension between you loosens. He nods his head once, then lifts his drink to his lips, downing it all in one gulp, the empty glass getting set onto the table next to him. "You've always been worthy of love." He pushes himself up from the chair with a pained grunt.

You’re not sure how to respond. He stands there, his eyes slightly squinting, studying you, searching your face for any signs of deception. You assume he’s found none when he steps your way, gently prying your cup from your hands, that he puts down onto the coffee table in front of the couch.

"Up." He reaches for your hands and helps you to your feet. As soon as you're standing, he pulls you into his arms in a full-body hug, practically wrapping himself around you like he never wants to let you go. You smile when he presses his face in the crook of your neck, his stubble scratching your skin. He lets out a contented sigh, his body relaxing. “I missed you,” his voice is muffled. “Don’t fuckin’ do that again.”

“I won’t.” The promise leaves your mouth before you even think.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. He’s holding you, keeping you as close as possible, reminding yourselves of what this feels like. You press your face into his shoulder, getting a faint trace of his thyme soap, earthy with a hint of mint.

To think you almost walked away from this—from him—from these arms that feel like home and a man willing to love you with no plans to leave. Insane.

His palm smooths up your spine to cradle the back of your head. “Needed you last night,” he softly admits.

Your chest aches. From the look of him this morning and the nap you interrupted, he must’ve been up half the night. “I’m here now.” Your head turns, trailing your lips across his prickly jaw, as you whisper, “I’m not going anywhere.”

He leans back just enough to see your face, his big hand cupping your cheek. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, moving lower to trace the corner of your mouth. “Good,” he says, his gaze flicking to your lips. “‘Cause you’re mine.” It’s not up for debate. It’s stated as a fact, and all you can do is nod before the space between you disappears, and he’s kissing you.

At first, it’s slow, tentative; he’s reacquainting himself with the shape of your lips.

It’s not enough.

The dam breaks, Joel deepening the kiss. His arm around your back, drawing you flush against him, moaning when he licks into your mouth. His tongue intertwines with yours, tasting the whiskey—warm, smoky with a slight bite, that melts into something sweeter. Your arms circle his neck, giving in to all of the feelings washing over you—relief, want, drowning out that fear of losing him.

He pulls away long enough to say with his lips brushing yours, “Missed this.” Then his mouth is on yours again, rougher now, hungrier, kissing you like he’s staking his claim.

When your lungs begin to ache, you finally come up for air, panting. Joel peppers kisses along the line of your jaw and lower down your neck, your eyes rolling back when he sucks over your pulse.

The words stumble out of your mouth before you can stop them. “Can I make it up to you?”

His head rises to meet your gaze. “What’d you have in mind?”

“Let me suck your dick.”

His face is unreadable, his pupils blowing wide. “On your knees.”

The command has your breath hitching, your cunt clenching hard around nothing.

“Here?” you ask, surprised he doesn’t want to go somewhere more private. “What if someone comes home?”

“Someone is spendin’ the night at their friend’s. Knees,” he orders.

You obey, dropping without hesitation to kneel on the rug at his feet. He looms over you, tracking your every movement with a burning gaze as you look up at him. “Good girl,” he purrs, rubbing his thumb across your wet bottom lip. “Get me out.”

Here’s the thing, you could do exactly as he says—you should do exactly as he says, but where’s the fun in that?

Instead of your hands going to the waistband of his sweatpants, you plant them on his thighs, and lean in, pressing your cheek against where he’s beginning to bulge. Heat radiates through the cotton as you nuzzle your face over his half-hard cock.

“Is that what I told you to do?” he asks.

Locking your eyes onto his, you ensure he's watching as you finally reach to curl your fingers into the stretchy waistband, pulling his pants down agonizingly slow. You get them down his thighs until all that separates you from his straining length are his blue boxer briefs.

“That’s it.” His voice deepens.

Keeping your gaze on his, you’re blatantly disobedient, slowly mouthing along his shaft through the material covering him, your lips mapping him, darkening the fabric with your saliva. Joel’s frown deepens, his jaw flexing. The warning’s clear on his face; his patience is wearing thin. Any second now, he’ll take back control.

“The longer you keep teasin’ me,” he says, “the longer I keep you from comin’.”

There it is. You expected him to stop you sooner.

You sit back on your heels and smile up at him. “I love when you threaten me.”

“What you love is pushin’ my buttons.”

“You’re not wrong.” You hook your fingers into his boxers, pulling them down just far enough for his cock to spring free—he’s thick, the tip reddened, and bobbing between his legs, making your mouth water at the pure perfection. You wrap your hand around the base, slowly pumping him, “Better?” you ask with a smirk.

His throat works as he swallows, eyes growing darker. “Almost. Tongue out.”

Arousal flares low in your belly. You let go of him and do as you're told, sticking it out, wide and waiting, resting your hands on his thighs again.

​ “Good girl.” He guides his length forward, laying it heavy across your tongue for you to feel the full weight of him, reminding you of just how big he is. He teases you, tapping the tip of his dick against your tongue, once, twice, a low groan slipping from him when you moan.

You don’t wait for his next command—you close your lips around the swollen head and suck, slow at first, letting him feel you working him into your mouth. Joel’s jaw goes tight, his hand finding the back of your head, threading his fingers into your hair.

“Christ,” he mutters. “That mouth.”

You swirl your tongue, hollowing your cheeks, then come off him with a wet pop. You look up at him through your lashes. “I told you I wanted to make it up to you. So, use me. Fuck my mouth. I want it.”

For a beat, he just stares down at you, a flush rising up his neck. His hand in your hair tightens. “Open wider.”

A thrill moves through you as you do as he commands, opening as wide as you can. Joel doesn’t hesitate, pushing his hips forward, filling you even deeper. He slides hot and heavy along your tongue until he’s hitting the back of your throat—you don’t gag, you never do, and that makes him lose it a little bit, his pace quickening.

“Fuck, you take me so well,” he groans, and the way he says it makes your pussy throb.

He pulls back only to thrust in again, finding a rhythm. It’s rough, his grip firm in your hair, guiding your head, watching himself fuck his cock into your mouth. It turns you on, being on your knees for him, drool slipping down your chin, your eyes watering while he uses you how he wants.

“So fuckin’ pretty.” His voice is ragged. He’s got one hand in your hair, the other wiping away a stray tear with his thumb. “Look at this mess you’re makin’ for me. All mine.”

His hips snap harder, the back of your throat taking a pounding. You moan around him, making him groan even louder. His eyes are hooded, his cheeks rosy, and he looks wrecked. “My perfect girl, bein’ so good to me.”

Your cunt feels achingly empty, wetness pooling between your thighs. Your panties had to be drenched.

Trailing your hand down, you go to slip your fingers beneath your pants to quell the need that’s been building since the moment you kissed. Joel notices and comes to a halt. He growls down at you, “Don’t. Hands stay where they are.”

Your eyes lift to his, big and pleading, but he just feeds himself further into your mouth. “You don’t get to come until I say you can,” he says.

The denial makes it hotter, your body trembling with want. You return your palm to his thigh.

With his hand on the back of your head, he urges you forward, sliding his dick deeper and deeper, until you’re having to swallow around him, taking him into the tight space of your throat.

“That’s it, baby,” he sounds strained. “You’re doin’ so good for me. Just like that.”

Your nose bumps the coarse hair at his base, smelling the soap he showered with and his natural musk. Your eyes water, but you don’t gag around the stretch, you won’t, and the fact that you take him so easily drives him wild. “Fuck,” he rasps, his hips jerking. He free-hand cradles your jaw, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth where drool spills over. “That’s my girl, takin’ it all the way down.”

God, you shouldn’t love this as much as you do—drooling, crying, your throat stretched full, but you do.

Your nails dig into his thighs, the slick mess dripping from your lips, keeping him buried until your lungs scream for air. He lets you come off him, gasping in a big breath, a string of spit connecting you to his cock, before he shoves you down again, moaning when you swallow him whole.

His dark eyes are on your watery ones. “Good girl,” it comes out ragged, his lips parted. His hands cup your cheeks as he stares down at you with a surprisingly tender gaze. ”You’re so fuckin’ beautiful. You like bein’ ruined by me, don’t you?”

You hum around him, ‘yes.’

“Yeah, you do. You like bein’ mine.” He pulls out of your mouth, curling his fist around his hard cock. His other hand catches your jaw, tilting your face up toward him. “But do you deserve to come?” Your eyes round, your chest heaving. “After the way you treated me?”

“Joel,” you whimper—it’s pathetic how desperate you sound, but you are desperate. He’s got you wound up tight, your pussy aching, throbbing with need. Now terror rears its ugly head, splashing over you like ice-cold water because he has every right to deny you. He could leave you hanging, keep you here without ever allowing you to come, and you’re not sure you’d survive it. “Joel, please.”

“Don’t ever doubt me again. You hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He lets go of your face, grunting when he hauls you to stand. He’s on you, ducking his head to spread open-mouthed kisses up your throat. “I hated bein’ mad at you,” he murmurs into your skin. Joel grabs your jaw, holding you still as he licks a slow stripe through the spit on your chin, then up the tear tracks on your cheek. A startled gasp leaves you. The filthiness of it makes you ache. Joel catches your noise and smirks. He ghosts his mouth over yours. “Mess or not, you’re mine. All of it, mine,” he declares, sealing it with a kiss.

He claims your lips, hard and searing, stealing the breath from your lungs, before he breaks away. “Take off your clothes.” You’re too slow for his liking; he’s already grabbing the hem of your shirt, stripping you with little patience. Your boots thud across the floor—socks flying after, your jeans and panties roughly yanked down your legs. Your bare skin prickles in the cold air. You squeak in surprise when he spins you, forcing you to kneel on the worn leather sofa, bracing yourself against the back of it.

You feel him behind you. Looking over your shoulder, you see he’s still dressed. “I don’t wanna be the only one naked,” you tell him. “Strip.”

His gaze burns, his lips downturned. “You really think you’re in a position to order me around?”

“What? Are you saying you prefer to be clothed? Don’t tell me you’re a sex-with-socks-on guy.”

He actually looks offended. “Who the fuck only wears socks?” His shirt’s gone in one motion, pants and boxers shoved down.

“You’d be surprised.” He does the awkward balancing act to remove each sock. “They did not get a second date.”

“Gotta add that to your list.” Of what you want in a man.

You smile, laughing breathlessly. “It’s already on the list, I just don’t broadcast it to catch the guys that do.”

Joel’s on you in seconds, the front of his body pressed to the back of yours, his skin hot, his cock thick and heavy against your ass. He holds your hips, his lips brushing your ear. “Better?”

You reach behind, pushing your fingers into his hair. “Mhmm, much better.”

He kisses a spot below your ear, then again on your neck. “Here’s how this goes,” he rasps. “I’m gonna fuck you, but you don’t come ‘til I say you can. You do, and I pull out. I won’t touch you again the rest of the night. Am I clear?”

The warning has heat curling low in your core, your thighs squeezing tight together. “Yes.”

His lips graze your shoulder. “Good girl.”

The praise has you biting your lip, rocking your hips back against the heft of him.

Joel chuckles low in his chest, “So needy for me.” He surprises you, slipping his hand down to tease along your inner thigh. “You want my fingers first? Or do you think you can take me?”

You shake your head. “No. I can take it.”

A little pain didn’t hurt anyone. Plus, you know he’ll make it worth it.

“That’s my girl.” He presses his palm between your shoulder blades, and that’s all of the instruction you need—automatically, you’re bending forward and arching your back to stick out your ass.

His length is still covered in your saliva, but Joel is extra cautious. He spits in his palm and works it over his dick, the obscenely slick sound it makes causing your insides to clench in need. He notches himself at your sopping entrance before he starts to nudge in, the thickness of his cock prying you open and stealing your breath.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

He pushes in slowly, your body resisting, the stretch burning sharply enough to make your inner walls clamp helplessly around him.

“Easy,” Joel rasps, in a tone that’s low and tender, like he’s breaking a wild horse. “I got you.” He inches in deeper, then retreats a little, before pressing in again, slowly working himself into you. “That’s it.” He’s cupping your hip, steadying you while sinking in further. “Doin’ so good for me.” You whimper, caught between the sting and the overwhelming relief of finally being filled. “Just a little more.”

He bottoms out, burying himself to the root. “Christ,” he murmurs, leaning forward to press his forehead to your shoulder. “Nothin’ in the fuckin’ world like bein’ inside you.”

You’re stretched to your limits and beyond full, every nerve in your body screaming. He doesn’t move right away. He stays still, his mouth kissing anywhere he can reach—your shoulder, the side of your neck, behind your ear. His lips are everywhere as you get used to the fullness. “My good girl, takin’ all of me,” he says into your skin. “This pussy is mine. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

“You’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

You’re thankful he’s gracious enough to give you time to adjust to what feels like him splitting you open.

What you expect is for him to fuck you hard, to work out all the anger you caused him. What you get is slow—torturously slow. His thrusts are shallow, grinding his pelvis into your ass, savoring you like he’s afraid to waste even a second of it. It makes you whine, your nails digging into the back of the couch, desperate for him to just take you the way you thought he would. It has you pushing back, trying to speed up his pace.

He doesn’t like that.

A sharp smack lands on your ass before his hips slam forward, knocking the wind from your lungs. His other hand grips the back of your neck, forcing you to stay put. “Quit it,” he growls. His tone is rough, but his touch is gentle when he rubs a comforting palm along your side. “You’ll take what I give you, and you’ll love every fuckin’ second. Understand?”

“Yes.” Your voice trembles.

“Good girl.”

If you thought his leisurely pace was maddening, that was only the beginning.

Joel pulls you upright, your spine colliding with his solid front, his cock stretching you open as he cages you in. He’s got one arm locked across your chest, squeezing your breast with his calloused hand, his free palm sliding down to the apex of your thighs. He rubs your clit in slow, merciless circles that sync with the lazy roll of his hips, your arousal dripping down his shaft to coat his balls.

His lips are at your ear. “You were hopin’ I’d fuck you, mean, weren’t you? Wanted me to take out my frustration on your greedy little pussy.”

The heat in your core gets hotter with every drag of his cock and swirl of his fingers. You don’t answer him quickly enough—he slaps your cunt, soothing the sting, by stroking his palm over it right after.

“Is that what you were hopin’?” he asks again.

“Yes,” you breathe.

He chuckles darkly. “Too bad. I want you to feel every inch of me—every fuckin’ inch of what you almost threw away.” His teeth graze the shell of your ear. “And then I wanna hear the sweet sound of you beggin’ me to come.”

No words leave your mouth; you just moan.

Joel’s hand moves down your swollen sex, spreading his fingers around where he’s sliding in and out of you. “Fuck, baby,” he groans, “you’re soakin’ me.” He smears the slick before gathering it onto his fingertips to circle your clit—you jolt, his cock grinding in deeper. “I love how wet you get for me—how your body knows who it belongs to.”

You’re fluttering around him, clenching at what he says because he’s right, your body does belong to him, you belong to him. He has ownership over you and your pleasure, filling you so completely that there isn’t any space inside you he hasn’t claimed.

He’s moving slowly, languidly as if he has all the time in the world, and it’s a special kind of hell. It doesn’t matter that every swirl of his fingers and every shallow thrust winds you tighter; you want more. You want the hard, fast, feral, fucking you within an inch of your life pace he had the first time he put his cock in you. That didn’t mean his slow, steady strokes were any less devastating—he has you at the cusp of combusting. Your thighs tremble, fighting with everything you’ve got against the sharp heat swelling in your belly, because Joel’s threat of pulling out if you come before he gives you permission is at the forefront of your mind, but you’re close, you’re so close it hurts.

Tears form in the corners of your eyes, your body begging to let go. A broken sob tumbles from your mouth. Joel’s hand moves from your chest, gliding up your throat to grab your jaw, turning your head. He catches your earlobe between his teeth, tugging it just enough to make you gasp. “Can feel how close you are,” he growls in your ear. “Can feel you fightin’ it. My good girl knowin’ she’s not gettin’ off easy.” He drives into you hard, burying himself balls deep inside you where he stays, unmoving, while his hand abandons your aching clit.

The sudden loss is a welcome respite. Still, all of your nerves are on fire, your body quivering at being so close to the edge, now with nowhere to go. Your eyes are closed, a thin layer of sweat coating your skin, making you stick to him wherever you touch.

“Joel,” you whimper.

“I know, baby.” He kisses you at the awkward angle, your lips misaligned, with his wet fingers splayed on your stomach. “You can take it.” He lets go of your jaw, bracing his arm across your chest again like he knows you’ll need the extra support. “Gotta ruin you before I let you come.”

You’re already ruined, and somehow he’s going to ruin you even more? Jesus. What have you gotten yourself into? You’re about to find out.

He starts moving again, his hips keeping to that same slow, savoring pace as before. It’s juxtaposed by the perfect strokes of his fingers on your clit, circling the needy bundle of nerves until your body quakes and shakes for release, bringing you to the precipice before stopping once more.

“Please, Joel,” you try, but you know he isn’t going to give in—it’s too soon.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “Not ‘til I say.”

You gulp, your pussy squeezing him as electricity dances just below your skin.

He may not let you come, but he isn’t cruel about it. You’re still stuffed to the brim with his thick cock, his chest pressed against your back, his touches softer now—his thumb strokes little arcs over your hip bone, his lips mapping the slope of your shoulder, the curve of your neck, and the damp skin just below your ear, soothing you, grounding you.

Joel begins again, slowly thrusting while his fingers work you to the point of snapping, only to deny you of your orgasm again. He does that once, twice, three times, edging you until you’re a mewling, crying fucked out mess. Your nails claw at his forearm, locked over your chest, your cunt clenching down on him helplessly, every nerve in your body raw.

Tears spill freely down your cheeks. “Please, Joel,” you beg. “I can’t—I can’t. Please, I need it. I need to come. Please.” If you didn’t, you were sure you’d die. That’d be a new one. Dying of sexual frustration. What a way to go out.

His movements have ceased again, staying buried to the hilt inside you. He groans in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “That’s it. My perfect girl, beggin’ so prettily. You’ve earned it.” His fingers return to your clit, and finally—fucking finally—his hips snap harder, faster, pummeling your pussy just the way you wanted. “Come for me, baby,” he says through gritted teeth, his other hand pinching your stiff nipple. “Give me what’s mine.”

There’s no other way to describe it: the permission is like a match to gasoline, it has pleasure exploding out from your core so violently, you see stars. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, Joel fucking you through it with a drawn-out moan, your body convulsing around him.

“Fuck, yes. Just like that,” his words come out strained, probably from how your cunt chokes his dick. “My good girl, my good fuckin’ girl.”

And then things go fuzzy, your brain short-circuits. Do you lose consciousness? Maybe. All you know is one minute you are experiencing the most Earth-shattering orgasm of your entire life, and the next you’re coming to, sucking in a big gulp of air as if in those lost seconds you forgot to breathe.

His fingers on your clit are too much. It feels like he’s touching a live wire inside you, the overstimulation causing you to yank your hips back, his hand coming off in reflex. This is when you register that he’s still slowly rocking in and out of you, while your pussy continues spasming with aftershocks, drooling your arousal along his cock. His arm is locked firmly around your middle, keeping you up because your legs are too shaky to hold your weight.

“You alright?” he asks, voice low. His mouth ghosts over the hollow of your shoulder, leaving soft kisses, as his palm slides down your side in comforting strokes.

You’re still clutching his forearm that’s across your front and let go, reaching your hand back to press your fingers into his sweaty hair, smiling dreamily. “Yes,” you croak.

His head turns, kissing the inside of your wrist, and you can’t help thinking about how much you love how affectionate he is. It’s not something you’d expect from someone who’s lived the life he has. You’d think that after all these years, the softness inside him would’ve hardened, and yet it hasn’t. Or maybe it had at one point. He did tell you he was a shell of a man before Ellie, and maybe you have her to thank for softening him up—maybe you have her to thank for the tenderness no one before him ever cared to show you.

His nose nuzzles the side of your neck, followed by the gentle press of his lips. “Think you can give me another?” he asks.

The fact that he’s giving you a choice warms your heart. Not that you dislike when he’s in charge and you’re at his mercy. That’s great, too. But his asking shows he has your comfort in mind and doesn’t want to overstimulate you further.

“Later,” you answer, your nails lightly scratching his scalp. “When we christen your bed, and you eat me out to your heart’s content.”

A groan rumbles from his chest, his cock twitching inside you, making you smile. “God, I fuckin’ missed you,” he tells you.

“I missed you, too.”

He slowly withdraws from you, and the sound you make is a half-sigh, half-whimper. It only takes a few seconds for him to move from behind you to sit down on the couch cushion, and tug you to straddle him, the leather creaking under your knees that bracket his hips.

For a moment, he just stares at you, his big hands coming up to caress your cheeks. He’s got that expression on his face, the one where he looks upon you with a sort of awe, almost like he can’t believe you’re real, and actually there. Then his eyes turn hungry as they take you in, roving over your face and body, before they flick up to meet yours. “How’d I get so lucky?” he asks. You’re the lucky one, but you don’t get a chance to say it because as soon as the words leave his lips, he’s pulling you in, crushing his mouth against yours.

This kiss is much more fervent than the last, feeling his need, his desperation, his relief. You take it upon yourself to lift your hips, lining his straining cock up with your entrance, then start to lower yourself, taking him inch by glorious inch until you’re flush against him. The two of you moan into the kiss. Even with how much he’s worked you open and your orgasm loosening your muscles, there’s still a slight stretch that feels so fucking incredible, it has a shiver crawling up your spine.

You can feel him throbbing inside you as you stay still, reveling in how right it feels to have him buried in you again, filling you so perfectly. The kiss melts into something deeper, your tongues tangling, his hands roaming down your back, grabbing the globes of your ass. Now that you’re cognizant, having come down from your peak, Joel consumes your every thought; he’s taken over your senses, feeling him everywhere. Nothing exists outside this moment with him. He’s everything. He’s all that matters, and you want him to feel as good as he makes you feel.

Joel gets to a point where kissing while you sit on his dick isn’t enough—his feet are planted on the floor, his back pressed into the cushion behind him, giving him the leverage he needs to start moving, slowly thrusting up into you. He keeps himself fully sheathed, his grip on your backside helping you grind down on him. You’ve got your arms around his neck, your fingers in his hair, rolling your hips in sync with his movements.

The kiss turns sloppy as the rhythm builds, feeling the tension coiling through his muscles—he’s close. His lips break away from yours, panting as his mouth trails down your throat, lavishing open-mouthed kisses lower over your collarbone. You bite your lip. “You gonna come for me, baby?” you ask through heavy breaths.

He roughly groans into your skin, and you take that as a yes, smiling. His head dips, closing his lips around a pebbled nipple, circling his tongue. Between that and how his strokes have gotten faster, you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair.

“Yes,” you moan. “Come, I want it. Fill me up, make me yours.”

You thought you were spent after coming so hard, but the attention Joel is giving your tits and how amazing his cock feels inside you has pleasure blooming at the base of your spine. He switches from one breast to the other, sucking and teasing your nipples, his teeth grazing over the hard buds, then soothing them with his tongue.

You’re a little surprised how quickly the heat is building in your gut. Now, you’re bouncing in his lap to keep up with his thrusts, each movement growing needier.

“Come inside me.” You sound breathless, a bead of sweat rolling down your forehead. You’re getting lost in how good he makes you feel, and it loosens your lips, words spilling from your mouth. “Give it to me, Joel. Claim me, ruin me. I want it. I want your come, want you to fuck it deep and get me—” Your eyes fly open as you suck in a breath, completely caught off guard by what you were about to say.

Where did that even come from?

Wherever you had it buried in your subconscious, now it’s come to light, and for the first time in your entire life, the thought that someone—Joel—could get you pregnant has you coming undone. Your orgasm is sudden, all of your muscles pulling taut as sweet euphoria spreads through your body. It’s softer this time, a ripple instead of a crashing wave, which you’re thankful for with how worn out you already feel.

When your cunt clamps down on him, Joel groans loudly. It has him finally looking up at you, and it’s clear on his face how fucking gone he is—his eyes glazed over, his cheeks pink, and his jaw slack. He’s so far gone, you don’t think he’ll last even a minute longer. He captures your lips, hungrily kissing you as the rhythm of his hips stutters, his fingers digging hard into your asscheeks.

“You can have it,” he murmurs into your mouth. “‘M gonna give it to you. Fuck my come deep. Give your greedy little pussy what it wants.” And that’s it for him—he didn’t even make it thirty seconds before he’s coming. He pulls your ass down, burying himself all the way to the root as he follows you over the edge. The sound that tears from his throat comes from somewhere deep in his chest. It’s rough and strangled. It’s what losing control sounds like, and it’s so unbelievably hot that your pussy clenches, bearing down on him, keeping him in place. He thickens inside you, his dick jerking with each spurt of his come, feeling the warmth of him filling the deepest depths of you. When you’ve wrung him of every last drop, his body goes lax, and his head falls, face planting between your breasts—it makes you smile, your nails lightly scratching at the nape of his neck, while you rest your cheek on his sweat-damp hair. You don’t move as you both come down from your highs. Your breaths evening, your hearts slowing, closing your eyes as you bask in the afterglow.

Maybe it’s because you only slept a handful of hours the night before, or the emotionally charged day. It could also be the result of getting thoroughly fucked, but you find exhaustion has seeped into your bones, your eyelids feeling weighed down.

You’re about to ask Joel if he wants to head up to his bedroom and take what you know would be an amazing nap, when you’re silenced by a loud snore against your chest. In any other circumstance, you’d giggle. Instead, it reminds you that he’s probably beyond tired from staying up, worrying all night about Ellie. Guilt and shame creep up the back of your throat at the memory of how you treated him that morning, and you hug his head closer, kissing his hair.

Seconds pass, maybe a minute ticks by, with Joel still asleep. You don’t want to wake him, but you also like the idea of getting some shut eye yourself, so very carefully you push his upper body back against the cushion, pausing to see if he wakes—he snores. You let out a relieved breath, grabbing the blanket from the back of the couch and wrapping it around you both as you lean into him, getting comfortable with your face tucked against his neck.

Now that you’re relaxed and cozy, you find yourself wondering why in the world it got you off thinking about getting knocked up, when you did everything you could to prevent it with past partners. That’s it, your partner. Joel isn’t like the men before him. You know for a fact he’s dependable and a damn good father. You know that if you have his child and things don’t work out between you, you wouldn’t have to parent alone; he’d still be there. You trust Joel. Not only that, but he also checks all your boxes. He’s everything you could dream of in a partner and father to your future children. You got off at the thought of getting pregnant, because for the first time, you had nothing to fear—it doesn’t hurt that you’d love to have his kid, too.

And even feeling that trust and security, there’s still a whisper of doubt in the back of your mind, that all of this is too good to be true—you squash it down as best you can, relishing in the comfort and safety of right now.

Between the warmth and the knowledge that you have nothing to worry about, you fall asleep in record time.

Time goes by, minutes, an hour, two, safe in your cocoon, the house quiet.

A side effect of surviving an apocalypse is a sensitivity to sound. At the faintest noise, you can go from sleeping deeply to fully alert in a second flat. The scrape of metal in the front door’s deadbolt cuts through your dreamless sleep. Your eyes widen, sitting up immediately with your heart pounding in your chest.

There’s only one other person who lives here.

“Joel,” you harshly whisper, shaking his shoulder.

His eyes blink open, all bleary-eyed and confused, but when he registers it’s you, his lips quirk up in a lazy smile, his big hands sliding along your sides. “Yeah?” he groggily asks.

“Ellie’s here.”

That wakes him up, his expression turning panicked. “Shit,” he whispers, looking side to side like he’s trying to figure out an escape plan. You don’t think, you move because your first interaction with your boyfriend’s daughter is not going to be scarring the poor girl at finding you both naked. Thankfully, there’s a wall separating the living room from the entryway that buys you some seconds—quickly you unwrap the blanket from around you, ungracefully dismounting Joel, and ignoring his come leaking down your leg, as you scoop up your clothes.

Well, fuck. Where can you hide?

It’s your turn to look around to figure out your escape plan, spotting a closet door on the other side of the room that you quietly rush to, and manage to slip inside just as you hear from the foyer, “Joel?” You catch a glimpse of the man in question as you close the door, impressed that he was able to get his sweatpants on, before lying across the couch with the blanket covering himself from the neck down to make it look like he’d been napping. The closet door clicks shut, the small space going dark, save for the sliver of light coming through the crack near your feet.

Your ears perk at the young girl’s muffled words. “Oh, shit,” she says. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“It’s okay,” Joel replies, through a yawn. You can hear him sit up, the sofa’s leather complaining under his movements. “What are you doin’ home?” he asks, his voice rough from sleep. “I thought you were stayin’ the night at Dina’s.”

Carefully, so as not to make any noise, you set your clothes on the floor and start dressing as you listen, pulling on your panties first.

“Is that why you’re not wearing a shirt?” You want to laugh at how disgusted she sounds.

He sighs. “I got hot while sleepin’, and there was no one here to complain.” He grunts, before asking a handful of seconds later, “Better?” You think he grabbed his shirt off the floor and put it back on.

“Much.”

“Did you forget somethin’?” he asks.

“No—I found out Jesse and Dina have never played Monopoly, and I’m pretty sure I can kick their asses.”

“By goin’ bankrupt twenty turns in ‘cause you buy every property you land on and put houses on the shittiest ones?”

“Hey, if you had landed on one of those blue ones, I would’ve owned your ass.”

“But I didn’t, and you wasted your money and the money I loaned you.”

“Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway because I’ve got a better strategy that will make me unbeatable,” she says, sounding very confident in herself.

“Right,” Joel replies flatly, clearly unconvinced. “And what’s this unbeatable strategy?”

She scoffs. “Like I’d tell you. You’ll find out next time we play.”

At this point, you’ve gotten your jeans on and are now working on getting your sports bra over your head and down to cover your chest.

“If you say so,” he says. “Let me grab you the game. Do you need anthin’ else from the closet?” He emphasizes the last word, your stomach dropping—the board game is in here with you. Your heart is pounding in your ears as you’re frozen in your spot listening. Leather creaks loudly—he must be standing up.

“I’m fine, Joel,” Ellie insists. “I don’t need your help. I can get it myself.” You can hear the light thump of her shoes on the hardwood floor getting closer. “I wanna see what else we have anyway—definitely gonna grab that Twister game you refuse to play.”

The doorknob jiggles and starts to open. “NO,” Joel says a little louder than necessary, his body thudding against the door, slamming it shut.

“What the fuck is going on?” Ellie asks, the words laced with annoyance. “Why won’t you let me in the closet?”

Joel lets out a defeated sigh and mumbles something you can’t make out.

“What?” Ellie replies. “What did you say?”

He says it softly, but you hear him this time. “There’s someone in there…”

“What do you mean there’s someone in there?”

“Jesus Christ,” Joel mutters. “This isn’t how I wanted you to meet.”

“Meet, who? Who the fuck’s in the closet, Joel?”

This seems like a good time to finish dressing. You lean down to snag your shirt off the ground, but when you do, you find nothing there.

Where’s your shirt?

Did you drop it when you rushed to the closet?

You crouch, feeling all around on the floor, touching shoes, a box, a metal baseball bat, but nothing that resembles your shirt—fuck.

“The woman I’m datin’...”

Even though you’re now panicking at being shirtless, that admission makes you smile.

“The woman you’re dating…?” she asks, drawing the words out like she doesn’t quite comprehend. “There’s someone who likes you, like romantically…? You…?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just you’re an old, grumpy asshole and your face looks like that.”

“What’s wrong with my face?”

“I mean, have you looked in a mirror?”

This time when Joel sighs, it's that of a father at his wits’ end with his child’s bullshit—you can admit they’re adorable.

“Yes, I have looked in a mirror, and yes, there is someone who likes me romantically. If you will be polite and stop embarrassin’ me, I will introduce you to her.”

“Chill, Joel. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

He mumbles something that sounds an awful lot like, “I doubt that.” The pressure of his body lifts from the door, and you’re next met with two soft knocks. “You can come out—that is, if you’re ready,” he quickly adds. “If you need us to give you a minute, that’s fine, too.”

There’s no point in dragging this out. You’re going to have to bite the bullet. You stand back up. “Um, Joel?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you, uh, please, grab me my shirt? It’s somewhere out there…”

“Oh. Yes. Gimme a second.”

He pads away.

“Wait,” you hear Ellie say. “Why isn’t your girlfriend wearing a shirt?”

“She got hot while sleepin’.” He returns and softly knocks again. “I’ve got it, sweetheart.” You crack the door open and close it after he hands you the t-shirt, which you immediately put on.

“Sweetheart?” Ellie questions. “Did you just call her sweetheart?”

Joel sighs. “Yes.”

“Ew.”

Now that you’re dressed, you quickly comb your fingers through your hair to try and make yourself look a bit more presentable—thankfully, the tears and spit have dried on your face, so it isn’t too obvious to Ellie that you fucked her dad earlier. At least, you hope it isn’t.

Taking a deep breath, you open the door a little. Joel’s standing there, blocking your view of the rest of the room with an apologetic look on his face. You give him a reassuring smile and open the door wider. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “You would’ve introduced us eventually, and this is totally fine.”

“I appreciate you bein’ so understandin’, but I’m still sorry.”

“You really don’t need to be.” Pointing at your face, you mouth ‘Do I look okay?’

Joel smirks—he fucking smirks. His hand comes up and ever so gently brushes some stray hairs off your cheek, tucking them behind your ear as he nods, saying for only you to hear, “You look beautiful.”

Your mouth opens to respond when another voice chimes in, “Holy shit, she’s pretty—” You see Ellie peeking around Joel with wide eyes. “—and young. Was not expecting someone that young.”

“Uh, thank you?” you reply.

“Ellie,” Joel warns, his attention going to her. His hand fell from your face.

She steps to the side of him, unaffected by his pointed stare. “What?” she asks, meeting his eyes. “I didn’t say anything rude. They were compliments!”

“I’m not offended,” you add.

She smiles. “See, I didn’t offend her.” Joel takes a deep breath, and the young girl looks at you again. “I figured someone interested in this old fucker—” She juts her thumb his way. “—would be closer to his age, but you definitely are not. Are you sure you like this dude? You know, someone who looks like you can do a lot better than him—no offense, Joel.” She pats his arm.

He presses his fingers to his brow, grumbling, “You’re not wrong.”

Ellie has no filter, and you find it delightful. Her father, on the other hand, looks as though he wishes the ground would swallow him whole—poor guy.

You smile and introduce yourself to Ellie. “—It’s nice to finally meet you, and yes, I am sure that I like him. It might not make much sense to you, but I like him quite a lot.”

“Yeah, I don’t get it, but whatever.” She shrugs. “If Joel’s happy, I’m happy.”

Joel’s eyes go to her again, but this time they’ve softened. His fond expression shows how much he loves her, even if she’s a pain in his ass. And Ellie loves him, too. You can tell by how her ribbing is laced with affection and void of any malice. She just gets immense joy from eliciting a reaction from him.

“So,” Ellie continues. “How long has this been a thing?” She points back and forth between you and her dad.

Joel glances your way, and you give him a look that says, ‘You’re taking this one.’

“Uh, it’s pretty recent,” Joel replies, scratching the back of his neck.

“Cool.” She focuses on him. “Is it serious?”

“Yes.”

You love hearing that.

“Is she moving in?”

“Not right this second.”

“You’d tell me if she was moving in, though, right?”

His eyebrows furrow. “What? Yes. Of course I’d tell you. That isn’t somethin’ that’d happen without talkin’ to you first.”

“Okay.” She nods. She turns to you, pointing past your head. “Can I get in there to grab my games? I gotta get going. My friends are waiting for me.”

“Oh! Right,” you reply, pushing the door fully open and moving out of her way to stand beside Joel. You watch as the girl rises on her tiptoes to go through the collection of game boxes on the upper shelf—they have just about every board game you can think of. She tucks Monopoly, Twister, and The Game of Life under her arm, but ends up putting The Game of Life back, grabbing Hungry Hungry Hippos and Mouse Trap instead.

You’re not entirely sure what to do. Should you go sit on the couch? Excuse yourself to take a much-needed trip to the bathroom? Head to the kitchen for a cup of water? You end up staying beside Joel, resting your head against his arm. You smile when his pinkie slides along the side of your hand to loop around your smaller one—he wants to hold your hand, but probably isn’t sure if you’re okay with Ellie seeing. You give him what he wants, twining your fingers together.

“I’m impressed by how many games there are,” you whisper. “None of them are missing pieces?”

“If they were, I found replacements—at least, the majority of them I did. Still haven’t been able to find a fucking wishbone for Operation.”

You snort. “People probably wanted the good luck. Plus, the wishbone was always a bitch to remove anyway, so I’m sure it’s not missed.”

“Maybe, but I’d like the game to have all its parts.”

“Then I will keep my eye out for the ever-elusive wishbone.”

He huffs out an amused breath and kisses your hair. “Thank you.”

Ellie takes a couple of minutes to make her final decision. Monopoly and Twister never leave her arm. She keeps Hungry Hungry Hippos, but switches out Mouse Trap for Clue—solid choices. Once she’s finished, she shuts the door, turning in place.

“Well, guys,” Ellie says, addressing you both. “This has been fun—weird, but fun. I’m gonna head out.” She looks at Joel. “I promise I won’t be back home until tomorrow. I’ll meet you for breakfast. Will she be joining us?” She nods your way.

“No,” you answer for him. “I’ll be working. I’ll be helping make the breakfast.”

Her eyes meet yours. “A cook. That’s rad.”

You smile. “Actually, a baker. I made your cake, which I hope you liked. Happy Birthday, by the way.”

That has her face lighting up. “No shit, that was you?! That was the best fucking cake I’ve ever had.”

You giggle. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“She also made the apple pie from the other night,” Joel adds. “And that peach cobbler you wouldn’t shut up about.”

Her eyes widen. “No fucking way, and you’re dating Joel? Does that mean you’ll bake me stuff if I ask?”

“Within reason. I promise if I can get my hands on some peaches, I’ll definitely make you a peach cobbler, though.”

“Fuck yeah!” She turns her attention to Joel. “I have no fucking clue how you got her to date you, but good job. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you, I guess,” he replies.

“Okay, I really have to leave. Bye!” She briskly walks past the two of you. “Oh, and Joel?” You both turn around to see her standing at the doorway.

“Yeah?”

“I’m cool with you having a girlfriend, but the shit that happens in your bedroom stays in your bedroom. I don’t want to hear it, I definitely don’t want to see it, I don’t want to fucking think about it.” She shudders in disgust. “God. I’m never sitting on that couch again.”

“Fuck,” Joel says under his breath. “I’m sorry, Ellie,” he tells her. “I won’t let it happen again.”

“You better not. Glad that’s over. Bye, guys!”

And with that, she left the room, and the house, the front door slamming shut behind her.

“Told you that you liked to play with fire,” you tease.

“She probably knew somethin’ was up the moment she stepped foot in here.”

“Probably. I mean, your boxers are over there on the floor.” You gesture to where they are crumpled under the coffee table. “You were shirtless, I was shirtless, and hiding in the closet, plus your lame ass excuse that we were undressed because we—” You do air quotes. “—’got too hot,’ it’s very obvious what we were getting up to. But look on the bright side.” You turn your head to look at him, meeting his eyes. “At least she didn’t walk in when your dick was down my throat. I don’t know about you, but I count that as a win.”

“You’re right. It could’ve been worse.”

“Much worse. Now, you wanna take a shower with me?” You really want to clean up the mess between your legs.

He smiles and pulls you into his arms. “Yeah, I wanna shower with you,” he says, punctuating the sentence with a toe-curling kiss—it ends, Joel’s lips brushing yours as he quietly asks, “Will you stay the night?”

“I’ll stay as long as you want.”

He nudges the tip of your nose with his own. “Because you’re mine?”

“Because my bed is still broken and my back is killing me from sleeping on the couch last night.” He stills, and you can tell he’s frowning. “And yes,” you continue in exasperation, “because I’m yours, you ridiculous man. I’ll always be yours.”

He pinches your hip, and you giggle. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours.”

“Yes, you are, and you know what?”

“What?”

“I’m yours. I can promise you that, I’ll always be yours.”

“Say it again.”

The story of how you met Joel Miller is a wholesome one—until it isn’t. He’d come to your apartment the previous day to see about having a birthday cake made for his kid—that’s your side hustle, making cakes and other pastries people request in exchange for goods and favors. Joel was willing to get you anything you wanted for your services, and isn’t that just the sweetest thing? A father going out of his way to ensure his new, adopted child gets to experience a real birthday with cake and presents for the first time in their life? See? Wholesome. Then came your price, which was practically a steal given the order and the timeframe he needed it by. He got lucky older, single dads are your kryptonite, and that he’s a sweetheart. All you asked in return were a few easy-to-find items and to have a drink with him. This is when things escalated from an innocent PG-rated flick to an X-rated amateur porno, and you discovered Joel Miller can fuck.

In the span of a few hours of knowing him, he made you come multiple times, rightfully ruined you for anyone else, broke your bed, and was so good you asked him to marry you and offered to have his babies.

You’re his now. You belong to him, and the best part? He’s yours.

Joel came to your apartment for a cake and left with a girlfriend young enough to make some townspeople wonder if he’s having a late midlife crisis, and others jealous of his luck.

It’s just past five a.m. on a Wednesday, the sun still hours from rising. The chill outside has the tip of your nose numb, but you’re warm in Joel’s jacket that he wouldn’t let you leave his house without wearing. You stayed at his place last night, secretly, without Ellie knowing, and were very surprised when he got up to walk you home. Why are you up so early? You’re one of the town’s few resident bakers, and you need to get to the community kitchen to start baking the bread for the day. But before that, you’re making a quick pitstop at your apartment to change your clothes.

How was your secret, impromptu sleepover with Joel? Well, it didn’t go the way you expected…

See, when men invited you to their homes in the past, it was usually for one reason. So, it didn’t surprise you when Joel got you alone in his bedroom, locked the door, and stripped you both of your clothes. Seemed pretty par for the course, and to be honest, you were down to have another go with him between the sheets.

But something unexpected happened: absolutely nothing.

No groping, no grinding, no impatient, wandering hands beneath the covers. Instead, you were treated to a warm arm around your waist, holding you close, with his nose buried in the hair on the back of your head. He didn’t have any intention to fuck you in his bed that night. He just wanted you there with him, like your presence was something comforting, that he needed, and that kind of tenderness had felt far more intimate than sex ever could.

You’d never slept so soundly.

It scares you how much you liked it.

Here you are silently walking down the dark road with Joel, the stars above, and porch lights you pass offering some light to guide your way. You told him you were fine in just your long-sleeved shirt and leggings, but his protective nature wouldn’t let you leave his house without putting his jacket on you first. Was Joel bundled up, too? No, you suspect his hotness—his literal hotness—the man’s body is like a furnace, makes him immune to the cold, so he’s only wearing jeans and a flannel shirt.

He's beside you, walking a bit slower than his normal gait to match yours, and he’s so close that his hand keeps brushing yours. You’re pretty sure he wants to hold it, and confused why he isn’t, unless maybe he’s waiting for you to make the first move. That’d be silly, but you test the waters anyway, trying to hook your pinkie around his—you smile when he grabs it instead.

“You can hold my hand.” You glance his way, inviting him.

He huffs, meeting your eyes and giving your digit a small squeeze. “Was tryin’ to be respectful and not assume.” He finally threads your fingers together, his hand so much bigger and warmer than yours.

His response makes you giggle.“Trying to be respectful? Babe, within a couple of hours of knowing each other, you had me face down, ass up, screaming your name. I think we’re past the point of handholding etiquette. But, it’s fucking adorable, that’s where you didn’t want to overstep.”

He lifts his eyebrow. “What? Because I fuck you silly, I can’t be a gentleman, too? I respect you.” His lips curve into a smirk. “Even if it might not seem like it when I’ve got you pinned to the mattress, makin’ you beg.”

“You’re a menace.”

He gently knocks his shoulder against yours, looking ahead. “Your menace.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m also rusty with all this datin’ stuff, and don’t wanna press my luck.”

“You’re doing great,” you reassure him, hugging his arm. “I love that you’re pro-PDA.”

Joel kisses your hair. “I’m pro-touchin’ you, and if anyone sees, then so be it.”

“Even Ellie?”

“Pigs would be flyin’ if she were up at this hour. She sleeps in until at least seven-thirty. We don’t have to worry about runnin’ into her.”

“You really enjoy playing with fire, don’t you?”

With you staying over while Ellie was home, and now walking with him, it certainly seems that way.

“I wouldn’t say I’m playin’ with fire. I just know my kid.”

“Who, you’re very cute with, by the way.”

When he snuck you into his house, you overheard a sweet conversation between him and Ellie that gave you a glimpse into their relationship. The way he spoke and looked fondly at her made it clear how much he adores and loves her as his own.

“You think so?”

“Yep. I’m not kidding when I say it turns me on that you’re a good dad.”

“And why's that?” You can hear the smile in his voice, and you see it when you turn your head toward him, finding he’s already looking at you.

“Why does it turn me on that you’re a loving and caring father who puts in the effort to have a relationship with your kid and wants nothing more than for them to be happy? Hmmm, why would that turn me, a woman who wants to have her own children one day, on?”

“One of life’s great mysteries.” His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles.

You fail to keep yourself from smiling and playfully swat his arm. “Shut up. You know exactly why I’m into it.”

Joel chuckles, lifting your hand he’s holding to kiss the back of it. “Maybe. But I like hearin’ you say I turn you on. Makes me feel pretty fuckin’ great about myself.”

Your eyes roll. “Glad I could stroke your ego, babe.” You pat his chest.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” He kisses your hand again, then lowers it. There’s a lull in the conversation, the two of you focusing forward, continuing to walk. A minute passes, and Joel breaks the silence. “It really gets you all hot and bothered that I care about my kid…?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s sexy.”

“Huh. Never thought of it as bein’ panty-droppin’ behavior.”

“It definitely is for me.” You wonder something. “You don’t have to answer this question, but back in the time before—” The outbreak. “—were you in a relationship?”

“No. I raised Sarah alone and had a hard time datin’.”

“It’s absolutely none of my business, and again, you don’t have to answer. Why did you have a hard time dating?”

“Well, for one thing, I didn’t really have the time. I was a single dad workin’ my ass off to make ends meet. Then there was Sarah bein’ my top priority, and women—at least back then—weren’t too keen to play second fiddle to her. So, I gave up tryin’ when she was about five.”

“If you're going to date a single dad, you have to know his kid is the most important person to him. At least that's how it should be, and honestly, if Ellie weren't your top priority, I wouldn't have even considered a relationship with you.”

“Gotta add that to your list.”

Your head turns his way to look at him, your eyebrows pulling together. “What list?”

“For what you’re lookin’ for in a man.”

When you first met and told him you were romantically interested in him, he didn’t understand why and even tried to convince you to find someone your own age. It took some explaining that you had a thing for older men, particularly in their fifties—you’ve found they’re the best in bed—and that he checked all of your boxes for what you were looking for: caring, fun to talk to, handsome, strong, not creepy, and he’s fifty-six.

“Oh, being a good dad has always been on the list.”

“I really do check all your boxes, then.”

“Yeah, you do.”

He smiles. “Thank Christ for that.”

The apartment complex where you live has six units—three downstairs, three upstairs. Yours happens to be the first you reached when you led Joel up the stairs. At your front door, you let go of his hand to dig your house key out of his jacket pocket, unlocking the deadbolt.

You sense Joel behind you, finding his tall, broad presence comforting. You turn around to face him, hesitating as you try to figure out what to say. "So…" you start.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “So.”

“Definitely my favorite customer of all time.”

He chuckles. “And you’re definitely my favorite baker. You’ve got a customer for life.”

“Because I fucked you?”

The look he gives you says you know that’s not why. “No.” He shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “Because you’re a great baker. I wasn’t tryin’ to butter you up when I said the apple pie you made was really fuckin’ good.” Yesterday, for dinner in the mess hall, you made apple pie for dessert. “Did you hear Ellie talkin’ about it last night?” You did overhear her saying how much she liked it.

You smile. “Yes. My peach cobbler is her favorite.”

He mirrors your expression. “Should’ve known you made that, too. Ellie fuckin’ loves peaches, and I had to tell her to slow down eatin’ it so she didn’t choke.” He huffs a small laugh, then he’s smirking, his eyes sparkling with mischief. It makes you wonder what’s got him so tickled. “Now, keep your clothes on for this next part,” he says. “We’re out in public.”

You squint in confusion. “What…?”

“You’ll understand in a second. The peach cobbler?”

“Yeah?”

“I gave Ellie my bowl. I always give her my share when we’re together, and there’s somethin’ sweet.”

Your eyes widen. “You always give her your dessert?” you whisper.

Dessert doesn’t happen all the time. It depends on supplies and usually occurs when there’s an excess of something that needs to be used before it spoils, such as fruit.

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Makes me happy to see her happy.”

Your breath catches a little.

Of course he does.

Of course, Joel Miller would hand over his portion of dessert just to see Ellie smile. And why is that so goddamn sexy? It’s not just those broad shoulders or that voice that drives you wild; it’s the way he loves. Quietly. Steadily. Without expecting anything in return.

“God, that’s so hot,” you admit.

His expression is a mix of delight and amusement. “I knew it’d get you.”

“First of all, rude of you to exploit my weaknesses.” He laughs. “Secondly, yeah, it got me. I think you can’t get any dreamier, and then you prove me wrong.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Keep it up, and you won’t be able to get rid of me.”

“I better not stop, then, ‘cause I don’t want you goin’ anywhere.”

His words hang there between you. I don’t want you goin’ anywhere. And you know he means it from the sincerity in his eyes. This is new. You’re used to men wanting your body—a night, maybe a few—but they never want you. Not all of you, at least. But Joel? He wants it all, the good, the bad, and everything in between. He wants you, and truth be told, it frightens you. Why? Because you know you’re going to fall in love with him, and that, being so completely at the mercy of a man, is fucking terrifying.

But the scariest part?

You’re willing to risk it.

You know this thing between you and Joel isn’t a fling or some temporary distraction; he was upfront that he didn’t do casual. This is something serious that’ll eventually lead to marriage and children.

It’s what drew you to him.

With Joel, you have a chance at stability, at having the comfort and security you’ve missed after losing your family. He’s your shot at finding that kind of love you’ve longed for since your world got turned upside down. But even with all of that hope, you still have doubts. You’ve been burned in the past, let down, and abandoned, and those fears linger at the edges of your mind. Still, you trust him. You believe what he says, and when he tells you he doesn’t want you going anywhere, it makes you go so soft you practically melt into goo.

There’s no thought, you act on impulse, gripping the open collar of his shirt, pulling him toward you to crush your smiling mouth against his. He grunts in surprise, but in an instant, he has his hands on your waist, stepping forward, his body crowding yours, backing you up until your spine hits the cool surface with a soft thud. This kiss isn’t as frantic as the first from the previous day. It’s soft, lingering, full of all the hope you have, and the things you can’t find the words to say. He kisses you back with a kind of patience that feels like a promise, as if he’s got all the time in the world if it means he’s with you.

"I can't get enough of you," he whispers. Then he's kissing you like he means it—slowly, consuming you, his tongue slipping into your mouth, swallowing the moan you can't hold back.

Joel presses closer, his chest solid against your front, sliding his thigh between your legs. You're so worked up that your body moves without permission, rocking your hips, chasing the friction of the rough denim that ignites heat at the base of your spine.

He groans when you grind down, the sound vibrating into your mouth. He’s got one hand firm on your hip, the other cupping your face, the kiss turning dizzying with how his tongue intertwines with yours. Feeling his heat, smelling his scent, tasting his lips, having him surrounding you makes it impossible to think of anything else except him, and you need more. At this point, your panties are soaked, and you’re worried there’s going to be a wet spot on his jean-covered thigh.

When the kissing ends, you’re both panting. “Come inside,” you tell him.

His thumb strokes your cheek, and you can see it on his face that he wants to. “You gotta get to work.”

“I will—after my boyfriend fucks me.”

His brow lifts. “Boyfriend?”

“Yeah. You got a problem with that, big guy?”

“I’m too damn old to be called that.”

“Then pick a title. Are you coming in or not?” You reach behind you to turn the doorknob and push the door open.

He doesn’t give you a verbal response. Instead, his lips are suddenly on yours again, walking you backwards into your apartment, making you smile into the kiss. He kicks your front door closed, both of you ignoring that your key is still in the deadbolt—Jackson’s a relatively safe place. His hands drag his jacket you’re wearing down your arms until it falls to the floor, followed closely by your long-sleeved shirt and sports bra, while you toe off your shoes.

The kiss turns messy, his mouth slanting over yours with a quiet hunger. He gets you to the couch, his lips leaving yours as he coaxes you to lie down, the soft, familiar cushions giving under you. Joel’s kneeling between your legs, and within seconds, he has your leggings and underwear discarded unceremoniously onto the ground.

“Just look at you.” His big hands push open your thighs before he rolls up his shirt sleeves. The only light comes from above the stove in the kitchen, but you can make out his pupils, blown pitch-black, staring at your glistening pussy, the front of his jeans bulging. He licks his lips like he wants to taste you, his free hand squeezing his hard cock. “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

God, you want him inside you. You’re a little sore from last night, but you don’t care. You have no self-control when it comes to him, and you’ll happily feel the ache all day, to keep him fresh on your mind.

He seems to understand that time is of the essence, and this needs to be quick—he’s unbuckling his belt and getting his pants undone. His gaze rises to yours with a frown, shoving down his boxer briefs to release his dick—he’s thick with a nice length, precum leaking from the flushed tip. “I’m eatin’ you out tonight,” he states. “For as long as I want.”

His declaration sends a shock of excitement to your center. You smile. “Are you?”

He nods, giving his length a few strokes. “Yes. Then I’m takin’ my time fuckin’ you ‘til there ain’t a chance in hell you forget a single inch of me.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Good. Now be a good boy and fuck me like you mean it.”

His eyes narrow, his voice dropping dangerously low. “Good boy? We’ve talked about that smart mouth of yours.” There wasn’t much talking—he fucked you within an inch of your life, though. “You wanna try that again?” he asks.

Earlier, you questioned if he enjoys playing with fire, and you’re starting to think it’s you who does.

“Ummm, now be a good boy and fuck me like you mean it, please?” You blink up at him innocently.

His jaw ticks. “You’re lucky you have work.” He shuffles back enough to bend forward, his palms on your open thighs.

“Why?”

He spits, a hot, wet wad of saliva landing on your clit, and your brain short-circuits. Why is that so fucking hot? Is it that he’s marking you, claiming you as his? Saying, ‘This is mine and only mine.’ His head lifts, and you meet his dark gaze, feeling as he drags two fingers through the mess he made to spread it over your entrance. “‘Cause, I would’ve edged you ‘til you cried for that shit.” You don’t have a chance to respond—he pushes his thick digits into you, his other hand pressing down on your belly, right above your mound. The stretch burns for half a second before melting into pure pleasure when Joel curls his fingers just right, zeroing in on that one magical spot that makes your vision blur.

“Joel,” you gasp, your hips twitching, eyes closing, “oh, fuck—”

“Yeah?” He has the audacity to sound smug. “I know how to touch you, don’t I?” Each push and pull of his digits is rough and deliberate, hitting your g-spot so perfectly you’re unable to stop squirming. “Answer me,” he orders.

“Yes.”

Your thighs threaten to close around his hand as an orgasm forms in your core, the tension rising with each passing second.

He’s using his fingers for good and evil—the good, preparing you to take him. The evil, how he’s not going to let you come yet. He’ll draw it out, torturing you with every press of his digits, but you’re not finishing like this. No, you’re at his mercy; he’s entirely in control of how close you’ll get and when you’ll fall.

“Who owns this pussy?”

Your body is screaming for release, the coil twisting tighter. You both love and hate that he knows exactly how to work you up. It’s hard to think, let alone answer. You don’t want him to stop, so you force out, “You.”

The obscene wet squelch of his fingers working in and out of you fills the room, your body wound tight, legs trembling. Maybe you were wrong, and he will let you come—it’s highly unlikely, but a girl can dream. You’re almost there, you just need a little bit more.

“Yeah, I do, and don’t fuckin’ forget it.”

You’re right on the cusp of falling apart, and that’s when he stops. You knew it was coming, yet when he removes his hands, your eyes fly open, groaning in frustration. “You’re so mean.”

He rolls his eyes, wiping your juices onto his cock, then spitting in his hand to slick it up even more. “I’m not mean.” Joel inches forward, one palm on your thigh, holding you open as he drags the fat tip of himself through your wetness. “I’m teachin’ you manners.” He teases your opening. “Now, we don’t have much time, so this is gonna be quick and dirty. Got it?”

“Yes.”

He smiles. “That’s my girl.” Without another word, he’s thrusting into you with one hard stroke, bottoming out with a rumbling groan—you cry out, clawing at the couch cushions for something to hold onto, the sudden fullness knocking the air from your chest. He’s so big it feels like you’re being split in two, savoring the burn.

For a moment, he stays buried deep, his hand spreading over where he’s inside you, low in your belly. “You feel that?” he asks in a deep husk. “That’s all me.”

When Joel said this was going to be quick and dirty, he didn’t mince words. As soon as he starts moving, he’s fucking into you hard and fast, the brutal pace stuttering your breath.

“Oh, god,” you moan. He has your tits jiggling, something you know he’s loving.

“He’s got nothin’ to do with this,” Joel grits out. He licks the pad of his thumb, pressing it to your swollen clit, the added pressure making your back bow, gasping his name. “Yeah, I know, baby. That’s it.” He doesn’t let up, thrusting hard while he circles your bundle of nerves with practiced, filthy precision that’s driving you crazy.

“Joel, oh fuck. Joel—”

“I’ve got you.” His free hand palms your breast, brushing his calloused thumb over your stiff nipple, before pinching it. You mewl, writhing under him. “This what you wanted? This how you wanted me to fuck you?”

​ Yes, you think, but can’t say out loud. The fast, punishing rhythm combined with the attention to your tits and clit has you dizzy with pleasure. He’s hitting you everywhere, inside and out, and it borders on too much, your body trembling uncontrollably. It’s a little embarrassing how quickly he builds you right back up to the edge.

“You gonna come for me?” he asks. His hand comes off your breast to brace himself when he leans over you, his mouth trailing hot kisses down your neck. “Are you? You gonna give it to me?”

His thumb continues rubbing tight, fast circles in sync with the steady strokes of his cock.

“Yes, don’t stop—oh god—please, don’t stop.” Your arms go around his back, your nails digging into the flannel over his shoulders.

“We’re not done ‘til you soak me, baby. Come for me, let me have it.” He sucks hard on your pulse point.

It all boils over—the rough pad of his thumb, the heat of his mouth on your neck, his dick railing into you—the tension snaps, and you’re coming, crying out as pleasure wracks through you, your inner walls clenching around him like a vice.

“There we go,” Joel groans, his pace faltering. “My good girl—my good fuckin’ girl.” He doesn’t let you come down; his hips keep moving, drawing out every tremor, every helpless gasp until you’re boneless and shaking under him, completely wrung out.

“That’s it, baby,” he rasps. “You did so good for me.”

His praise is a balm and a brand, soothing and burning all at once.

He leaves you no chance to recover; he’s chasing his own high now. His arms are on either side of your head, his thrusts turning rough, almost frantic, the wet, slick sound of him working into you mixing with his harsh breathing. He wants it, and you can feel it in every hard, punishing stroke.

Something you’ve learned about Joel is that he likes to kiss when he comes—he likes to kiss in general, but especially when he’s coming. So, you’re expecting it when his mouth crashes onto yours, kissing you deep and messily. His hips snap faster, his breath turning hot and ragged against your lips.

“Gonna come,” he mutters into your mouth. “Gonna fuck you full of me, baby. Fill you up. You want that? You want my come?”

You moan ‘yes’ into the kiss, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him as deep as he’ll go, and that’s it for him. Joel slams into you to the hilt and stays there, a raw, guttural moan tearing from his chest as his cock throbs hard inside you. You feel it—every hot, thick pulse flooding you, spilling into your inner depths. He grinds, rolling his hips to fuck it deeper, kissing you like he's starving for you and can't get enough. Once he's milked himself of every last drop, he collapses, shoving his face into the crook of your neck with a happy sigh.

Another thing about Joel is that he gets very cuddly after sex and loves it if you play with his hair. Your fingers go into the sweat-damp waves on his head, lovingly scratching his scalp. He hums in the back of his throat, nuzzling your skin.

“Tha’s nice,” he slurs.

You smile. “Please don’t pass out. I really do need to get to work.”

He sighs. “Gimme a minute.”

“Okay.” You’ll give him five and work a little later—you live in the apocalypse, no one will care if you’re forty-five minutes late to your shift.

God, this is nice—it’d be better if he were naked, still, his flannel shirt isn’t uncomfortable against your skin.

His weight on you is grounding, like nothing bad can reach you here. But that’s how it always is with Joel. He makes you feel safe and wanted. Maybe a better word is cherished—he makes you feel safe and cherished. Your body is warm, your limbs heavy, and your mind swimming in a soft haze. Is it ridiculous to think that you could stay like this forever? Tangled up with him, breathing him in, your hearts beating in sync. Is that too much to wish for?

Probably.

You’re not naive. You know he’s not as perfect as he seems. You just haven’t known him long enough to figure out his flaws. Hell, odds are, all of this is too good to be true, and he’ll have his fun with you before he decides to settle down with a woman of a more appropriate age. He wouldn’t be the first man to do that to you. Even with that in the back of your mind, you’re falling harder for him than anyone else, and you’re hoping he doesn’t break your heart. But if he does, and worst comes to worst, you’ve got Gail, the town’s therapist, who’ll help you get over him. Wouldn’t be the first time, and she’d be pretty excited to start getting those shortbread cookies she loves again.

Joel shifts slightly on top of you, kissing the side of your neck. He drags his lips across your sweaty skin. “You okay, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his voice rough.

“I’m wonderful.” You slide your fingers through his surprisingly soft hair.

“Good.” He kisses your collarbone, then the hollow of your throat. “Was it everythin’ you wanted?”

The question makes you snort. “Are you asking me to review your performance?”

His head pops up to give you a look. “Are you tellin’ me you didn’t enjoy it?”

Your eyes roll. “It was mindblowing. It’s always mindblowing. Five out of five stars.”

He nods once. “That’s what I thought.”

“Wow, I’m deducting half a point for your smugness. Four and a half stars now.”

He frowns, his expression turning grumpy. He mutters under his breath as he starts to move off of you, “Four and a half stars my ass… “ Your giggle evolves into a whimper at the sudden emptiness of him pulling out. Of course, Joel notices, his lips lifting into a smirk. “Miss me already?” he asks.

“Why do I like you?”

“I check all your boxes, and sweetheart, you don’t just like me, you wanna marry me.”

The day before, after he rocked your world the first time, you proposed marriage when you discovered you both shared the same desires for the future, one of them being children—it’s rare for a man his age to actually want a baby, and with people moving fast these days due to the uncertainty, it wasn’t too crazy a proposal. It’s not uncommon to marry someone you barely know, but Joel is from a different time, and politely declined, simply because he wants to date you properly, which is very sweet. He also said that if you’re still together in six months, he will marry you, so you’ve got something to—hopefully—look forward to.

You sit up on your elbows. “I’m second-guessing that right now.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, you agreed to marry me… in six months.”

“Or if I knock you up first.” He says it so nonchalantly that it leaves you speechless. His dark gaze is on yours as his hand goes between your thighs, two thick fingers catching his come as it drips out of you, and when he slowly pushes it back inside, you just about lose your fucking mind, unsure whether to shiver or melt. “So, keep that in there for me. Every drop.” Why is that so hot? “Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

He smiles. “That’s my girl. I also like knowin’ you’ll have some of me with you today while we’re apart.” Why is that romantic? How can come be romantic? What is he doing to you? Joel removes his two soaked fingers from you, glistening with both of you, and holds them up to your mouth. “Open.” That brings you back to yourself, things feeling normal again. You don’t hesitate, parting your lips for him to push them in. You grab his wrist with one hand, holding it still, keeping eye contact as you swirl your tongue, sucking his digits clean.

“You like how we taste?” he asks. You hum an affirmative.

This is where you show him that two can play this dirty little game.

You press forward, taking his fingers all the way to the back of your throat, your lips touching his knuckles, moaning for the hell of it. His eyes round, a sharp breath escaping him, which delights you.

"Jesus Christ," he whispers. "You keep showin' off like that, and you're not leavin’."

You pull off of him. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.” You grab a fistful of his shirt, tugging him down for a quick kiss, and push him back. “I need to take a quick shower, get dressed, and go to work.” You get off the couch and stand up. His come leaks down your inner thigh—yeah, a shower is a must. “Feel free to hang or let yourself out,” you tell him. Turning around, you start heading to your bedroom at the end of the hall. “Thanks for the quickie! Can’t wait to see you tonight!”

You’ve barely made it three steps when out of nowhere, a big hand latches around your arm, stopping you. You yelp in surprise, spinning round to find Joel standing there, with flushed cheeks and his jeans hastily pulled up, looking like you just insulted him or something.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

"That's not how you say goodbye to your boyfriend," he firmly answers.

You blink, caught off guard. “I thought you were too old to be my boyfriend?”

“I am, but that’s beside the point.”

“Is it, though? ‘Cause you seem pretty upset I didn’t give you whatever the fuck a boyfriend goodbye is. The kiss wasn’t enough?”

“That wasn’t a goodbye kiss. That was a fuckin’ drive-by. You don’t give a man a quick peck and walk off like that.”

“Okay? Then explain to me what the proper way is to say goodbye to my title-pending not-boyfriend.”

“Like this—” His hands frame your face, his rough palms warm against your cheeks, and then his mouth is on yours. Oh, this is one of those kisses. The kind that steals every coherent thought, that you’ll replay in your head later while impatiently counting down until you can have another. The kind that makes your knees go weak and leaves you dazed, smiling like an idiot all day—a solid five out of five stars, maybe the best you’ve ever had.

When you finally break away, you’re breathless. “Better?” you whisper.

His eyes are heavy-lidded, his gaze hungry. He, honest to god, pouts. “Yeah, but now I don’t wanna go. I’m gonna miss you too much.”

His response makes you smile, and you throw your arms around his neck. “You’re adorable. You’ll see me tonight. What time are you coming over?”

“I don’t know. Depends on how long it’s gonna take me for Ellie’s present.” He’s putting together a guitar for her birthday tomorrow. “Then, if she wants to have dinner with me or watch a movie, it’ll be after all that. I’m hopin’ seven or eight. Earlier, if I can make it happen.”

“God, it’s such a turn-on when you talk about being a good dad.”

He chuckles and kisses you. “Is that okay?” he asks when he leans back.

“Is what okay?”

“That I won’t be able to come over until later tonight?”

“Oh, yeah. Ellie comes first. Always. I can make her cake this afternoon when I get off work.”

“Then it’s a date.”

“It’s a date.”

“Now, kiss me goodbye correctly.”

Work was uneventful, or so you thought. You were distracted, replaying the last twenty-four hours on repeat in your head like one of those old sports highlight reels your dad used to watch on cable (before the world ended and he, you know, died). It was hard not to think about Joel and all the things he did to you, especially with how you could still feel him, the soreness between your legs, and the come he left behind.

You finished in the community kitchen around one in the afternoon, picking up eggs and a glass bottle of fresh milk on your way home. Once you got back to your apartment, you tidied up, then got to work on Ellie’s birthday cake, which Joel requested to be chocolate. Where does a person get chocolate in a post-apocalyptic North America where cocoa beans don’t grow? Traders. It’s the same way you get coffee beans. Traders brave the wilds to bring the highly sought-after goods up from Central and South America—there’s a reason they’re so expensive.

There are a couple of traders who come through town every once in a while, you’ve hooked up with. They were sweet and gave you discounts on your stash of cocoa powder and coffee beans—not that you slept with them for the deals. It was just an added perk you’d be stupid to turn down.

Now, it’s later in the evening, sometime after seven. Ellie’s cake was made hours ago, carefully frosted and covered, waiting in your fridge. That’s something you’ve been doing, too—waiting. Waiting for Joel. Waiting for that knock on your door. Waiting for him.

An hour passes. The movie you put on has ended, and the credits are over. You stare at the black screen into the void for a moment, then sigh, getting up to start another, something to fill the silence. To keep yourself from looking at your front door every five minutes, you grab your pile of holey socks and start darning them.

9 p.m.

You’ve moved on from socks to patching up other clothes just to keep your hands busy. Your thoughts keep circling back to Joel, to Ellie, how he lights up when he talks about her. That’s a good thing, you remind yourself. You love that. You love that she’s his world. She should be. But there’s a thought that’s crept into your brain that won’t go away: Is that why he’s with you? She has friends now and prefers to hang out with them rather than with Joel, and he’s lonely? Are you filling the space she’s leaving behind? That’s fine if you are. You don’t mind it. Hell, you’re lonely, too. You can be two lonely people finding happiness in each other. It makes you wonder, though, if he would’ve even looked at you twice if he weren’t lonely.

10 p.m.

You’ve run out of clothes to patch up and are now on your knees, scrubbing the hell out of the inside of your oven. Joel still hasn’t shown up, and that is totally okay. Truly. The man is busy, and you’re well aware of how devoted he is to his kid, a quality you love so much. These are things you keep telling yourself, over and over again, needing to believe them. You’ve put on a record because you were driving yourself insane thinking every tiny noise you heard was him, because when it ended up not being him, it just made you feel a little bit sadder. A little bit more foolish.

11 p.m.

The doubt starts to sink its claws into you. So, what do you do? You reorganize your kitchen cabinets to try to drown it out. Does it work? No. The thoughts are louder than the clinking of dishes and Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” playing on your record player. What bothers you most is that if Joel wanted to be here, he’d be here, and if he couldn’t make it, he would’ve had the decency to stop by and let you know—there are no phones, and that’s just what you do. That’s the kind of man he is… isn’t he? Do you have it all wrong? There's a voice in the back of your head, feeding your doubt, reminding you that you hardly know Joel at all.

12 a.m.

Midnight comes. You don’t know what else to do, so you put on another movie. It was a random VHS you plucked from the shelf, not bothering to look at the title. Even with your heater on, your apartment is cold. You wrap a blanket around your shoulders to try to stave off the chill, but it's useless. They say never to trust how you feel after 9 p.m., and yet here you are, feeling pathetic that you're still holding out hope he'll knock on your door. You keep glancing at it, trying to will him there. He would’ve come by now for your date, or to tell you he needed to cancel, and even with knowing that, you still hope.

1 a.m.

He didn’t come over.

With the way the world is, your first instinct is to think something happened to him. People don’t show, and it sometimes means they’re hurt, or worse, dead. But Joel? He’s fine. You know where he was. He had the day off and was at home working on Ellie’s gift. Nothing happened to him, which leaves the only other reason for his absence:

He didn’t want to be here.

Knowing that he didn't want to be here—that he didn't want you—is a knife to the heart.

Then you start spiraling, wondering if you misread things or if it all meant more to you than it did to him. Did all of the time you spent together, the promises, and hopes for the future mean nothing?

You don’t know, but tonight shows you he never cared about you, because if he actually gave a damn, he would’ve come. He would’ve done something, anything, to ensure you knew he was okay and that he wasn’t blowing you off.

And he didn’t.

That silence? It tells you how he really feels.

It pisses you off that he led you on like that, then didn’t have the decency to cancel or break up with you. Instead, he left you wondering where he was for hours, like a dog whose person isn’t coming home.

"Fuck him," you say it out loud, like speaking it into existence will ease the tightness in your chest. It doesn’t.

You had a feeling this was all too good to be true, and you should’ve listened to your gut. You shouldn’t have let yourself get so attached. It annoys you that you’re so upset. You hate that you want to cry. Your anger won’t let you—he doesn’t deserve your tears.

And to think you let him come inside you, risking pregnancy, something you’ve done your best to avoid, all because you trusted him and thought you had a future with him. Why? Why did you trust him so easily? He was different, at least different from anyone else in your past. He made you think he wanted something real by being upfront about not having any interest in anything casual. You fell for the sincerity in his eyes. Was it all a game to him? What was the point of all of this?

What you know for sure is that you are never trusting a man again.

And your bed. Your broken bed that sits in your room, reminding you of your stupidity for thinking someone like Joel would want anything more from you than sex. He’s like all the other men who don’t see you as partner material—you’re just the good time they have before they settle down with someone different.

God, it’s embarrassing how late you stayed up hoping he’d show. Well, fuck him.

You don’t have the energy to do anything about your bed, so you curl up on the couch under a blanket, and as you drift off to sleep, one question won’t leave your mind:

Why am I unlovable?

It’s half past five the next morning. With how heated you feel, you barely register the cold, or maybe it’s the jeans and sweater you’re wearing doing their job to keep away the chill. You’re almost to Joel’s house, carefully carrying Ellie’s small cake, protected in a plastic container—you never even considered not delivering it. The whole walk over here, you’ve been thinking about what you’ll say to him, each step amplifying the anger in your chest.

You’re not sad, you’re mad. You’re pissed off that you let your guard down and allowed a man into your heart, only for him to break it. You don’t want to hear his excuses. You don’t want to hear his apologies. You want this to be over and to never talk to him again.

Stepping up onto his porch, your heart pounds. You knock on the front door.

He must’ve already been downstairs; the door opens almost immediately, and there he is, Joel Miller. He’s got dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep—good. When you stayed with him the other night, he told you he struggles with sleeping, and that having you in bed with him was the best rest he’d gotten in a long time. It cheers you up a little to see that he looks like shit.

When he sees you, his shoulders relax, a breath leaving him like he’s been holding it in all night.

“Thank Christ you’re here.” He sounds relieved. You assume he was freaking out that you weren’t going to bring over the cake.

“Of course, I’m here. I’m not going to ruin an innocent child’s birthday because their father is an asshole. Here.” You carefully shove the container into his chest. “I hope Ellie has a great birthday, and us?” You point between you. “We’re done. Don’t talk to me again. Don’t come near my apartment. Don’t even fucking look at me.”

His brow furrows. “Now, hold on—”

“No,” you cut him off. “I don’t want to hear it. Your silence last night said enough.”

“Baby—”

“I’m not your baby. I’m nothing to you.”

His jaw clenches. “Let me talk,” he growls.

“No!” you snap. “I don’t wanna hear your bullshit excuses.”

His voice rises. “Let me fuckin’ explain!”

You don’t flinch at his outburst. “No!” you say just as loudly. “I’m done. Goodbye, Joel.” You turn around, your boots thudding as you walk down the porch step.

“You’re makin’ a mistake!”

The door slams behind you. Or maybe it doesn’t. Either way, you don’t look back.

What do you do?

There’s no way in hell you’re going home to cry over a man who couldn’t be bothered to show up. You’re better than that. Stronger. Smarter. Done. It doesn’t matter if he made you feel seen and cherished, or if you could imagine a future with him. Nope. No tears for that asshole.

So, you go to work.

You bake bread.

You bake too much bread.

More than is needed for the day, and probably tomorrow, too. Just means you don’t have to be in as early in the morning. With everything that happened over the last couple of days, you can use the extra sleep.

While helping prep lunch, you overhear two workers whispering about the dishwashing kid from yesterday burning themselves badly on a pot of boiling water after you left–skin sloughed off their arm. Had to be rushed to the clinic. You didn’t catch their name or whether they were male or female. You try to remember who had dish duty, and you can’t, because they rotate out the teens in town for the job daily, so it’s always a different kid each day.

After work, you go home for a little while. You don’t sit still; instead, you keep yourself busy, then shower, changing into jeans and a t-shirt before leaving.

The house you go to, you’ve been to more times than you can count. You knock on the front door. “One second!” comes the familiar voice.

The door cracks open. Then it opens wider.

“What happened?” Gail asks in a knowing tone.

“You got time?”

“You got the stuff?”

You hold up the cookie tin. “Two dozen ‘cause I’m fucked up.”

She takes the container, opens it, and nods in approval. “A man?” She moves out of the way for you to come inside.

“Isn’t it always?” You walk past her, knowing exactly where to go.

“Sometimes we talk about your childhood. Who’s the guy?”

In the living room, you flop back on Gail’s couch, shifting the pillows behind your head and being careful to keep your boots off the old upholstery.

“Have you met Joel Miller?”

“Tommy’s brother?”

Gail takes a seat in her chair across from you, the cookies in her lap. She leans forward to grab her ancient kitchen timer on the coffee table between you, cranking it to your allotted sixty minutes, and sets it down again. Then she sits back, popping the tin’s lid to grab a shortbread cookie, and takes a bite, humming her enjoyment.

“Yeah.”

She swallows. “Briefly. We’ve been introduced. Handsome. Definitely your type.” You hear her crunching.

“We fucked.”

She finishes her cookie and closes the container, putting it on the end table beside her. “I figured. Cookies are amazing as always.”

“Thanks. He wasn’t like the others. Or at least I thought he wasn’t. He talked about serious stuff like marriage and kids. It really felt like we could have a future together. Not only that, I felt so comfortable with him, I didn’t tell him to pull out.”

Usually, with older men, you didn’t have to because they were careful and didn’t want children. With the younger men, you were the cautious one, telling them to pull out.

“That’s interesting,” she muses. “You’re usually careful, or as careful as you can be. Why him?”

“Because he’s a dad. A really good dad. He’s solid, attentive, hot—obviously—but also sweet. Funny, when he wants to be, and the sex. My god, is it truly the best sex I’ve ever had.”

“And you’ve had a lot of sex, so that’s saying something.” There’s zero judgment in her tone.

“Right? I just thought he might be—it’s too fucking cheesy to say out loud.”

“The one?”

“Yeah…”

“Sorry, kiddo, but this circles back to your favorite subject.”

You groan. “Ugh, not the childhood trauma. Why is it always the childhood trauma?”

“It’s a real bitch, isn’t it? Crazy how a single, life-altering event during brain development haunts you into adulthood.”

“I hate it,” you mutter. “But, whatever. Go on.”

“You lost your family in the worst way. It was violent, sudden, and you had no chance to say goodbye. Then came Seth and Rita, who took you in, but we both know you never really felt like you belonged with them. That’s left you chasing that feeling of real, unconditional love, you just have shitty taste in men.”

“Hey!”

“Am I wrong? You go after guys twice your age, who are emotionally constipated, and are only interested in fucking you, when you need someone you can build a life with. This is where Joel comes in. He looked good on paper. Older, handsome, has a kid, and knows how to use his words sometimes. With him, you saw your chance at finding that love you lost.”

“Well, Joel was a bust.”

“Let’s dig into that. What happened?”

Taking a deep breath, you tell her everything that happened over the last seventy-two hours. “—and I went to this house this morning to drop off the cake and refused to hear what he had to say.”

“If you didn’t let him speak, how do you know he stood you up?”

“Because he didn’t come over or stop by to tell me what was going on.”

“What if he wasn’t able to contact you? It’s not like communication is easy these days without phones. Maybe he couldn’t go to your apartment.”

You frown. When you look at her, she’s got her glasses on, busy scribbling something into her black notebook. “What do you mean?” you ask.

Her eyes meet yours. “You got to find out early that people can just be gone with no warning. So, now your default is the worst-case scenario. But here’s the thing: this time, you knew Joel was safe at home. He wasn’t dead or dying in a ditch. What you did instead of worrying he got hurt, is you jumped straight to 'he doesn't care about me' and 'he was just using me.' I hate to break it to you, kid, but I don't think that's what happened here.

“Then why didn’t he show up?” you quietly ask.

“He has a daughter, right? What if something happened to her?”

You gasp, sitting up. “The kid who got burned!”

You’ve never met Ellie, but you know what she looks like. You’ve seen her with Joel around town. Were you really so distracted that you didn’t notice she was the dishwasher?

How did you miss that?

“Is that what happened to her? She was hopped up on some good shit when I saw Tommy walking her home from the clinic yesterday.”

“Dammit, Gail! Why didn’t you lead with that?”

“You needed clarity.” She shrugs. “And to know your brain is an asshole.”

This is when it hits you like a truck: you've jumped to baseless conclusions and ruined the best thing to ever happen to you. You feel sick to your stomach as your heart rate doubles. You get up because you feel you need to leave, but you end up pacing instead.

“Oh my god.” Your vision blurs from watery eyes. “I didn’t let him speak. I told him not to talk to me. He tried to explain, and I shut him down.” Tears begin falling down your cheeks. “I thought—I really fucking thought he didn’t care, and the poor man was probably just taking care of his kid.” You stop in your tracks, remembering how he told you Sarah died in his arms. He must’ve been beside himself with worry over Ellie’s injury. The relief on his face when he saw you at his door this morning wasn’t because of the cake; it was because you were there. How could you be so cruel?

The weight of what you did is closing in, your breaths coming out quick and shallow. Sending you on the verge of hyperventilating, your vision tunneling, the edges going dark as the world caves in all around you.

Gail is suddenly up and in front of you, gripping your arms. "Hey, breathe. Look at me and breathe."

Your wide eyes go to hers, and you try, but your throat is too tight, the panic pressing in everywhere.

“Come on, kid, just breathe. You made a mistake. It happens. Nobody’s perfect. What you did isn’t unforgivable. Let’s focus on your breathing—you got this—in through your nose.” She does it with you. “There you go. Now let it out.” You do. “Again.” She coaches you to breathe, little by little, the heaviness in your chest easing, and your vision clearing, until you’ve calmed down. “There we go. You good?” she asks.

“Yeah.” You nod. “What do I do?” You sound desperate, your bottom lip wobbling. “I don’t want to lose him.”

“You talk to him. You own up to your shit. Tell him you assumed the worst because your brain’s an asshole, and you were heartbroken. If he’s worth a damn, and I have high hopes he is, he’ll forgive you.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then at least you tried and did all you could.”

What you feel like you need to do is head to Joel’s immediately to apologize and explain, but you can’t. It's Ellie's birthday, and you do not want to intrude on her special day.

The air outside is warm, the sun shining with hardly any clouds in the sky. The weather doesn’t reflect what you’re feeling inside, regret rolling through you like a thunderstorm, consuming you. You’re walking home, thinking of what you could possibly say to fix what happened.

Hey, so I may have overreacted over a misunderstanding. I didn’t know that your kid got hurt, and that’s why you missed our date, which is totally my bad. Please forgive me.

Yeah, he definitely won’t accept that.

Every idea you’ve had since leaving Gail’s has sounded pathetic. To be honest, you don’t even know what would right your wrongs and earn Joel’s forgiveness. You’re beyond angry at yourself for not giving him a chance to speak; not only that, but you also feel so fucking guilty. He looked like he hadn’t slept when you saw him, and instead of checking how he was, you treated him like shit.

What’s worse is that you knew Joel wasn’t playing games, and you treated him like he did anyway. But as Gail said, your past still haunts you, and it sabotaged your best chance at happiness.

Fuck.

What are you going to do?

What can you do?

Nothing until tomorrow.

You have the night to figure out a plan that will hopefully earn Joel’s forgiveness. Or maybe you’re being too optimistic, and nothing can be done to repair what you ruined.

You’re starting to spiral again, when loud laughter stops you in your tracks. You look toward the noise, spotting three teenagers heading your way down the road. What has your stomach somersaulting is who's in the middle of the trio—it's Ellie, wearing a short-sleeved shirt that reveals her bandaged forearm. You’re glad to see that her injury isn’t keeping her from having fun.

Your thoughts start to race. If Ellie is hanging out with her friends, then that means Joel should be at home… alone.

Your heart is thudding a mile a minute.

You don’t remember deciding to turn. It’s your body that makes the call before your brain can talk you out of it.

You’re going.

Do you know what you’ll say? No. Do you know if he’ll even listen? Also, no. But you have to try. You have to do something if there’s any chance to make this right.

You’re back on Joel Miller’s porch. Same day. Same door. But where this morning you were fire and fury, now you’re just… scared.

It takes you a moment to gather your thoughts, then finally, you suck in a deep breath and knock, three raps against the door.

Now comes the worst part: the wait. The time when you’re stuck in a limbo of whether or not Joel is going to answer the door. It’s nerve-wracking enough to make you a little queasy and your hands, as the seconds seem to stretch on for an eternity.

Enough seconds pass that make you wonder if he’s not home.

Or, the likelier reason he hasn’t answered yet is that he saw you and doesn’t want to talk to you. That thought is like a punch to the gut.

But then the deadbolt clicks.

The door opens, and there’s Joel, the picture of a man who’s just been awoken from a nap. His hair is messy, and he’s squinting a little at the bright sunlight, wearing a white t-shirt and comfy-looking gray sweatpants.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

“You were right, I made a mistake.”

“No shit. So what is this? You here to make yourself feel better?”

“I’m here to apologize and explain. I thought you stood me up.”

“Yeah.” His tone’s sharp. “I got that part.”

“I was hurt. I lashed out when I shouldn’t have. I’m so fucking sorry, Joel.”

His eyebrows rise. “Sorry, huh?” He scoffs. “Well, sorry don’t cut it. Not with the way you treated me.”

He starts to close the door, but your hand hits it with a thud to stop it. “Joel, please.”

He doesn’t budge. “Don’t. Don’t give me that shit, standing there and acting like you care now.”

“I do!” You say it too quickly, too loudly. “I do care. I was wrong, and I fucked up.”

“Well, I don’t wanna hear your bullshit excuses,” he snaps.

It’s a slap to the face hearing your own words thrown back at you.

The door starts to move again, and you panic.

“You know how your world ended when Sarah died?” you blurt out.

He freezes, his expression darkening. “You don’t get to talk about her.”

"My world ended when I lost my family." You don't want his sympathy. You don’t even want to talk about this, but telling him about your past will give him a better understanding of who you are. "I was twelve,” you continue. “It was me, my parents, and my two little sisters traveling. We were trying to reach a safer QZ. The day before, we had a close call with some infected. My dad took care of them, so we thought we were fine, but…” Your throat tightens. “I like to believe my mom didn’t know she’d been bitten.”

“Anyways, we stayed the night in an abandoned house. The next morning, I was doing a perimeter check with my dad when we heard screaming. We ran in—” You pause to swallow around the lump in your throat. “We ran in,” you try again, “and there was blood on the floor. My sisters were already gone. They didn’t stand a chance, and my mom… she wasn’t my mom anymore. In that moment, my dad didn’t just lose his wife; he lost his will to live. It didn’t matter how much I needed him, there was no way he’d keep going without her, so I lost him, too. He made me leave before he…” You don’t want to say what he did to himself out loud. It’s bad enough that you can remember the sound of the gunshot. With the back of your hand, you wipe away the tears in your eyes. “So… Yeah…”

For half a second, his eyes flicker with something—recognition? Maybe pain? His gaze drops to the space between you, silence falling over you both. You hate the quiet. It's filled with too much unknown—will he give you a chance to explain the reason you acted the way you did that morning? Is he going to shut the door in your face? Is he going to tell you off, then shut the door in your face? Joel isn't a man of many words, and even less so, someone who openly shows their emotions. It makes sense that he doesn't offer you his condolences or welcome you into his home. It is very Joel when he clears his throat and steps back for you to walk in, shutting and locking the door behind you.

“My brain is an asshole,” you say, your eyes on the floor. “Gail says it’s the childhood trauma. It makes me jump to the worst-case scenario.”

“Gail the therapist…?”

“Yes.” You lift your head. “She’s the one who told me Ellie got hurt. Is she okay?”

“She’s fine.”

“That’s good.” You nod. “She looked happy with Dina and Jesse when I saw her after my session.”

He walks past you toward the kitchen and doesn’t look back. “You want a drink?”

“If you don’t mind.”

If he’s getting you a drink, then maybe you should go into the living room. You head that way, stopping beside the leather couch in the middle of the room.

When you stayed over the other night, the house was too dark for you to see much of anything. Now, the late afternoon sunlight leaks through the window’s curtains to softly illuminate the area. You take in your surroundings, the blanket hastily thrown over the back of the sofa, the throw pillow near one of the armrests, indented with the shape of a head—he’d definitely been napping.

You’re an intruder in his space with no idea what you should do, so you stand there awkwardly.

A few moments later, he’s returning, holding a small glass in each hand. He offers you one that you take, raising it to your lips immediately, but pausing when you get a whiff of the liquor. It isn’t the harsh, homebrewed shit most people choke down these days. You take a sip. Yep, this is old-world whiskey. Smooth, warm, and extremely rare. Another perk of being a smuggler, you suppose.

He doesn’t sit right away; he just gestures toward the couch with his chin. “Sit down.”

You’re not sure if he’s ordering you or just being gruffly polite. You sit down anyway.

Joel sinks into the old armchair in the corner. He sits there, silent, pensive, turning his cup slowly in his hand as if to buy time to figure out what to say. “So…” he starts. “What happened to you. What’s that got to do with this mornin’?”

A valid question. Personal tragedies are a dime a dozen these days. Everyone who’s survived this long is bound to have losses. Look at Joel. It’s just a part of life.

When he finally looks at you, the anger in his eyes is replaced with exhaustion.

“‘Cause for the life of me,” he says, “I haven’t been able to make sense of where I went wrong for you to think so little of me.”

“That’s the thing, you didn’t do anything wrong. You were beyond perfect. A gentleman, a good guy, it was me and my fucked-up brain.” You sigh. “With how I lost my family, I kinda just expect everyone to leave, one way or another. So, when you didn’t come over, my first thought wasn’t a sane, ‘maybe something happened.’ It was a dramatic, ‘he’s gone like the rest of them.’ And that fucking destroyed me. It was worse than anything I’ve ever felt.”

He doesn’t say anything; he only hums his acknowledgment as he takes a slow drink of his whiskey.

You press on. “I coped by lashing out. I ended it before you could, thinking it’d hurt less, but it didn’t. It was worse. Nothing can excuse how I treated you, Joel. I fucked up. I majorly fucked up and hate myself for it. If there were any way for me to take it back, I would. All I can do now is beg for another chance. Let me prove it to you. Let me prove that I won’t run again.”

It's hard to tell from his demeanor what he’s thinking.

He rubs a palm over his jaw, the scrape of his stubble loud in the quiet. “Let me get this straight,” he starts. “You thought I was fuckin’ perfect and you still had the gall to treat me like that?” He lets out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes, taking another sip of his drink.

That’s not a good start—you shoot back the two fingers of liquor in your cup, appreciating the burn as it slides down your throat and warms your belly.

His glass rests on his thigh. He gazes into the amber liquid before his eyes meet yours again. “I get it,” he says, “the world is fuckin’ cruel. People leave, they die, they disappear, but aren’t you sick of that shit? Don’t you want to be happy? I was offerin’ to stay, to marry you, to have children with you, and you just threw me away like I was nothin’.”

“Joel—”

“No,” he cuts you off, making you flinch. “It’s my turn to talk, and you’re gonna fuckin’ listen to what I have to say.” Your gaze drops to the empty cup in your lap, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s clear as day that you’ve never been in a real relationship. You’ve had flings and men who strung you along, the bastards. Never anythin’ that lasted, and because of your inexperience, I will give you some grace.” Your eyes return to his, feeling the tiniest inkling of hope. “But even with that, I’m too fuckin’ old to be chasin’ a girl as young as you, who runs so easy. The smart thing for me to do is nip this in the bud and end it now.”

The admission makes your heart sink. He averts his eyes, rubbing at his chin again, thinking.

Dread has you feeling sick as you wait for him to kick you out.

His hair is already messy, but still, he runs his fingers through it and takes a deep breath. His gaze lifts to yours. “However,” he starts, “against my better judgement, I wanna give you another chance.” The hope is back, you perk up in your seat. “I don’t need you to be perfect. What I need is for you to meet me halfway—that’s it—you’ll get everythin’ I’ve got, but you can’t be boltin’ or shuttin’ me out when things get tough. I need to know that if I let you into my life—into Ellie’s life, that you plan to stick around. So, how do I know I can trust you?”

A great question that you don’t have the answer to.

What could you say or do to regain his trust?

“You can speak now,” he says softly, gently nudging you.

“You won’t know until I prove it to you, and I’m asking that you please give me a chance to show you. You were right that I’ve never been in a relationship. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but I’ll figure it out, because I want you, Joel, and everything you’re offering. Losing this, losing you, is worse than anything imaginable, and I swear that even if things get tough, I’m not going anywhere. I won’t run. I won’t shut you out. I’ll talk to you like I should’ve done in the first place. Just please give me the chance to prove that I’m worthy of your love.”

It's palpable how the tension between you loosens. He nods his head once, then lifts his drink to his lips, downing it all in one gulp, the empty glass getting set onto the table next to him. "You've always been worthy of love." He pushes himself up from the chair with a pained grunt.

You’re not sure how to respond. He stands there, his eyes slightly squinting, studying you, searching your face for any signs of deception. You assume he’s found none when he steps your way, gently prying your cup from your hands, that he puts down onto the coffee table in front of the couch.

"Up." He reaches for your hands and helps you to your feet. As soon as you're standing, he pulls you into his arms in a full-body hug, practically wrapping himself around you like he never wants to let you go. You smile when he presses his face in the crook of your neck, his stubble scratching your skin. He lets out a contented sigh, his body relaxing. “I missed you,” his voice is muffled. “Don’t fuckin’ do that again.”

“I won’t.” The promise leaves your mouth before you even think.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. He’s holding you, keeping you as close as possible, reminding yourselves of what this feels like. You press your face into his shoulder, getting a faint trace of his thyme soap, earthy with a hint of mint.

To think you almost walked away from this—from him—from these arms that feel like home and a man willing to love you with no plans to leave. Insane.

His palm smooths up your spine to cradle the back of your head. “Needed you last night,” he softly admits.

Your chest aches. From the look of him this morning and the nap you interrupted, he must’ve been up half the night. “I’m here now.” Your head turns, trailing your lips across his prickly jaw, as you whisper, “I’m not going anywhere.”

He leans back just enough to see your face, his big hand cupping your cheek. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, moving lower to trace the corner of your mouth. “Good,” he says, his gaze flicking to your lips. “‘Cause you’re mine.” It’s not up for debate. It’s stated as a fact, and all you can do is nod before the space between you disappears, and he’s kissing you.

At first, it’s slow, tentative; he’s reacquainting himself with the shape of your lips.

It’s not enough.

The dam breaks, Joel deepening the kiss. His arm around your back, drawing you flush against him, moaning when he licks into your mouth. His tongue intertwines with yours, tasting the whiskey—warm, smoky with a slight bite, that melts into something sweeter. Your arms circle his neck, giving in to all of the feelings washing over you—relief, want, drowning out that fear of losing him.

He pulls away long enough to say with his lips brushing yours, “Missed this.” Then his mouth is on yours again, rougher now, hungrier, kissing you like he’s staking his claim.

When your lungs begin to ache, you finally come up for air, panting. Joel peppers kisses along the line of your jaw and lower down your neck, your eyes rolling back when he sucks over your pulse.

The words stumble out of your mouth before you can stop them. “Can I make it up to you?”

His head rises to meet your gaze. “What’d you have in mind?”

“Let me suck your dick.”

His face is unreadable, his pupils blowing wide. “On your knees.”

The command has your breath hitching, your cunt clenching hard around nothing.

“Here?” you ask, surprised he doesn’t want to go somewhere more private. “What if someone comes home?”

“Someone is spendin’ the night at their friend’s. Knees,” he orders.

You obey, dropping without hesitation to kneel on the rug at his feet. He looms over you, tracking your every movement with a burning gaze as you look up at him. “Good girl,” he purrs, rubbing his thumb across your wet bottom lip. “Get me out.”

Here’s the thing, you could do exactly as he says—you should do exactly as he says, but where’s the fun in that?

Instead of your hands going to the waistband of his sweatpants, you plant them on his thighs, and lean in, pressing your cheek against where he’s beginning to bulge. Heat radiates through the cotton as you nuzzle your face over his half-hard cock.

“Is that what I told you to do?” he asks.

Locking your eyes onto his, you ensure he's watching as you finally reach to curl your fingers into the stretchy waistband, pulling his pants down agonizingly slow. You get them down his thighs until all that separates you from his straining length are his blue boxer briefs.

“That’s it.” His voice deepens.

Keeping your gaze on his, you’re blatantly disobedient, slowly mouthing along his shaft through the material covering him, your lips mapping him, darkening the fabric with your saliva. Joel’s frown deepens, his jaw flexing. The warning’s clear on his face; his patience is wearing thin. Any second now, he’ll take back control.

“The longer you keep teasin’ me,” he says, “the longer I keep you from comin’.”

There it is. You expected him to stop you sooner.

You sit back on your heels and smile up at him. “I love when you threaten me.”

“What you love is pushin’ my buttons.”

“You’re not wrong.” You hook your fingers into his boxers, pulling them down just far enough for his cock to spring free—he’s thick, the tip reddened, and bobbing between his legs, making your mouth water at the pure perfection. You wrap your hand around the base, slowly pumping him, “Better?” you ask with a smirk.

His throat works as he swallows, eyes growing darker. “Almost. Tongue out.”

Arousal flares low in your belly. You let go of him and do as you're told, sticking it out, wide and waiting, resting your hands on his thighs again.

​ “Good girl.” He guides his length forward, laying it heavy across your tongue for you to feel the full weight of him, reminding you of just how big he is. He teases you, tapping the tip of his dick against your tongue, once, twice, a low groan slipping from him when you moan.

You don’t wait for his next command—you close your lips around the swollen head and suck, slow at first, letting him feel you working him into your mouth. Joel’s jaw goes tight, his hand finding the back of your head, threading his fingers into your hair.

“Christ,” he mutters. “That mouth.”

You swirl your tongue, hollowing your cheeks, then come off him with a wet pop. You look up at him through your lashes. “I told you I wanted to make it up to you. So, use me. Fuck my mouth. I want it.”

For a beat, he just stares down at you, a flush rising up his neck. His hand in your hair tightens. “Open wider.”

A thrill moves through you as you do as he commands, opening as wide as you can. Joel doesn’t hesitate, pushing his hips forward, filling you even deeper. He slides hot and heavy along your tongue until he’s hitting the back of your throat—you don’t gag, you never do, and that makes him lose it a little bit, his pace quickening.

“Fuck, you take me so well,” he groans, and the way he says it makes your pussy throb.

He pulls back only to thrust in again, finding a rhythm. It’s rough, his grip firm in your hair, guiding your head, watching himself fuck his cock into your mouth. It turns you on, being on your knees for him, drool slipping down your chin, your eyes watering while he uses you how he wants.

“So fuckin’ pretty.” His voice is ragged. He’s got one hand in your hair, the other wiping away a stray tear with his thumb. “Look at this mess you’re makin’ for me. All mine.”

His hips snap harder, the back of your throat taking a pounding. You moan around him, making him groan even louder. His eyes are hooded, his cheeks rosy, and he looks wrecked. “My perfect girl, bein’ so good to me.”

Your cunt feels achingly empty, wetness pooling between your thighs. Your panties had to be drenched.

Trailing your hand down, you go to slip your fingers beneath your pants to quell the need that’s been building since the moment you kissed. Joel notices and comes to a halt. He growls down at you, “Don’t. Hands stay where they are.”

Your eyes lift to his, big and pleading, but he just feeds himself further into your mouth. “You don’t get to come until I say you can,” he says.

The denial makes it hotter, your body trembling with want. You return your palm to his thigh.

With his hand on the back of your head, he urges you forward, sliding his dick deeper and deeper, until you’re having to swallow around him, taking him into the tight space of your throat.

“That’s it, baby,” he sounds strained. “You’re doin’ so good for me. Just like that.”

Your nose bumps the coarse hair at his base, smelling the soap he showered with and his natural musk. Your eyes water, but you don’t gag around the stretch, you won’t, and the fact that you take him so easily drives him wild. “Fuck,” he rasps, his hips jerking. He free-hand cradles your jaw, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth where drool spills over. “That’s my girl, takin’ it all the way down.”

God, you shouldn’t love this as much as you do—drooling, crying, your throat stretched full, but you do.

Your nails dig into his thighs, the slick mess dripping from your lips, keeping him buried until your lungs scream for air. He lets you come off him, gasping in a big breath, a string of spit connecting you to his cock, before he shoves you down again, moaning when you swallow him whole.

His dark eyes are on your watery ones. “Good girl,” it comes out ragged, his lips parted. His hands cup your cheeks as he stares down at you with a surprisingly tender gaze. ”You’re so fuckin’ beautiful. You like bein’ ruined by me, don’t you?”

You hum around him, ‘yes.’

“Yeah, you do. You like bein’ mine.” He pulls out of your mouth, curling his fist around his hard cock. His other hand catches your jaw, tilting your face up toward him. “But do you deserve to come?” Your eyes round, your chest heaving. “After the way you treated me?”

“Joel,” you whimper—it’s pathetic how desperate you sound, but you are desperate. He’s got you wound up tight, your pussy aching, throbbing with need. Now terror rears its ugly head, splashing over you like ice-cold water because he has every right to deny you. He could leave you hanging, keep you here without ever allowing you to come, and you’re not sure you’d survive it. “Joel, please.”

“Don’t ever doubt me again. You hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He lets go of your face, grunting when he hauls you to stand. He’s on you, ducking his head to spread open-mouthed kisses up your throat. “I hated bein’ mad at you,” he murmurs into your skin. Joel grabs your jaw, holding you still as he licks a slow stripe through the spit on your chin, then up the tear tracks on your cheek. A startled gasp leaves you. The filthiness of it makes you ache. Joel catches your noise and smirks. He ghosts his mouth over yours. “Mess or not, you’re mine. All of it, mine,” he declares, sealing it with a kiss.

He claims your lips, hard and searing, stealing the breath from your lungs, before he breaks away. “Take off your clothes.” You’re too slow for his liking; he’s already grabbing the hem of your shirt, stripping you with little patience. Your boots thud across the floor—socks flying after, your jeans and panties roughly yanked down your legs. Your bare skin prickles in the cold air. You squeak in surprise when he spins you, forcing you to kneel on the worn leather sofa, bracing yourself against the back of it.

You feel him behind you. Looking over your shoulder, you see he’s still dressed. “I don’t wanna be the only one naked,” you tell him. “Strip.”

His gaze burns, his lips downturned. “You really think you’re in a position to order me around?”

“What? Are you saying you prefer to be clothed? Don’t tell me you’re a sex-with-socks-on guy.”

He actually looks offended. “Who the fuck only wears socks?” His shirt’s gone in one motion, pants and boxers shoved down.

“You’d be surprised.” He does the awkward balancing act to remove each sock. “They did not get a second date.”

“Gotta add that to your list.” Of what you want in a man.

You smile, laughing breathlessly. “It’s already on the list, I just don’t broadcast it to catch the guys that do.”

Joel’s on you in seconds, the front of his body pressed to the back of yours, his skin hot, his cock thick and heavy against your ass. He holds your hips, his lips brushing your ear. “Better?”

You reach behind, pushing your fingers into his hair. “Mhmm, much better.”

He kisses a spot below your ear, then again on your neck. “Here’s how this goes,” he rasps. “I’m gonna fuck you, but you don’t come ‘til I say you can. You do, and I pull out. I won’t touch you again the rest of the night. Am I clear?”

The warning has heat curling low in your core, your thighs squeezing tight together. “Yes.”

His lips graze your shoulder. “Good girl.”

The praise has you biting your lip, rocking your hips back against the heft of him.

Joel chuckles low in his chest, “So needy for me.” He surprises you, slipping his hand down to tease along your inner thigh. “You want my fingers first? Or do you think you can take me?”

You shake your head. “No. I can take it.”

A little pain didn’t hurt anyone. Plus, you know he’ll make it worth it.

“That’s my girl.” He presses his palm between your shoulder blades, and that’s all of the instruction you need—automatically, you’re bending forward and arching your back to stick out your ass.

His length is still covered in your saliva, but Joel is extra cautious. He spits in his palm and works it over his dick, the obscenely slick sound it makes causing your insides to clench in need. He notches himself at your sopping entrance before he starts to nudge in, the thickness of his cock prying you open and stealing your breath.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

He pushes in slowly, your body resisting, the stretch burning sharply enough to make your inner walls clamp helplessly around him.

“Easy,” Joel rasps, in a tone that’s low and tender, like he’s breaking a wild horse. “I got you.” He inches in deeper, then retreats a little, before pressing in again, slowly working himself into you. “That’s it.” He’s cupping your hip, steadying you while sinking in further. “Doin’ so good for me.” You whimper, caught between the sting and the overwhelming relief of finally being filled. “Just a little more.”

He bottoms out, burying himself to the root. “Christ,” he murmurs, leaning forward to press his forehead to your shoulder. “Nothin’ in the fuckin’ world like bein’ inside you.”

You’re stretched to your limits and beyond full, every nerve in your body screaming. He doesn’t move right away. He stays still, his mouth kissing anywhere he can reach—your shoulder, the side of your neck, behind your ear. His lips are everywhere as you get used to the fullness. “My good girl, takin’ all of me,” he says into your skin. “This pussy is mine. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

“You’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

You’re thankful he’s gracious enough to give you time to adjust to what feels like him splitting you open.

What you expect is for him to fuck you hard, to work out all the anger you caused him. What you get is slow—torturously slow. His thrusts are shallow, grinding his pelvis into your ass, savoring you like he’s afraid to waste even a second of it. It makes you whine, your nails digging into the back of the couch, desperate for him to just take you the way you thought he would. It has you pushing back, trying to speed up his pace.

He doesn’t like that.

A sharp smack lands on your ass before his hips slam forward, knocking the wind from your lungs. His other hand grips the back of your neck, forcing you to stay put. “Quit it,” he growls. His tone is rough, but his touch is gentle when he rubs a comforting palm along your side. “You’ll take what I give you, and you’ll love every fuckin’ second. Understand?”

“Yes.” Your voice trembles.

“Good girl.”

If you thought his leisurely pace was maddening, that was only the beginning.

Joel pulls you upright, your spine colliding with his solid front, his cock stretching you open as he cages you in. He’s got one arm locked across your chest, squeezing your breast with his calloused hand, his free palm sliding down to the apex of your thighs. He rubs your clit in slow, merciless circles that sync with the lazy roll of his hips, your arousal dripping down his shaft to coat his balls.

His lips are at your ear. “You were hopin’ I’d fuck you, mean, weren’t you? Wanted me to take out my frustration on your greedy little pussy.”

The heat in your core gets hotter with every drag of his cock and swirl of his fingers. You don’t answer him quickly enough—he slaps your cunt, soothing the sting, by stroking his palm over it right after.

“Is that what you were hopin’?” he asks again.

“Yes,” you breathe.

He chuckles darkly. “Too bad. I want you to feel every inch of me—every fuckin’ inch of what you almost threw away.” His teeth graze the shell of your ear. “And then I wanna hear the sweet sound of you beggin’ me to come.”

No words leave your mouth; you just moan.

Joel’s hand moves down your swollen sex, spreading his fingers around where he’s sliding in and out of you. “Fuck, baby,” he groans, “you’re soakin’ me.” He smears the slick before gathering it onto his fingertips to circle your clit—you jolt, his cock grinding in deeper. “I love how wet you get for me—how your body knows who it belongs to.”

You’re fluttering around him, clenching at what he says because he’s right, your body does belong to him, you belong to him. He has ownership over you and your pleasure, filling you so completely that there isn’t any space inside you he hasn’t claimed.

He’s moving slowly, languidly as if he has all the time in the world, and it’s a special kind of hell. It doesn’t matter that every swirl of his fingers and every shallow thrust winds you tighter; you want more. You want the hard, fast, feral, fucking you within an inch of your life pace he had the first time he put his cock in you. That didn’t mean his slow, steady strokes were any less devastating—he has you at the cusp of combusting. Your thighs tremble, fighting with everything you’ve got against the sharp heat swelling in your belly, because Joel’s threat of pulling out if you come before he gives you permission is at the forefront of your mind, but you’re close, you’re so close it hurts.

Tears form in the corners of your eyes, your body begging to let go. A broken sob tumbles from your mouth. Joel’s hand moves from your chest, gliding up your throat to grab your jaw, turning your head. He catches your earlobe between his teeth, tugging it just enough to make you gasp. “Can feel how close you are,” he growls in your ear. “Can feel you fightin’ it. My good girl knowin’ she’s not gettin’ off easy.” He drives into you hard, burying himself balls deep inside you where he stays, unmoving, while his hand abandons your aching clit.

The sudden loss is a welcome respite. Still, all of your nerves are on fire, your body quivering at being so close to the edge, now with nowhere to go. Your eyes are closed, a thin layer of sweat coating your skin, making you stick to him wherever you touch.

“Joel,” you whimper.

“I know, baby.” He kisses you at the awkward angle, your lips misaligned, with his wet fingers splayed on your stomach. “You can take it.” He lets go of your jaw, bracing his arm across your chest again like he knows you’ll need the extra support. “Gotta ruin you before I let you come.”

You’re already ruined, and somehow he’s going to ruin you even more? Jesus. What have you gotten yourself into? You’re about to find out.

He starts moving again, his hips keeping to that same slow, savoring pace as before. It’s juxtaposed by the perfect strokes of his fingers on your clit, circling the needy bundle of nerves until your body quakes and shakes for release, bringing you to the precipice before stopping once more.

“Please, Joel,” you try, but you know he isn’t going to give in—it’s too soon.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “Not ‘til I say.”

You gulp, your pussy squeezing him as electricity dances just below your skin.

He may not let you come, but he isn’t cruel about it. You’re still stuffed to the brim with his thick cock, his chest pressed against your back, his touches softer now—his thumb strokes little arcs over your hip bone, his lips mapping the slope of your shoulder, the curve of your neck, and the damp skin just below your ear, soothing you, grounding you.

Joel begins again, slowly thrusting while his fingers work you to the point of snapping, only to deny you of your orgasm again. He does that once, twice, three times, edging you until you’re a mewling, crying fucked out mess. Your nails claw at his forearm, locked over your chest, your cunt clenching down on him helplessly, every nerve in your body raw.

Tears spill freely down your cheeks. “Please, Joel,” you beg. “I can’t—I can’t. Please, I need it. I need to come. Please.” If you didn’t, you were sure you’d die. That’d be a new one. Dying of sexual frustration. What a way to go out.

His movements have ceased again, staying buried to the hilt inside you. He groans in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “That’s it. My perfect girl, beggin’ so prettily. You’ve earned it.” His fingers return to your clit, and finally—fucking finally—his hips snap harder, faster, pummeling your pussy just the way you wanted. “Come for me, baby,” he says through gritted teeth, his other hand pinching your stiff nipple. “Give me what’s mine.”

There’s no other way to describe it: the permission is like a match to gasoline, it has pleasure exploding out from your core so violently, you see stars. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, Joel fucking you through it with a drawn-out moan, your body convulsing around him.

“Fuck, yes. Just like that,” his words come out strained, probably from how your cunt chokes his dick. “My good girl, my good fuckin’ girl.”

And then things go fuzzy, your brain short-circuits. Do you lose consciousness? Maybe. All you know is one minute you are experiencing the most Earth-shattering orgasm of your entire life, and the next you’re coming to, sucking in a big gulp of air as if in those lost seconds you forgot to breathe.

His fingers on your clit are too much. It feels like he’s touching a live wire inside you, the overstimulation causing you to yank your hips back, his hand coming off in reflex. This is when you register that he’s still slowly rocking in and out of you, while your pussy continues spasming with aftershocks, drooling your arousal along his cock. His arm is locked firmly around your middle, keeping you up because your legs are too shaky to hold your weight.

“You alright?” he asks, voice low. His mouth ghosts over the hollow of your shoulder, leaving soft kisses, as his palm slides down your side in comforting strokes.

You’re still clutching his forearm that’s across your front and let go, reaching your hand back to press your fingers into his sweaty hair, smiling dreamily. “Yes,” you croak.

His head turns, kissing the inside of your wrist, and you can’t help thinking about how much you love how affectionate he is. It’s not something you’d expect from someone who’s lived the life he has. You’d think that after all these years, the softness inside him would’ve hardened, and yet it hasn’t. Or maybe it had at one point. He did tell you he was a shell of a man before Ellie, and maybe you have her to thank for softening him up—maybe you have her to thank for the tenderness no one before him ever cared to show you.

His nose nuzzles the side of your neck, followed by the gentle press of his lips. “Think you can give me another?” he asks.

The fact that he’s giving you a choice warms your heart. Not that you dislike when he’s in charge and you’re at his mercy. That’s great, too. But his asking shows he has your comfort in mind and doesn’t want to overstimulate you further.

“Later,” you answer, your nails lightly scratching his scalp. “When we christen your bed, and you eat me out to your heart’s content.”

A groan rumbles from his chest, his cock twitching inside you, making you smile. “God, I fuckin’ missed you,” he tells you.

“I missed you, too.”

He slowly withdraws from you, and the sound you make is a half-sigh, half-whimper. It only takes a few seconds for him to move from behind you to sit down on the couch cushion, and tug you to straddle him, the leather creaking under your knees that bracket his hips.

For a moment, he just stares at you, his big hands coming up to caress your cheeks. He’s got that expression on his face, the one where he looks upon you with a sort of awe, almost like he can’t believe you’re real, and actually there. Then his eyes turn hungry as they take you in, roving over your face and body, before they flick up to meet yours. “How’d I get so lucky?” he asks. You’re the lucky one, but you don’t get a chance to say it because as soon as the words leave his lips, he’s pulling you in, crushing his mouth against yours.

This kiss is much more fervent than the last, feeling his need, his desperation, his relief. You take it upon yourself to lift your hips, lining his straining cock up with your entrance, then start to lower yourself, taking him inch by glorious inch until you’re flush against him. The two of you moan into the kiss. Even with how much he’s worked you open and your orgasm loosening your muscles, there’s still a slight stretch that feels so fucking incredible, it has a shiver crawling up your spine.

You can feel him throbbing inside you as you stay still, reveling in how right it feels to have him buried in you again, filling you so perfectly. The kiss melts into something deeper, your tongues tangling, his hands roaming down your back, grabbing the globes of your ass. Now that you’re cognizant, having come down from your peak, Joel consumes your every thought; he’s taken over your senses, feeling him everywhere. Nothing exists outside this moment with him. He’s everything. He’s all that matters, and you want him to feel as good as he makes you feel.

Joel gets to a point where kissing while you sit on his dick isn’t enough—his feet are planted on the floor, his back pressed into the cushion behind him, giving him the leverage he needs to start moving, slowly thrusting up into you. He keeps himself fully sheathed, his grip on your backside helping you grind down on him. You’ve got your arms around his neck, your fingers in his hair, rolling your hips in sync with his movements.

The kiss turns sloppy as the rhythm builds, feeling the tension coiling through his muscles—he’s close. His lips break away from yours, panting as his mouth trails down your throat, lavishing open-mouthed kisses lower over your collarbone. You bite your lip. “You gonna come for me, baby?” you ask through heavy breaths.

He roughly groans into your skin, and you take that as a yes, smiling. His head dips, closing his lips around a pebbled nipple, circling his tongue. Between that and how his strokes have gotten faster, you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair.

“Yes,” you moan. “Come, I want it. Fill me up, make me yours.”

You thought you were spent after coming so hard, but the attention Joel is giving your tits and how amazing his cock feels inside you has pleasure blooming at the base of your spine. He switches from one breast to the other, sucking and teasing your nipples, his teeth grazing over the hard buds, then soothing them with his tongue.

You’re a little surprised how quickly the heat is building in your gut. Now, you’re bouncing in his lap to keep up with his thrusts, each movement growing needier.

“Come inside me.” You sound breathless, a bead of sweat rolling down your forehead. You’re getting lost in how good he makes you feel, and it loosens your lips, words spilling from your mouth. “Give it to me, Joel. Claim me, ruin me. I want it. I want your come, want you to fuck it deep and get me—” Your eyes fly open as you suck in a breath, completely caught off guard by what you were about to say.

Where did that even come from?

Wherever you had it buried in your subconscious, now it’s come to light, and for the first time in your entire life, the thought that someone—Joel—could get you pregnant has you coming undone. Your orgasm is sudden, all of your muscles pulling taut as sweet euphoria spreads through your body. It’s softer this time, a ripple instead of a crashing wave, which you’re thankful for with how worn out you already feel.

When your cunt clamps down on him, Joel groans loudly. It has him finally looking up at you, and it’s clear on his face how fucking gone he is—his eyes glazed over, his cheeks pink, and his jaw slack. He’s so far gone, you don’t think he’ll last even a minute longer. He captures your lips, hungrily kissing you as the rhythm of his hips stutters, his fingers digging hard into your asscheeks.

“You can have it,” he murmurs into your mouth. “‘M gonna give it to you. Fuck my come deep. Give your greedy little pussy what it wants.” And that’s it for him—he didn’t even make it thirty seconds before he’s coming. He pulls your ass down, burying himself all the way to the root as he follows you over the edge. The sound that tears from his throat comes from somewhere deep in his chest. It’s rough and strangled. It’s what losing control sounds like, and it’s so unbelievably hot that your pussy clenches, bearing down on him, keeping him in place. He thickens inside you, his dick jerking with each spurt of his come, feeling the warmth of him filling the deepest depths of you. When you’ve wrung him of every last drop, his body goes lax, and his head falls, face planting between your breasts—it makes you smile, your nails lightly scratching at the nape of his neck, while you rest your cheek on his sweat-damp hair. You don’t move as you both come down from your highs. Your breaths evening, your hearts slowing, closing your eyes as you bask in the afterglow.

Maybe it’s because you only slept a handful of hours the night before, or the emotionally charged day. It could also be the result of getting thoroughly fucked, but you find exhaustion has seeped into your bones, your eyelids feeling weighed down.

You’re about to ask Joel if he wants to head up to his bedroom and take what you know would be an amazing nap, when you’re silenced by a loud snore against your chest. In any other circumstance, you’d giggle. Instead, it reminds you that he’s probably beyond tired from staying up, worrying all night about Ellie. Guilt and shame creep up the back of your throat at the memory of how you treated him that morning, and you hug his head closer, kissing his hair.

Seconds pass, maybe a minute ticks by, with Joel still asleep. You don’t want to wake him, but you also like the idea of getting some shut eye yourself, so very carefully you push his upper body back against the cushion, pausing to see if he wakes—he snores. You let out a relieved breath, grabbing the blanket from the back of the couch and wrapping it around you both as you lean into him, getting comfortable with your face tucked against his neck.

Now that you’re relaxed and cozy, you find yourself wondering why in the world it got you off thinking about getting knocked up, when you did everything you could to prevent it with past partners. That’s it, your partner. Joel isn’t like the men before him. You know for a fact he’s dependable and a damn good father. You know that if you have his child and things don’t work out between you, you wouldn’t have to parent alone; he’d still be there. You trust Joel. Not only that, but he also checks all your boxes. He’s everything you could dream of in a partner and father to your future children. You got off at the thought of getting pregnant, because for the first time, you had nothing to fear—it doesn’t hurt that you’d love to have his kid, too.

And even feeling that trust and security, there’s still a whisper of doubt in the back of your mind, that all of this is too good to be true—you squash it down as best you can, relishing in the comfort and safety of right now.

Between the warmth and the knowledge that you have nothing to worry about, you fall asleep in record time.

Time goes by, minutes, an hour, two, safe in your cocoon, the house quiet.

A side effect of surviving an apocalypse is a sensitivity to sound. At the faintest noise, you can go from sleeping deeply to fully alert in a second flat. The scrape of metal in the front door’s deadbolt cuts through your dreamless sleep. Your eyes widen, sitting up immediately with your heart pounding in your chest.

There’s only one other person who lives here.

“Joel,” you harshly whisper, shaking his shoulder.

His eyes blink open, all bleary-eyed and confused, but when he registers it’s you, his lips quirk up in a lazy smile, his big hands sliding along your sides. “Yeah?” he groggily asks.

“Ellie’s here.”

That wakes him up, his expression turning panicked. “Shit,” he whispers, looking side to side like he’s trying to figure out an escape plan. You don’t think, you move because your first interaction with your boyfriend’s daughter is not going to be scarring the poor girl at finding you both naked. Thankfully, there’s a wall separating the living room from the entryway that buys you some seconds—quickly you unwrap the blanket from around you, ungracefully dismounting Joel, and ignoring his come leaking down your leg, as you scoop up your clothes.

Well, fuck. Where can you hide?

It’s your turn to look around to figure out your escape plan, spotting a closet door on the other side of the room that you quietly rush to, and manage to slip inside just as you hear from the foyer, “Joel?” You catch a glimpse of the man in question as you close the door, impressed that he was able to get his sweatpants on, before lying across the couch with the blanket covering himself from the neck down to make it look like he’d been napping. The closet door clicks shut, the small space going dark, save for the sliver of light coming through the crack near your feet.

Your ears perk at the young girl’s muffled words. “Oh, shit,” she says. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“It’s okay,” Joel replies, through a yawn. You can hear him sit up, the sofa’s leather complaining under his movements. “What are you doin’ home?” he asks, his voice rough from sleep. “I thought you were stayin’ the night at Dina’s.”

Carefully, so as not to make any noise, you set your clothes on the floor and start dressing as you listen, pulling on your panties first.

“Is that why you’re not wearing a shirt?” You want to laugh at how disgusted she sounds.

He sighs. “I got hot while sleepin’, and there was no one here to complain.” He grunts, before asking a handful of seconds later, “Better?” You think he grabbed his shirt off the floor and put it back on.

“Much.”

“Did you forget somethin’?” he asks.

“No—I found out Jesse and Dina have never played Monopoly, and I’m pretty sure I can kick their asses.”

“By goin’ bankrupt twenty turns in ‘cause you buy every property you land on and put houses on the shittiest ones?”

“Hey, if you had landed on one of those blue ones, I would’ve owned your ass.”

“But I didn’t, and you wasted your money and the money I loaned you.”

“Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway because I’ve got a better strategy that will make me unbeatable,” she says, sounding very confident in herself.

“Right,” Joel replies flatly, clearly unconvinced. “And what’s this unbeatable strategy?”

She scoffs. “Like I’d tell you. You’ll find out next time we play.”

At this point, you’ve gotten your jeans on and are now working on getting your sports bra over your head and down to cover your chest.

“If you say so,” he says. “Let me grab you the game. Do you need anthin’ else from the closet?” He emphasizes the last word, your stomach dropping—the board game is in here with you. Your heart is pounding in your ears as you’re frozen in your spot listening. Leather creaks loudly—he must be standing up.

“I’m fine, Joel,” Ellie insists. “I don’t need your help. I can get it myself.” You can hear the light thump of her shoes on the hardwood floor getting closer. “I wanna see what else we have anyway—definitely gonna grab that Twister game you refuse to play.”

The doorknob jiggles and starts to open. “NO,” Joel says a little louder than necessary, his body thudding against the door, slamming it shut.

“What the fuck is going on?” Ellie asks, the words laced with annoyance. “Why won’t you let me in the closet?”

Joel lets out a defeated sigh and mumbles something you can’t make out.

“What?” Ellie replies. “What did you say?”

He says it softly, but you hear him this time. “There’s someone in there…”

“What do you mean there’s someone in there?”

“Jesus Christ,” Joel mutters. “This isn’t how I wanted you to meet.”

“Meet, who? Who the fuck’s in the closet, Joel?”

This seems like a good time to finish dressing. You lean down to snag your shirt off the ground, but when you do, you find nothing there.

Where’s your shirt?

Did you drop it when you rushed to the closet?

You crouch, feeling all around on the floor, touching shoes, a box, a metal baseball bat, but nothing that resembles your shirt—fuck.

“The woman I’m datin’...”

Even though you’re now panicking at being shirtless, that admission makes you smile.

“The woman you’re dating…?” she asks, drawing the words out like she doesn’t quite comprehend. “There’s someone who likes you, like romantically…? You…?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just you’re an old, grumpy asshole and your face looks like that.”

“What’s wrong with my face?”

“I mean, have you looked in a mirror?”

This time when Joel sighs, it's that of a father at his wits’ end with his child’s bullshit—you can admit they’re adorable.

“Yes, I have looked in a mirror, and yes, there is someone who likes me romantically. If you will be polite and stop embarrassin’ me, I will introduce you to her.”

“Chill, Joel. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

He mumbles something that sounds an awful lot like, “I doubt that.” The pressure of his body lifts from the door, and you’re next met with two soft knocks. “You can come out—that is, if you’re ready,” he quickly adds. “If you need us to give you a minute, that’s fine, too.”

There’s no point in dragging this out. You’re going to have to bite the bullet. You stand back up. “Um, Joel?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you, uh, please, grab me my shirt? It’s somewhere out there…”

“Oh. Yes. Gimme a second.”

He pads away.

“Wait,” you hear Ellie say. “Why isn’t your girlfriend wearing a shirt?”

“She got hot while sleepin’.” He returns and softly knocks again. “I’ve got it, sweetheart.” You crack the door open and close it after he hands you the t-shirt, which you immediately put on.

“Sweetheart?” Ellie questions. “Did you just call her sweetheart?”

Joel sighs. “Yes.”

“Ew.”

Now that you’re dressed, you quickly comb your fingers through your hair to try and make yourself look a bit more presentable—thankfully, the tears and spit have dried on your face, so it isn’t too obvious to Ellie that you fucked her dad earlier. At least, you hope it isn’t.

Taking a deep breath, you open the door a little. Joel’s standing there, blocking your view of the rest of the room with an apologetic look on his face. You give him a reassuring smile and open the door wider. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “You would’ve introduced us eventually, and this is totally fine.”

“I appreciate you bein’ so understandin’, but I’m still sorry.”

“You really don’t need to be.” Pointing at your face, you mouth ‘Do I look okay?’

Joel smirks—he fucking smirks. His hand comes up and ever so gently brushes some stray hairs off your cheek, tucking them behind your ear as he nods, saying for only you to hear, “You look beautiful.”

Your mouth opens to respond when another voice chimes in, “Holy shit, she’s pretty—” You see Ellie peeking around Joel with wide eyes. “—and young. Was not expecting someone that young.”

“Uh, thank you?” you reply.

“Ellie,” Joel warns, his attention going to her. His hand fell from your face.

She steps to the side of him, unaffected by his pointed stare. “What?” she asks, meeting his eyes. “I didn’t say anything rude. They were compliments!”

“I’m not offended,” you add.

She smiles. “See, I didn’t offend her.” Joel takes a deep breath, and the young girl looks at you again. “I figured someone interested in this old fucker—” She juts her thumb his way. “—would be closer to his age, but you definitely are not. Are you sure you like this dude? You know, someone who looks like you can do a lot better than him—no offense, Joel.” She pats his arm.

He presses his fingers to his brow, grumbling, “You’re not wrong.”

Ellie has no filter, and you find it delightful. Her father, on the other hand, looks as though he wishes the ground would swallow him whole—poor guy.

You smile and introduce yourself to Ellie. “—It’s nice to finally meet you, and yes, I am sure that I like him. It might not make much sense to you, but I like him quite a lot.”

“Yeah, I don’t get it, but whatever.” She shrugs. “If Joel’s happy, I’m happy.”

Joel’s eyes go to her again, but this time they’ve softened. His fond expression shows how much he loves her, even if she’s a pain in his ass. And Ellie loves him, too. You can tell by how her ribbing is laced with affection and void of any malice. She just gets immense joy from eliciting a reaction from him.

“So,” Ellie continues. “How long has this been a thing?” She points back and forth between you and her dad.

Joel glances your way, and you give him a look that says, ‘You’re taking this one.’

“Uh, it’s pretty recent,” Joel replies, scratching the back of his neck.

“Cool.” She focuses on him. “Is it serious?”

“Yes.”

You love hearing that.

“Is she moving in?”

“Not right this second.”

“You’d tell me if she was moving in, though, right?”

His eyebrows furrow. “What? Yes. Of course I’d tell you. That isn’t somethin’ that’d happen without talkin’ to you first.”

“Okay.” She nods. She turns to you, pointing past your head. “Can I get in there to grab my games? I gotta get going. My friends are waiting for me.”

“Oh! Right,” you reply, pushing the door fully open and moving out of her way to stand beside Joel. You watch as the girl rises on her tiptoes to go through the collection of game boxes on the upper shelf—they have just about every board game you can think of. She tucks Monopoly, Twister, and The Game of Life under her arm, but ends up putting The Game of Life back, grabbing Hungry Hungry Hippos and Mouse Trap instead.

You’re not entirely sure what to do. Should you go sit on the couch? Excuse yourself to take a much-needed trip to the bathroom? Head to the kitchen for a cup of water? You end up staying beside Joel, resting your head against his arm. You smile when his pinkie slides along the side of your hand to loop around your smaller one—he wants to hold your hand, but probably isn’t sure if you’re okay with Ellie seeing. You give him what he wants, twining your fingers together.

“I’m impressed by how many games there are,” you whisper. “None of them are missing pieces?”

“If they were, I found replacements—at least, the majority of them I did. Still haven’t been able to find a fucking wishbone for Operation.”

You snort. “People probably wanted the good luck. Plus, the wishbone was always a bitch to remove anyway, so I’m sure it’s not missed.”

“Maybe, but I’d like the game to have all its parts.”

“Then I will keep my eye out for the ever-elusive wishbone.”

He huffs out an amused breath and kisses your hair. “Thank you.”

Ellie takes a couple of minutes to make her final decision. Monopoly and Twister never leave her arm. She keeps Hungry Hungry Hippos, but switches out Mouse Trap for Clue—solid choices. Once she’s finished, she shuts the door, turning in place.

“Well, guys,” Ellie says, addressing you both. “This has been fun—weird, but fun. I’m gonna head out.” She looks at Joel. “I promise I won’t be back home until tomorrow. I’ll meet you for breakfast. Will she be joining us?” She nods your way.

“No,” you answer for him. “I’ll be working. I’ll be helping make the breakfast.”

Her eyes meet yours. “A cook. That’s rad.”

You smile. “Actually, a baker. I made your cake, which I hope you liked. Happy Birthday, by the way.”

That has her face lighting up. “No shit, that was you?! That was the best fucking cake I’ve ever had.”

You giggle. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“She also made the apple pie from the other night,” Joel adds. “And that peach cobbler you wouldn’t shut up about.”

Her eyes widen. “No fucking way, and you’re dating Joel? Does that mean you’ll bake me stuff if I ask?”

“Within reason. I promise if I can get my hands on some peaches, I’ll definitely make you a peach cobbler, though.”

“Fuck yeah!” She turns her attention to Joel. “I have no fucking clue how you got her to date you, but good job. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you, I guess,” he replies.

“Okay, I really have to leave. Bye!” She briskly walks past the two of you. “Oh, and Joel?” You both turn around to see her standing at the doorway.

“Yeah?”

“I’m cool with you having a girlfriend, but the shit that happens in your bedroom stays in your bedroom. I don’t want to hear it, I definitely don’t want to see it, I don’t want to fucking think about it.” She shudders in disgust. “God. I’m never sitting on that couch again.”

“Fuck,” Joel says under his breath. “I’m sorry, Ellie,” he tells her. “I won’t let it happen again.”

“You better not. Glad that’s over. Bye, guys!”

And with that, she left the room, and the house, the front door slamming shut behind her.

“Told you that you liked to play with fire,” you tease.

“She probably knew somethin’ was up the moment she stepped foot in here.”

“Probably. I mean, your boxers are over there on the floor.” You gesture to where they are crumpled under the coffee table. “You were shirtless, I was shirtless, and hiding in the closet, plus your lame ass excuse that we were undressed because we—” You do air quotes. “—’got too hot,’ it’s very obvious what we were getting up to. But look on the bright side.” You turn your head to look at him, meeting his eyes. “At least she didn’t walk in when your dick was down my throat. I don’t know about you, but I count that as a win.”

“You’re right. It could’ve been worse.”

“Much worse. Now, you wanna take a shower with me?” You really want to clean up the mess between your legs.

He smiles and pulls you into his arms. “Yeah, I wanna shower with you,” he says, punctuating the sentence with a toe-curling kiss—it ends, Joel’s lips brushing yours as he quietly asks, “Will you stay the night?”

“I’ll stay as long as you want.”

He nudges the tip of your nose with his own. “Because you’re mine?”

“Because my bed is still broken and my back is killing me from sleeping on the couch last night.” He stills, and you can tell he’s frowning. “And yes,” you continue in exasperation, “because I’m yours, you ridiculous man. I’ll always be yours.”

He pinches your hip, and you giggle. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours.”

“Yes, you are, and you know what?”

“What?”

“I’m yours. I can promise you that, I’ll always be yours.”

“Say it again.”