Random AF

June 22, 2024

The week following the funerals drifted as you’d expect, but the black, hazy mist of grief hijacking your brain didn’t. It stayed stuck like chewing gum on the bottom of your boot, reminding you of it’s presence with each and every step.

Over the course of the last six days, a lot had happened that kept you adequately preoccupied. 

Tommy announced that patrols were being paused indefinitely, news that went down better than he anticipated it would. The reality was that people wanted their loved ones home and safe more than they wanted to know on what was going on outside the walls. The change was received as less of a retreat and more an act of responsible protection from a leader putting his people first. 

In doing so, he appeared to win back some support from certain people who were becoming more dubious of him as their chief in command. It doesn’t necessarily help with your circumstances, but you’re a little relieved to see some of the heat off of Tommy at least.

Then the news arrived that Marco had made it through NAP by the skin of his teeth. Maria divulged some of the information reserved only for the council. His physical evaluation went heavily in his favour and was a deciding factor for many of the council members. Whatever he was living off of out in the wilderness, it kept him in incredible shape and meant that he would be an ideal addition to many jobs around the settlement.

The rest of it was more complex. His recent history of coming from Silver Lake raised some eyebrows as anticipated, but your close proximity with Tommy, the example you’d set in your time here so far and the fact that he and Maria both stand firmly in your corner regarding the recent tensions swayed a lot of them to trust him enough to vote in his favour. He secured six votes. Just like you did. Just enough.

Since his vote, you haven’t seen much of him around. He’s been keeping quiet and largely to himself while trying to find his footing and taking on whatever work he could find without complaint. It’s not like you can blame him, seeing as you did very much the same thing in your early days here, even with your then sprained ankle. The odd time you did see him, you saw that familiar look in his eyes. The look of realising you’ve been saved and wondering if it was even worth it. You keep reminding yourself: Give him time. Let him settle.

At Joel’s suggestion, you started spending more time over at his house, even going as far as bringing Jeremiah along with you in his wheelchair to get him out of the cabin and around other people that weren’t you, which was great until his health took a turn for the worst and you had to leave him in better hands at the medical centre. Every day has been so quiet without the sound of his wet wheezing and the pitter patter of his slippers moving around the kitchen.

You got to witness Ellie finally play through ‘Take On Me’ without mistake for the first time and helped her build targets in the back yard for her to practice archery. Her confidence is beginning to soar even more with every new achievement and it’s evident in the way she walks a little taller.

Observant as always, Joel saw your faint smiles from a distance when you were with her, but it’s what he saw in the empty space that worried him. He’d catch your face between conversations or moments when you thought no one was watching and he’d see it still living inside of you, burrowing deeper and deeper and making itself at home in a part of you only he could see. 

He wasn’t interested in tackling it head on, but in his eyes, it’s a problem he doesn’t know how to fix — and he doesn’t like now knowing how to fix something. At his core, Joel is a problem-solver and a protector. That’s his purpose. He wasn’t about to allow it to take you the way it took him. Not on his watch.

The afternoon sun rays come through Joel’s living room windows in long, honey-coloured slants that reach across the floorboards warming whatever they touch. Outside, the settlement bustles the way it does every Saturday with children playing and laughing and neighbours going about their weekend business.

You’re curled up into the corner of Joel’s couch with your knees pulled up and one of the books from his bookshelf your lap. You’ve spent the last ten minutes reading and re-reading the same page about the murder mystery the book is based on, struggling to absorb the contents in any meaningful way. What you do know is that this is not Joel’s book. It’s not something he would have any interest it. This was clearly gifted, found or just came with the house, and he leaves it there for decoration.

The occasional creak of the floorboards overhead tell you Ellie is still moving around her bedroom. She set herself the task of rearranging her room’s furniture today because she’s bored of the current layout. After so many loud drags of her chest of drawers and bed frame breaking your focus, you close over the book with a frustrated huff and chuck it to your side.

As if he could smell it, Joel appears in the living room doorway a moment later with his forearm leaning against the frame, watching you massaging the prickling heat out of your scalp. He’s spent the day hovering in the background pretending to do small chores, but not enough that you could really have an issue with it. He’s been silently monitoring you, regularly asking if he can get you anything, being there without trying to overwhelm you more.

“Did you hear? Tommy’s got somethin’ on tonight,” he says finally.

Now realising he’s standing there, you turn on the couch and look at him. “Hm? What is it?”

“‘Nother movie night.” He adjusts his weight onto the other hip. “In the hall. Figured it’d be good for everyone. After last week.”

You look back down at the abandoned book next to you on the couch.

“Thought maybe we’d go together.”

The careful casualness in the way he says it tells you that this wasn’t a passing thought. He’s grasping at straws trying to think of a way to shift your mood after co-existing with this energy you’ve brought into his home. As kind as the offer is, nothing about it appeals to you.

“I think I’m alright here,” you reply.

He pushes off the doorframe and starts to move towards you. He doesn’t take a seat. He just stands over you, letting out a soft breath.

“You’ve been alright here all week,” he says. It’s not necessarily delivered in an insensitive or judgemental way, but it is factual.

“That’s because here is fine.” You pick the book back up and open it to try and find what page you gave up on. “I’m not really in the mood to watch a mov—”

“I know you’re not.” He plants his hands on his hips. “I’m not askin’ if you’re in the mood. I’m sayin’ we should go.”

Your eyes peer up at him over the top of the book and he stares back. Something about his assertive tone and the way the sunlight catches the left half of his face, making that eye shimmer like gold, takes your breath away briefly. 

“Tommy put it together because the town needs it,” he continues. “Everybody needs it. He’s tryin’ to do somethin’ to help.” He pauses for a second. “Come on. It’d be good for you to get out of the house for the evenin’. Be around other people.”

After a moment, you sit up straight, letting out a deep sigh and run a hand through your hair, ruminating on whether or not you have the endurance to actually be around other people.

“What movie is it?” you ask.

“Don’t know.”

“Well, that’s extremely helpful.”

He rolls his eyes. “Are you comin’ with me or not?”

You unfold completely and pull yourself to your feet. “Fine.”

Just as his posture unwinds fractionally from that small win, a voice interrupts the conversation.

“You guys are going to that movie thing tonight?” 

Ellie materialises at the top of the stairs, her head leaning over the banisters. Who knows how long she’s been there listening in. She has become an expert at stepping socked feet on the exact floorboards that don’t creak and timing bites of her apples with other noises so that she doesn’t give away her presence.

“Yeah,” you say loud enough that your voice travels back out of the living room and up the stairs.

“Okay, cool.” She takes a chomp of her apple. “I’m coming too.”

“What’ve I told you about eavesdroppin’?” Joel says with a firm parental tone.

“I was just in the hallway going to the bathroom!” she says. “What, am I not allowed to walk around my own house?”

“My house,” Joel corrects.

“Well, it’s not my fault you guys can’t keep your voices down.”

She has already retreated into the bathroom and closed the door over before Joel can respond.

You stand in the middle of the living room with your arms stretched out overhead, loosening your body and letting out a soft groan. Joel instinctively slides his hands around your waist and brings you into him, planting a gentle kiss to your forehead and holding it there for a moment before nuzzling against your temple. You rest against his chest and let him hold you.

“This’ll be good for you,” he murmurs into your hair. “I promise.”

“I just don’t think I’m ready to be around anyone else,” you say. “I can’t cope with the staring and looking over my shoulder.”

“I’m gonna be there,” he says reassuringly, like you’ve somehow forgotten. “Good chance Michelle and Arron will be there too. It’s gonna be dark in there. I’m not gonna let anythin’ happen to you. I just don’t want you to rot indoors like this for too long.”

Pulling yourself back a little, you take in his features up close — the lines that act like a roadmap of his face, the soft curls starting to grey around his hairline, the chocolatey brown eyes perched above the beautifully arched nose. You feel grateful for him. You want to do this for him if no one else.

It takes some effort, but you perform a half-smile and reach up to kiss him once and then again.

“Mind if I take a nap in your bed before we get ready to go?” you ask. “I’m feeling kind of sleepy.”

He nods simply. “‘Course.”

—

The hall is almost at capacity by the time the three of you step through the entrance. The wall of heat created by the hundred-and-something bodies packed into the space hits you before anything else does. The air is dense and too close to your face, but thankfully someone had made the executive decision to keep the heaters off tonight. Summer has certainly arrived.

People are settling into seats or moving between rows to converse with each other before the movie begins. Children giddily chase each other around the perimeters but the energy amongst the adults is vastly different. Everyone is still wounded and carrying the upset from recent events. There’s a faint look of hope on some of the faces around the room, but others are, similarly to you, not entirely pleased with being here.

Joel’s hand briefly finds the small of your back as he steers you forward towards the seating area. His touch is quick and gone almost immediately, so fast that you didn’t even have time to enjoy it.

“Ugh, great,” you mumble.

“What’s the matter?”

“There’s no rows of three left.”

Joel follows your eyeline to the remaining available seats. All single or pairs. His jaw clicks trying to come up with a solution.

“It’s alright,” he says lowly. “I’ll make someone move.”

He’s about to move off and you’re about to grab his sleeve to pull him back and tell him that he can’t do that when Ellie interjects.

“No, it’s okay,” she says. “I see Dina over there. I’m gonna go sit with her. You two sit together.”

The pair of you look to where she’s pointing near the top of the room where the teens have gathered. An empty seat awaits next to a girl with shoulder-length, dark brown hair. She glances around the room nervously as if she’s waiting for the chair next to her to be filled. Ellie dashes off into the crowd before either of you can tell her to enjoy the movie.

About three rows from the back, near the corner of the room, you spot a suitable pairing of chairs that are tucked away enough that you won’t feel too out in the open. Joel steps aside and lets you shuffle in first, brushing knees with people and apologising under your breath as you make your way down, pull off your jacket and take a seat. 

The aroma of the same buttered popcorn that’s supplied at every movie night fills your nostrils, and the second that you realise you want some, Joel nudges you. 

“Want me to get you some popcorn?”

“Oh, please.”

He’s up again and moving back down the row, probably pissing off the others that have to angle their knees again to let him by.

You’re stretching your neck up to check on Ellie when a familiar, friendly voice calls for you.

“Joey!”

Michelle appears at the end of the row with Arron following close behind her. They make their way down the next row back, dropping in to two seats directly behind you.

“I haven’t seen you in days,” she says, pulling her arms out of her own jacket. “Where the hell have you been hiding?”

“Uhh— Nowhere. Just… around.” You give a small, uncomfortable smile that telepathically communicates you’re trying to say Joel’s without saying it because Arron is sitting right there and he still doesn’t know. “Jeremiah’s not doing too good so I’ve been staying in mostly. He’s back at the medical centre now for a bit.”

She reads you for a second and then realises what you’re saying between the lines. “Ahh… Sorry to hear that,” she says. “And how are you doing? After everything.”

“I’m grand, yeah. Grand as I can be.”

Her eyebrow arches a little higher and she just stares right through you the way she does when you’re bullshitting her. “Wanna try that again? And make it sound convincing this time.”

You grumble under your breath. “I’m just— people are still gawking at me,” you say, keeping your voice conspiratorially low. “First the ambush and then the whole thing with Marco. I can’t walk down the street without feeling like someone’s going to say or do something. I can’t handle it.”

Michelle leans forward and places her forearm on the back of your chair. “Joey, listen to me. There’s zero evidence that actually links you to any of what happened. You’re forgetting that for every one person who doubts you, there’s like ten people who don’t.”

“Exactly,” Arron says, leaning in from the other side. “People love a conspiracy theory. It’s easier than accepting that we don’t know who exactly to point a finger at yet. Unfortunately, they’ve just chosen you as the one to blame. It’ll probably stay that way until we do get some real answers.”

“Incredibly comforting, thank you Arron,” Michelle says with a heavy side-eye.

He shrugs. “Nothing’s gonna happen though. We won’t allow it.”

Joel returns holding two bowls of popcorn, barging through and blocking Arron’s view of you before taking his seat again. He hands a bowl to you and starts chucking a few pieces of his own into his mouth.

The lights start to dim gradually, sending a ripple of hushing through the rows and signalling for the last few people to get to their seats. On the small stage at the top of the room, Tommy steps up and raises a hand to quiet the remaining whispers.

“Alright, folks. Good evenin’ and thank you for makin’ it out tonight.” He looks out across the packed hall with a little less brightness than usual. He chooses his tone and expressions carefully. “Last week was another dark week for Jackson. I think I speak for everyone when I say this whole year has been challenging, and we’re gonna be carryin’ this for a long time to come, because that’s how much we care about one another.”

The room remains very quiet.

“Tonight is for Stevie and Gerry,” he continues. “We wanna honour them by doin’ somethin’ they woulda loved. Knowin’ them, they woulda said the world is grim enough as it is.”

A few people crack a small smile.

“So tonight, we’re gonna watch a movie picked out by Stevie’s daughter, Rose, which is her all-time favourite movie, and I think it’s the perfect choice.” He pauses and glances down at her briefly, pressing his lips together in gratitude. “So, without further ado, an absolute classic, E.T the Extra-Terrestrial.”

A gentle and sincere applause kicks up, one that’s laced with a touch of residual grief. Some of the younger children whooped without fully grasping why the adults had gone a little misty-eyed from Tommy’s words.

You go stone still in your seat.

Joel notices when your hands don’t join in on the applause. He turns his head and looks at you in that way when he’s trying to read what you’re thinking. When he’s unable to decode what’s on your mind, he leans in a little closer.

“You alright?”

“Yeah.” Your voice comes out a little compressed and performative. You clear your throat, unable to look back at him. “Yeah, it’s just— this was Anna’s favourite film too.” 

Joel stares at the side of your face for a long moment, watching how your eyes are already glistening and your jaw is clenched trying to bite back everything you’re feeling. He lets out a small breath and turns his attention back to the screen.

The movie begins.

And for most of it, you held it together a lot better than you thought you would be able to. Something caught in your throat watching the younger kids up front take in the magic of it all with pure delight. It almost gets to a point where you’re watching them more than the actual movie. It’s like getting a glimpse through a window into the past and seeing Anna fall in love with the movie all over again.

But the dam eventually breaks.

Seeing the film through this new lens, how love between two unlikely beings is depicted as the most ordinary thing in the universe and then the inevitable but necessary goodbye devastates you deeply. The sentiment is thick in the room around you. Whether viewing for the first time or again, everyone is left overcome with emotion and pensive.

A warm tear slips down your cheek before you can do anything about it. Suddenly, you’re back on your parents’ couch somewhere in the backroads of Kildare on a rainy evening with Anna tucked in by your side clinging to your arm. Her enormous eyes fixated on the TV and then asking you to rewind the best parts. How you’d give absolutely anything to watch her face light up with joy in those precious moments once more.

And then, Joel’s knee presses against yours. Firm, grounding and without a word, saying nothing but saying everything.

Without thought, your hand reaches across the dark space between your laps and finds his. Your fingers close around his fist and you hold on because you need it more than you need air. Only when he turns stiff do you remember what it means to do something as simple as hold his hand in public. Even in the shadows, even in the privacy of the space you share, for Joel, this is dangerous.

But he lets you. 

That is, until six seconds later when someone further down the row rises to their feet and excuses themselves as they shuffle past knees with mumbled apologies towards the end of the aisle. You recognise him. He’s one of the ranch hands that works the evening shifts down at the stables. 

Before he reaches you, Joel snatches his hand away so fast that it makes you flinch. He shifts almost imperceptibly in his seat, fractionally repositioning to put an additional inch between the two of you as the ranch hand passes by.

The cold and crushing cruelty of it makes you recede further into yourself, your shoulders hunching over as you remember the limitations and restrictions of what it means to be his. 

You stare out blankly at the screen, watching but no longer taking in the closing scenes. Your hands are back on your lap, curling into tight balls. 

Unable to sit there for a second longer, you abruptly get to your feet and start to leave. 

You keep your head down and step through the row with murmured apologies until you’re at the back of the hall and approaching the exit, leaving the swelling movie score and Joel behind. His eyes follow you until you push through the door and the cool evening air hits your skin.

Joel, silently panicking now, sits frozen in place back inside and unsure what to do with his hands. The empty seat next to him eventually starts to make him restless. He crosses his ankles and then uncrosses them a moment later. He glances over his shoulder once, then twice, shifting in his seat like he has an unscratcahable itch. 

A hand taps his shoulder.

Michelle leans forward with her forearm resting on the back of his chair. A miniature version of the movie reflects in her glasses as he turns to look back at her. 

“Go,” she whispers. “Go check on him. Now. Before everyone starts leaving.”

His eyes flick over to the exit behind her and he’s on his feet a second later.

—

The walk back to Jeremiah’s feels longer than it should even though it’s the same fifteen minutes distance that it always has been. The streets are soundless and lonely. The only company is the swarms of flies buzzing around the streetlights above. 

When you get back to the cabin, you let yourself in and are immediately confronted by the darkness. Jeremiah’s bedroom door is half-open and his bed sits empty and stripped, waiting for him to come back home from the St. John’s. You forgot he wasn’t going to be here to ask you how the evening went as soon as you walked through the door. His absence makes you feel even worse if that’s even possible.

After flicking on a couple of lamps for company, you plop onto the couch and bury your face into your hands, replaying those six seconds of him you got to have before it was ripped away. It wasn’t long enough to even appreciate it fully. For the next few minutes, you go back and forth wondering if you’re overreacting but then convincing yourself that you have every right to be upset.

All you wanted was him. Yes, it was in public. Yes, you both went over the logistics of this before. But you can’t help how you feel tonight. With everything he knows about you now, how can he still choose this made-up perception others may have of him over your very real suffering?

Why can’t this just ever be enough?

Three gentle knocks pull you out of the thought. You knew they were coming. You knew he’d follow you back.

Some petulant, petty part of you considers letting it go unanswered and leaving him to stand out there in the night.

But for some annoying reason, you can’t bring yourself to do it.

You drag yourself up, head down the narrow hallway and open the door.

He stands there under the porch light with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket and his shoulders pulled in tight, looking smaller than he normally would. His eyes lift to find yours immediately, full of regret and apology before he has even said a word.

“Joey.”

You stare back at him and say nothing.

He goes to take a step forward like he intends on coming inside the way he always does, but you don’t move aside for him. You stay planted exactly where you are, hand resting on the edge of the door and blocking the doorway. He looks up at you again and you watch the realisation set on his face. The surprise and hurt that follows closely behind, like he’d never considered a reality where you wouldn’t at least let him inside.

“Joey— baby, I’m sorry,” he says. “I swear to you, I didn’t mean it to be—”

Although his voice is dry, his the warm porch lights highlight the tears starting to form at the edges of his eyes, making them as glossy as they are mournful.

“I—I panicked,” he goes on. “I wasn’t thinkin’. I saw someone comin’ towards us and it was just— it was instinct.” He drags a hand across his mouth. “You know I didn’t mean to— I’m still—” He stops himself and searches for the rest of that sentence like it might appear in the air between you.

“I know.”

The simplicity and softness in your response makes him go still again. He looks at you with despair plastered all over his face, waiting for you to elaborate, desperate just to hear you speak back to him.

“I know what you’re going to say. But, all I needed tonight, was for you to let me hold your hand,” you say. “That’s all.”

The only part of his body moving at this point is his chest rising and falling slowly. His mouth hangs open and his arms now hang loosely at his sides.

“You know better than anyone how these last few weeks have been for me. Not only am I dealing with my own shit, but I’ve had half the town wanting me gone again. I sat through that funeral knowing that the people around me would rather my name was on those stones instead because they think I’m the reason Stevie and Gerry died.” 

You take a pause, hearing your voice rise and throat tighten.

“And then you and Tommy go and put together a whole memorial for my family. All to make me feel like I belong here and that you care about me.”

“I do care about you—”

“You say that, but then why do you only show it when we’re alone?”

He shakes his head slowly but doesn’t speak.

“You take such good care of me. In your living room, in your bed… behind closed doors, where I’m already safe. But when I step outside, where the real danger is, you can’t even hold my fucking hand when I need you to.”

“Joey, I—”

“I’ll always be grateful for everything you’ve done for me, and I’ll never be able to repay you, but the fact of the matter is, even with everything you’ve done for me, you’re still a selfish fucking coward stuck in the past.”

A tear breaks loose and tracks down his face and drops to the wooden porch below.

“Are you—” He stops himself and then starts again, as quiet as a whisper now. “Are you ashamed of me?”

The question catches you off guard, mostly because you can hear unfiltered fear in it and how it seems like it may have been bubbling under the surface somewhere for quite some time. 

“No,” you breathe, shaking your head lightly. “Of course I’m not.”

A moment passes where the only sound is the porch light humming faintly above his head.

“But I think you’re ashamed of me.”

He blinks as the words hit him. Something collapses behind his eyes and his mouth falls open like he wants to respond but nothing comes out.

“I don’t think you’re ready,” you say, gentler now, even though it doesn’t soften the truth of it. “And I don’t know if you’ll ever be. But I can’t keep doing this, only getting to have half of you and hoping that one day the other half will show up. It’s not fair when I give you all of me. Without fear.”

“Joey, please—”

“I think I need to be alone. I don’t know if I can do this right now.”

His brows shift and his chest starts to move faster, his breath picking up in a panic as you start to slip through his fingers. 

“No,” he whispers, barely audible. Another tear rolls down his cheek. “Joey, please. I’m beggin’ ya.”

You hold his gaze for one more moment, because some part of you needs to remember it exactly as it is. Then, you step back and close the door over, leaving him alone out on the porch. The latch catches with a small, punctuated click before you turn the lock.

Inside, you stand there in the dark hallway with your hand pressed flat against the door and your adrenaline doing something strange. Through the thrum of your heartbeat, you listen for any sound on the other side. There isn’t one. No voice and no footsteps retreating down the garden path.

AN: Well... 🫠 I'm just gonna log off for two weeks. BYE 👋🏼

It had been a horrible date.

You should’ve known the second the guy, Mark, only talked about crypto and how his parents had inherited money from some fucking oil empire. It became painfully obvious within the first ten minutes that he'd never had to worry about paying rent for his absurdly overpriced downtown apartment with its skyline view.

Unlike you.

Some months you stretched every single penny until it practically begged for mercy, just to make sure you made it to the next paycheck without surviving on instant noodles. There was no trust fund waiting in the wings. No wealthy parents. No safety net.

So it was safe to say your realities couldn't have been more different.

You tried to be polite, carrying the conversation where you could, but when he started talking about tennis lessons and the private coach he'd hired to improve his serve, your mind quietly checked out.

Instead, it wandered somewhere infinitely more familiar.

To Frankie.

You could picture him so vividly it almost hurt. His strong arm draped over the back of your chair, rolling those warm brown eyes so dramatically they'd practically disappear into his skull while muttering something about rich dudes being all talk and no action.

"Bet I could beat him at arm wrestling."

You'd ugly-snort into laughter, hiding your face against the broad shoulder straining beneath his well-worn denim shirt.

Frankie would grin. That crooked, impossibly boyish grin you loved so much. The one that somehow made you forget the man pushing forty. The one that softened the hard edges years of war, grief, and bad decisions had carved into him.

With terrifying clarity, it hit you just how much you missed him. He'd been away for weeks on another flying contract, and his absence had lodged itself somewhere uncomfortable between your ribs.

While Mark rambled on about God knew what, you reached for your phone beneath the table. Your last message still sat there.

You: Text me when you're back on homeland. Take care. ❤️

—

At least Mark paid.

Outside the restaurant, you exchanged an awkward hug before climbing into your ancient Honda Civic.

The second the driver's door shut, you sent him a polite text thanking him for the evening, telling him you didn't think you were compatible and blocked his number.

With a tired sigh, you pulled onto the road. Taylor Swift filled the car as The Prophecy echoed through the speakers. You really didn't know how you kept picking the wrong men. None of them ever sparked the kindling you kept hoping for. Most of them only managed to light every warning sign imaginable.

Your thoughts drifted aimlessly until your car answered with a horrible metallic groan.

"...No."

A plume of white smoke burst from beneath the hood.

"No, no, no—"

The engine sputtered violently as you barely managed to wrestle the Civic onto the gravel shoulder before it gave one final, pitiful cough and died.

"Shit!"

Your palm slammed against the steering wheel before the horn blared into the empty night and your head fell back against the seat.

Perfect.

It was pitch black. Nothing but distant city lights behind you. No road signs. No passing traffic. No anything.

Your eyes drifted toward the dashboard.

11:57 p.m.

Great.

Tow services weren't exactly eager to rescue people in the middle of nowhere after midnight. Even if they were you couldn't afford one. Your mind raced through every person you could possibly call when your phone suddenly lit up.

Francisco 💙 calling...

A laugh escaped you before you even answered.

"Heyyy, preciosa."

God, you'd missed that voice.

"How are you doing?"

Despite everything, you smiled. The real smile. The one that only ever seemed to belong to him.

"Hi, how was your flight back?"

He exhaled dramatically. "Had some turbulence. Sucked. But I landed in one piece, so..."

"Thank God."

A comfortable silence settled between you.

Then—

"You home?"

You shook your head before remembering he couldn't see it. "No, sir."

A sheepish pause. "Actually... I was on a date."

"...A date?" His voice flattened immediately. "With who?"

"His name's Mark. Rich crypto guy."

A sharp inhale crackled through the speaker. "Damn."

You couldn't help laughing.

"One of those again?"

"Don't get me started. It was horrible. You would've hated him. He even smelled expensive."

Frankie let out a low whistle. "One of those, huh? I really gotta start questioning your taste in men, preciosa."

You snorted. "Fair."

Silence lingered another moment.

"I..." You sighed. "Actually, my car broke down on the way home. I'm stranded."

Another beat.

"...You are what?"

"My Honda died somewhere off Highway 65."

"I managed to get onto the shoulder, but it just…quit."

"You in the car?"

"Yeah. But it won't start. And there's no point in calling a tow truck now."

"Why the hell would you call a tow truck?"

His answer came so quickly it almost overlapped yours.

"You call me."

"You literally just got home, Frankie."

"So what ?"

You heard keys jangling. A door opening. His footsteps already moving.

"Send me your location."

"Frankie...it's almost midnight."

"Exactly. And you're sitting alone on the side of a highway. I'll come get you and tomorrow morning Will and I'll come back for your Honda."

"No, it's okay. I don't want to cause any—"

"—unpleasantness?" Frankie actually scoffed. "The only unpleasant thing right now is you sitting alone in the dark."

His voice changed, dropped lower. Got firmer. It was his military tone. The one that left absolutely no room for negotiation.

"Send.Me.Your.Location."

You sank farther into your seat. "...Okay."

Your phone had, naturally, chosen tonight to hover at one percent. You hurriedly shared your location. The screen blinked once and then the call died.

"...Fuck."

The silence that followed somehow felt louder than before.

—

Without the distraction of your phone, the minutes crawled by. You tried not to think about every horror movie you'd ever seen that started with a broken-down car. Nervously, you nibbled at your thumb until finally a pair of familiar headlights cut through the darkness.

The engine had barely fallen silent before Frankie climbed out of his old truck—Betsy, as he lovingly called her.

With far more flourish than necessary, your car door swung open, letting in the cold night air. He leaned one arm against the frame, pointing at you.

"You okay?"

You nodded, only for your eyes to unexpectedly fill with tears of relief that blurred your vision.

"Did somebody stop?"

You shook your head. Only then did he visibly exhale.

"Dios mío... you scared me."

You let out a watery laugh. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

He immediately shook his head. "None of that."

His voice softened. "C'mon. Let's get you warm, hm?"

He helped you out of your car, walked around to grab your bag from the passenger seat and slung it over his shoulder with zero fucks given before tossing it onto the backseat of his truck.

Without really thinking, you folded into him while he held the passenger door open for you.

He was warm. Smelling faintly of sweat, gasoline, and the aftershave he always wore. His arms came around you without hesitation, secure and intimate, before he pressed a kiss into your hair. Your heart squeezed painfully inside your chest at that.

"Thank you," you could only murmur against his broad chest, the words muffled by his Henley.

"For what exactly?"

"For rescuing me. For..." You smiled to yourself. "Being you. For everything, I guess."

He huffed a quiet laugh. "You're gonna have to be a little more specific than that."

You only shook your head against him, letting his warmth seep into every part of you.

It was the first time all day, honestly, the first time since he'd left that you felt completely at ease.

"Missed you," you admitted. 

You felt him smile against your hair. "That so?"

"Mhm."

A beat passed.

"Missed you too."

His arms tightened just a little, and you could've sworn his heartbeat picked up beneath your cheek.

—

Once you were settled in Betsy and the heater had begun chasing the chill from your bones, Frankie handed you a charging cable.

"So your phone doesn't die on me again."

Then a bottle of water, of course. Frankie the caretaker.

"I brought you something from the trip," he said after a few miles, eyes never leaving the road. "It's in the glove compartment."

You blinked at him. "You... brought me something?"

He shrugged.

"My birthday isn't until summer."

"Oh, I know."

Another shrug. "But I saw it and thought of you."

You smiled despite yourself before opening the compartment. A small bracelet slipped into your palm, decorated with tiny shells and beautiful blue stones that caught the dashboard lights. It was gorgeous.

"Frankie..."

You immediately fastened it around your wrist.

"I love it."

"Really?"

He finally glanced over for half a second.

"I wasn't sure. But the lady in the shop said it'd make a nice gift for someone special."

You looked up. "Someone special?"

He groaned. "Oh, please. Don't start."

A grin tugged at your lips. "Sorry, sorry. I'll behave."

He snorted, shaking his head as he looked back at the road. 

You absentmindedly turned the bracelet around your wrist with your thumb, watching the little blue stones catch the passing streetlights.

He'd seen it. Thought of you. Bought it without needing a reason or an occasion.

Your date hadn't even remembered that you didn’t like coffee. Frankie had crossed half the county in the middle of the night and somehow still found the time to bring you home a piece of the ocean.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist • ko-fi

June 13, 2024

It feels like you’ve been moving through the last couple of days pure because you have to. Not an ounce of reason or ambition in you, just doing what was necessary for Jeremiah’s sake more than anything. 

Those couple of days that followed Marco’s arrival felt blue in the most unexpected way. It wasn’t mirroring the sky though, which was still vast and pale, casting early summer warmth over the settlement. It came from somewhere cellular like an undiscovered virus thawing from ancient ice. It sprouted suddenly in your chest cavity and then seeped deep into your bone marrow, making its way to your heart and brain, dulling everything it touched in its path.

Tommy’s relief watching you and Joel ride back through the gates felt genuine, at least until he spotted the stranger trailing behind you and he received no new information about The Disciples or their whereabouts. He didn’t say anything outright, but his disappointment was obvious to you in the way his smile faded and he started recalibrating. It feels like you’ve let him down.

If you had to guess, the only thing that spared you was the uncanny parallel to the story of your own arrival in Jackson back in February: found in the woods fighting off infected, saved by someone who happened to be in the right place at the right time, and in search of a place where survival didn’t feel like a minutely chore.

Jackson itself didn’t take things as gracefully. Word spread fast like it always does here and talk of yet another survivor from Silver Lake showing up was received with buttoned-up outrage. The stares from fellow community members stretched longer than before and the shoulders became colder. Many were past the point of subtlety, and to a degree, you understood their perspective, which only worsened the guilt and fed the depression you felt yourself rapidly slipping into.

The common thread in every instance of bad luck that this place had endured since January was you, and bringing Marco back just tied the knot for the folks waiting for the next thing to blame you for.

As much as it got under your skin, what mattered was saving Marco and giving him a chance to recover, rebuild and hopefully earn a permanent home here just like you did. He was the one who told you to seek out Jackson in the first place. You owed him this at least.

The dark cloud looming overhead wouldn’t find someone else to bother though, so you started doing anything to keep yourself preoccupied. You resorted to dusting surfaces that weren’t even dusty, rearranging the kitchen cupboards into a more “logical” system (at least, that’s what you told yourself it was) and developing a temporary obsession with organising the books in Jeremiah’s bookshelf into alphabetical order like the DVDs in The Pleasure Chest.

He watched a lot of this unfold from the comfort of his armchair, reading you like one of his books that he’s read a million times before. He noticed your dinner plate going mostly untouched and how your responses started to come clipped and distant in a way they never used to. He doesn’t ever bring it up, but he has been unrelentingly kind to you which just makes you love him more.

The animosity clung to the walls around town like bad graffiti to the point you no longer felt safe on the streets. Even in the worst of the early weeks here, when you had a council to convince and Joel watching your every move and waiting for the first opportunity to get rid of you, you were at least able to get from A to B without really needing to look over your shoulder. 

Not everyone was hostile, of course, but enough that it wasn’t worth putting yourself in their way. So you stayed indoors. Jeremiah’s home became a perimeter — one that you were not comfortable leaving.

Joel, predictably, picked up on your reclusion and showed up this evening anyways.

You pull the front door open and find him stood there with his hands in his pockets and his face trying to appear neutral and like he’s not there to verify something he suspected. Another wellness check disguised as a simple visit. As endearing as it should feel, it leans more towards suffocating. Right now, all you want to do is sit and soak in your sadness, but this helicopter boyfriend of yours is not going to allow that apparently.

“Didn’t see you yesterday,” he says, choosing which side of the couch to land on in the living room once he makes his way inside.

“Yeah.” You take the opposite end with little more than a soft sigh.

He waits for an explanation, and when one doesn’t come, he adjusts himself slightly.

“How’d things go with Tommy?”

“Fine.”

You study your own hands, brushing your thumbs against each other in idle, repetitive patterns. “They’re doing Marco’s first vote on Monday. He’s in holding for now. I should be able to go and visit him soon.”

The sentence ends in a way that sounds like the conversation has fallen off the edge of a cliff. Joel tilts his head, trying to find an angle in your face.

“Is somethin' the matter?”

You look up at him then, staring for longer than what would likely be comfortable for him.

“Did I fuck up?”

His brow pinches and he lets out a slow exhale. “No. Of course not.” He pauses briefly, choosing how to word what comes next. “I just— look, I know you wanted to do the right thing, but we were supposed to come back with answers, not another mouth to feed. This is gonna look bad. I think you were a little too soft out there, that’s all.”

“I thought you wanted me to be soft.”

“I do,” he says. “But I want you to be careful too. We can’t afford somethin’ like this. We can’t afford another loss. Tommy can’t take it. The people will turn on him. It’s the last thing he needs right now with the baby comin’.”

That additional layer, which you hadn’t considered until now, rests uneasily on your spirit. 

“I just wanted to save him. I couldn’t leave him out there. But now I feel like I’ve made everything worse.”

“No — baby, no.” He slides across the couch then, closing the short distance between you and wrapping his arm around your shoulders to pull you into his side. “You haven’t. I promise. Everythin’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna figure this out, alright?”

“I don’t know if we can, Joel.” Your words come out colourless and stripped of any fight. “It feels like the whole settlement hates me now. I can’t even bring myself to go outside. I don’t want to face anyone.”

Joel senses it then, the unusual tone of your response, one that doesn’t belong to you. His hand finds your chin, tipping your face up towards his and examining your eyes almost in the same way a doctor would.

“What’s all this? What’s goin’ on? This don’t sound like you.”

The questions causes the heaviness in your chest to stir and build once again. Your lower lashes prickle with heat, almost taunting and daring you to keep trying to not break. 

The smell of outside still clings to his jacket. The sweet scent of woodsmoke and horses, something that has labelled itself as safety in your brain. It grabs at your ankle before you drift away, keeping you planted on the couch with him. You take a deep inhale, and it tastes like the first proper one you’ve had in days.

“I‘m not sure,” you say feebly. “I’ve just— had this horrible feeling since we got back. It’s like… an emptiness in my head.” You touch your temple. “And pressure here.” Your hand moves down to your chest and rubs it. “I don’t know how else to describe it. It just feels like… everything’s black.”

He doesn’t like that answer. Not one bit. It conjures a conspicuous level of concern across his features. “Did somethin’ happen? You seemed fine when we were out there.”

You shift and turn to face him more directly and feel more heat bloom across your cheeks. Whether it’s a stroke of clarity or honesty, you run with it either way.

“I think hearing what happened to Marco’s boys did something to me,” you answer, your voice cracking lightly. “Because I haven’t really— I don’t think I’ve actually grieved my own family yet. Properly. I never got to say goodbye to any of them. And it’s all coming back. All at once.”

Saying it out loud feels transformative. It’s like stepping into a room full of unfamiliar faces staring back at you. It might be the first time you’ve been truly honest with yourself your whole life. For as long as you’ve known, you’ve been the listening ear and the shoulder to cry on. Your own suffering was always secondary. You’d get around to it privately if you had time. Well, now you have plenty of time and you don’t know how to handle it.

Without warning, a single tear falls to your lap, and before you know it, warm streams trickle down to your jawline. With all your might, you try to stay afloat, but grief grips you and pulls you under until everything around you is dark, cold and eerily quiet like it had been waiting for you to step into the water all along.

“There’s nothin’ more you could’ve done,” Joel says, his arm firm around you, keeping you close. His voice is dry and stripped of anything unnecessary. “You had to run. You understand? You had to find your way here. And you’re safe now. Now you’ve got me.”

“But that’s what I can’t deal with,” you continue. “I got to live. I got to survive and make it out. It should’ve been them! Anna was killed and I wasn’t there to save her. I left my own mother on the rocks by the lake and I didn’t go back for her.” The shame turns into something ugly on your face. “What kind of brother does that? What kind of son does that make me?”

“Hey.” He squeezes your shoulder and makes sure you’re still looking directly at him, trying to anchor you before you sink any deeper. “Listen to me. None of that was your fault. You know that. That place was burnin’ to the ground. What good would it’ve done if you stayed behind, hm? You would’ve died too. David would’ve won. You’re alive so you can keep goin’ for them. That’s what they would’ve wanted.”

You press both hands into your face and they stay there for a long moment while you breathe through it, trying to catch up with your lungs. His hand moves in long, thorough strokes up and down your arm. 

“I just wish they could’ve seen this place,” you manage. “I wish I could’ve protected them long enough to make it here. I wish they could’ve met you. And Ellie. And Tommy. Maria. I wish they had a safe place to rest.”

“I know, baby,” Joel whispers, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “I know it’s hard. If you need to let it out, let it out. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

So you do. You turn completely into him and press your face into his chest before giving yourself over to the dark. He doesn’t try to dilute or curb it in any way. Instead, he rocks you gently and then brings you back against the couch cushions and holds you without compromise until the waves subside and you’re left depleted and trembling in his arms.

It’s hard to know how much time has passed, but when you finally lift your head, his flannel has been left wet. Your head throbs angrily and your eyes have gone puffy and purply red. He looks over you carefully, swiping the flesh of his palm gently against your cheek to collect the remaining tears.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice still ragged and broken.

“For what?”

“Just— for offloading all that on you. I know I’m not the only one dealing with shit like this.”

“Enough.” He delivers it with gentle finality. He holds your gaze until he knows you’re listening. “Stop apologisin’. All this only happened to you a few months ago. It’s a wonder you’ve gone this long bottlin’ it up. Most folks would’ve cracked up by now.”

“I think I’m starting to.”

His hand comes up and takes the back of your head, fingers grabbing at your soft curls. “Well, I‘ve got you now. So crack. I’ll keep puttin’ you back together. I promise.”

It’s impossible to take your eyes off of his. He’s being deadly serious. His words cut through to the purest version of yourself. Hearing him talk this way feels surreal and healing all at once. 

But all you can muster is a short nod before leaning in to kiss him softly and without any urgency, tasting the salt of your own tears at the corners of your mouth. He kisses back in a way you’ve never experienced before. It’s not the usual passionate yet unsure delivery you’ve become used to — it’s a kiss that is completely and perfectly present.

His hand cradles the side of your face to keep you there, ensuring that you feel it in the deepest, darkest part of you.

For a second, you look past him to the window, where the sky has turned the colour of a bruised peach. The sun started its descent some time ago and nighttime approaches rapidly.

“You should head back to Ellie before it gets dark,” you say, sweeping your sleeve across your face to get yourself together.

He turns and glances over his shoulder, almost as if to see for himself that it is indeed getting late. He makes a low, grumbling sound in his chest like he’s been greatly inconvenienced. Begrudgingly, he gets to his feet and starts to move out to the hallway.

He stops in the doorway on his way out, one hand resting against the frame and he turns back. 

“You want me to stay the night with you? Keep you company.”

The offer warms you a great deal. It almost allows you to smile, but you don’t quite get there. You do, however, tilt your head. “What about Ellie?”

“She can manage a night on her own. She’ll be fine.”

“No, you can’t do that to her.” You cross your arms and lean against the wall. “Besides, you’ve seen my bed. I don’t think the two of us would fit on a single mattress.”

“Come over to mine then.”

“I can’t leave Jeremiah on his own. You know that.” And is if to establish your point further, a dry and phlegmy cough comes through his bedroom wall right on cue.

His attention is drawn in the direction of Jeremiah’s room for a moment before coming back to you. “I don’t want you to be alone tonight. S’not a good idea.”

“I’ll be okay,” you reply softly. “I promise. I already feel a little better. Having you here helped.”

He studies you closely one more time before stepping back across the threshold to kiss you, the intention completely different with this one. It’s the kind of kiss someone gives when they want you to know you’re theirs and they’re yours. When it ends, he’s in no rush to move away. His hand stays on your waist.

“Okay, well…” He steps back out onto Jeremiah’s doorstep. “Stevie and Gerry are bein’ buried on Saturday afternoon, so… if you’re comin’ along, I’ll pick you up beforehand, y’know… just in case.”

You hadn’t even had a chance to think about their funerals. The idea of standing graveside while half the settlement regard you as the reason for the graves being dug in the first place turns your stomach. But, not showing your face at the funeral would be debatably worse. You need to go. Especially for Stevie. 

Joel volunteering himself as your unofficial bodyguard is a fairly damning illustration of where things currently stand, but you’re grateful for it regardless. With emotions running as high as they are right now, there’s every chance something could kick up.

Joel trudges down the garden path and through the low gate after he says goodbye, his broad frame getting smaller and smaller until he rounds the corner and the street is left lifeless and uninteresting again. You remain in the doorway for a moment after he disappears, drinking in the evening air as a cooling breeze soothes your swollen eyes.

The night ahead is going to be very long without him.

—

June 15, 2024

The procession reaches the gates just before eleven on Saturday morning. On the journey, you find yourself flanked on either side. Tommy on your left, Joel on your right. People naturally gravitate towards their own and keep close in solidarity, but Joel and Tommy are mostly thinking about your wellbeing. There’s still an undercurrent of hostile tension in the crowd underneath the sombreness and they aren’t going to take any chances.

The clouds hang grey and motionless in the sky above Jackson. As anticipated, you’ve hardly slept, so every step in the slow march to the cemetery, which waits about a mile outside the settlement, drags with extra effort. The total lack of birdsong in the breeze is eerily noticeable. Instead, the only sound is the compressed quiet of the community collectively shuffling in the same direction.

Everyone moves in a reluctant column with their heads tipped down and boots scraping the gravel. Armed guards follow at the outermost edges in even intervals, rifles draped and eyes scanning out in every direction carefully. It should make you feel reassured, but it only serves as a sickening reminder why there’s two men being transported to their final resting place today.

You try to keep your focus on the ground ahead of you, quashing every urge to look on either side of you out of fear of making eye contact with anyone. It’s not like you need to confirm whether or not people are looking at you, because you can feel it on the back of your neck. Ronnie is just a couple of rows back probably desperate to finish what he started. If Joel and Tommy weren’t there, who knows how long it’d be before things erupted again.

The gravesite comes into view after cresting a steep rise in the road. Two rectangular wounds in the earth lay prepared and waiting for their offering. You’ve attended your fair share of funerals over the years, pre and post outbreak, but something about this one is going to haunt you for a long time and you know it. If you had your way, a third grave would open up and swallow you whole.

The service isn’t too long, but as it comes to an end, you notice how utterly exhausted everyone looks. The settlement’s pastor, a soft-spoken elderly woman named Therese lead it with an experienced quality that revealed she had done many of these in the past. 

Distressed family and friends of Stevie and Gerry sobbed throughout, but once it reached the part where they got to share stories about their lives, that’s what really knocked everyone else off. Ronnie was unable to finish his speech and was escorted away when that became clear.

Stevie’s eldest daughter spoke last. Maybe five or six years older than Ellie. You’d seen her around a handful of times, but mostly knew of her through Stevie’s stories. As she spoke and read the words she prepared in her trembling hands, you just saw her as a lost, lonely girl struggling with the notion of living in this world without her father. It got to you, and it was the one and only time during the entire ceremony that something broke through the numbness and made you cry.

Joel sensed it from the corner of his eye, and so he pressed his knee gently against yours. You pressed back and clasped your hands together in your lap, wishing you could hold his instead and rest your head on his shoulder so he could comfort you in the way he does so well. All you want is to be held together.

Tommy, unbound by the same things that hold Joel back, patted your knee when he heard you sniffling and then proceeded to produce a napkin from his jacket for you to use.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“Don’t mention it.”

From your peripheral, you feel Joel’s head turn, stare and then turn back.

No one in the settlement goes untouched by the loss of Stevie and Gerry. The thing about communities this size is there’s nowhere to put distance between yourself and the unavoidable questioning of your own mortality when something like this happens. Everyone was thinking the same thing. When will it be my turn? 

It takes a while for the crowd to thin after the pastor signalled the end. People move in clusters back towards to road to start the trek back home. Some linger at the graveside for a little while longer. Stevie’s daughter stands very still with her hands folded loosely in front of her while her younger sister clings to her side. 

Seeing as you’re not close or related to either circle and you don’t want to head back towards town on your own, you’re not sure what to do with yourself other than to wait for Joel and Tommy’s cue. You occupy a neutral territory near a tree a few metres away from everyone else and watch Tommy direct some of the people working the ceremony.

Just as the thought springs to mind wondering where Joel has disappeared to, a hand grabs your elbow. 

Only because of how light the touch is, your heart knows not to jump as you turn around.

“You doin’ okay?” Joel asks.

A short nod is all you’ve got to give. 

“Walk with me,” he says, ticking his head in the other direction. “There’s somethin’ I need to show you.”

He turns and trails off with a slow stride down the path deeper into the cemetery, leaving the service and remaining attendees behind. His hands are buried in his jean pockets as you follow a half-step behind, wondering what this could possibly be. There’s something off about his posture and the way he looks up the path. Nothing about him is readable in the way it usually is for you.

Finches flutter between branches overhead as the scene behind you fades. The sun has widened its reach as afternoon rolls in, making everything feel more saturated and white. For a while, you stare at the back of Joel’s head and wait for him to say something about what’s going on, but he says nothing.

Suddenly, you realise you’re approaching the older plots in the cemetery which are more weathered and barely legible from decades of exposure and a lack of care. Just past those, there are a handful of newer ones in fresher soil, sectioned off from the rest. Joel continues to move with noiseless purpose.

“Joel.” Your voice comes out a little raw still, roughened from the emotional last hour. “Where are we going?”

Without reply, he starts to slow and turns down a particular row. Again, you follow, glancing at some of the stones you pass by. Some unfamiliar names, but then you notice Kai and Archie’s graves side by side.

Joel comes to a complete stop then just a bit further up. There’s no announcement, he just stands there with his hands still in his pockets, looking at the ground just past the three headstones in front of him like he’s waiting for you to acknowledge them.

You join him by his side and look. Packed neatly together, three stones with soil that’s still dark around the edges, freshly turned.

Michael Byrne

Barbara Byrne

Anna Byrne

Your lips part and your mouth goes dry. Nothing around you moves except a single, solitary breeze that lets you know you’re not imagining this. Suddenly, you’re more aware of the intensity of the sun’s warmth as your ears grow hotter.

You don’t move for a long moment. You just read the words over and over again. Their names written so plainly in a place they never got to see, a place they should’ve reached together when the world ended. You should’ve arrived alongside them as a unit with nothing more than a borrowed horse and maybe some blistered feet, ready to settle down and live out the rest of your days someplace safe.

And yet here they are, existing as memorial stones. But at least they’re finally here.

“How?” you ask, your voice less than a whisper and unable to pull your eyes away from them.

Joel’s voice is just as quiet and careful with each word. “Tommy and I. We spent the day out here yesterday puttin’ it together… for you.”

You don’t look at him yet. You can’t. All you can manage is an attempt at swallowing the thick lump in your throat.

“I thought—” Joel pauses and then clears his throat softly. “I thought maybe it’d help. Havin’ somewhere to go.” Another pause, but briefer this time. “Somewhere you could talk to ‘em. If you needed.”

Unable to hold it together, your lip quivers and a hand comes up to drag your sleeve roughly across your eyes and nose, but your body is reacting faster than you can control.

Somewhere in your mind, you’re back at the lake, surrounded by the icy grey where the sound of waves and the echo of gunfire haunts you. You can almost feel her empty, dead weight in your arms — her blood staining your clothes, your arms eventually going numb from holding her as long as you could handle. 

Then, you’re back at Silver Lake’s front gates, waving Anna off for her final journey because you refuse to associate that monster’s private dining room with her final memory. The smell of her hair as you held her, begging her to be safe and not knowing it would be the last time — the crown of her head barely reaching your chin the way you tracked as she grew up.

A subway station in Manhattan, caught in the crowd on the stairs halfway between the light above and the dark below, reaching for and grazing your father’s fingertips. The pale, vacant eyes of the infected over his shoulder and their teeth sinking in and dragging him down into the blackness. You failed to save him. Left behind in the past while you got to escape to the future.

You failed all three of them in one way or another. You should’ve reached further. You should’ve insisted on Anna not going with those guards. You should’ve fought harder to convince your mother to leave Silver Lake and find somewhere else where they had medicine.

But now they’re all here, reunited and memorialised in a place that’s safe. Maybe you’ll receive forgiveness from them one day if you come here and ask enough times. 

Behind you, Tommy appears and approaches as quiet as snowfall to join the two of you. He places a hand on your left shoulder and gives it a firm, present squeeze. 

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Neither of them say anything.

Joel stands to your right with his hands still resting in his pockets, staring off into the middle distance and giving you the space to feel the full force of everything for as long as you need without making you carry the awareness of being watched to add to it. 

Tommy’s voice breaks the silence. “I’m gonna head back.” 

It’s unclear how much time has passed with the three of you stood there. It could’ve been a minute, or ten — or an hour. He glances across at Joel over the top of your head with a look that says “Take all the time you need, but take care of him and get back home safe.” Gradually, his footsteps fade out behind you until there’s only the ambient quiet of the breeze ghosting through the cemetery.

Joel looks around. The last of the other mourners have made their way back home. The guards have left along with Tommy. It’s just the two of you left now.

His arm comes around your shoulder carefully and he pulls you into his side. Without hesitation, you turn your face into Joel’s chest and cry. Properly cry. You’ve been so starved of his touch and comfort all day. He holds you without reservation or fear now, the way a partner should when you’re going through what you’re going through. He doesn’t speak, but he’s grounding and solid, rubbing a hand in slow circles across your back.

Overhead, the sky starts to transform as the afternoon reaches its end.

At your feet, their names remain written in stone, where they’ll be forever more. 

AN: Group crying session anyone?

I hope you enjoyed, as heavy as it was. This one was particularly hard to write. I was going through so much with my dad after his surgery when I wrote it, so there were a lot of tears on my keyboard 🥲

Once again, thank you all for your kind messages and warm welcome back to posting! I know I wasn't gone super long, but going from posting weekly to over a month away felt like a lifetime. So far, I'm really loving this bi-weekly schedule. It feels like a happy medium. I still get to post regularly and I have more time to catch up on my backlog, so I'm going to keep it bi-weekly for the foreseeable and I hope that's okay with you lovelies 🙏🏼

I'm currently working on chapter 35 and I'm getting through writing and editing so much smoother now than before while keeping the quality I like, so let's pray the momentum keeps up! I've been describing these chapters from the new act as a rollercoaster and it just gets more and more rollercoaster-y as I go, so fair warning? 😬

Have a wonderful weekend and see you in the next one.

Your whole relationship with Frankie had been like chasing a storm from the beginning. Despite living in Florida, the sunniest place either of you had ever known, the rain always found you faster than you could prepare for it.

Some storms arrived quietly.

Others kicked the front door off its hinges.

This one had come in the shape of a tiny plastic bag tucked inside the pocket of his jeans.

***

Frankie was dead silent the whole drive. While the first traces of sunrise bled orange into the sky, turning it into something that looked like a watercolor painting, you couldn't bring yourself to appreciate it today. His knee bounced the entire drive, his foot tapping relentlessly against the floorboard. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat despite the air conditioning blasting at full volume.

"You know, you don't need to do this. You could just... drive home."

You shook your head immediately. "And then what?"

"I can do the rehab at home."

"Like the last time?"

He flinched at the memory, just a little.

"I don't do this to punish you, Francisco."

He scoffed, thumb rubbing over his bottom lip as he stared out the window, watching the landscape blur by.

"I don't see what's gonna be different there than when I lay in my own vomit at home."

"They're professionals, Frankie. You can talk to someone who can really hold you through this without falling apart alongside you."

"Mhm."

"Frankie..."

He shook his head. "Don't use that tone on me."

"Which tone?"

"The pity one."

"I don't—" You exhaled. "I'm sorry."

"'s okay." And he sounded honest. "I'm the one who should be sorry."

"You're sick, Frankie. You didn't choose this."

"I am a fuck up, cariño."

Your eyebrows furrowed. You bit your lip before blindly reaching for his sweaty hand, squeezing it while keeping your eyes fixed on the road—even as your vision began to blur with uninvited tears.

"No, you're not. You survived things most people couldn't even imagine surviving. Somewhere along the way your brain found something that quieted all that noise, even if only for a little while. It may have chosen the wrong thing but that doesn't make you wrong. You're still you."

"What if this is all I'm gonna be now?" His voice barely rose above a whisper. "This washed-out version of me. I'm farther away from the man you fell in love with than ever..."

"Hey, hey," you reined him in gently. "No, that's not true. He's still in there. He just needs a little help finding his way back to shore, hm?"

You squeezed his hand again. "And there's nothing wrong with needing help sometimes. The strongest people do. And you, Frankie Morales, are one of the strongest people I've ever known. I'm so so proud of you."

You weren't able to look at him as the sun climbed higher, promising another day of scorching heat. But you heard a small, broken sound that sounded suspiciously close to a sob. Without thinking, you took the next exit, still twenty minutes away from the rehab center. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as you pulled onto the shoulder and finally looked at your boyfriend.

Despite his broad frame, he suddenly looked so unbearably small in the passenger seat of his own truck. He looked hollowed out by the weight he carried. By the guilt clawing at him for failing you. He looked lost.

You unbuckled your seatbelt and leaned toward him, still holding his hand before pressing a kiss against his knuckles.

"Look at me," you pleaded.

He shook his head stubbornly. So you cupped his cheek with your free hand, gently guiding his face toward yours. His soulful dark eyes shimmered with tears, red-rimmed and exhausted. The sight hit you straight in the chest.

"How can you..." His voice cracked. "How can you still stay? Why didn't you just leave already?"

A watery smile tugged at your lips. "Because, unfortunately, I love you a shit ton."

A weak laugh escaped him before his face crumpled again. He took your hand between both of his and kissed it with all the devotion only he had ever shown you.

"I'm scared."

"I know you are."

You brushed your thumb across his cheek. "I am too."

Silence settled between you for a moment. "But I think we just need to do it anyway. Even if we do it scared."

He closed his eyes. "I can't do this for you. God, I wish I could." Your voice wavered. "But this is something you need to do for yourself. For the man you've always told me you want to be. Not only the one scarred by war and loss."

You rested your forehead against his. "And I believe in you."

A tear slipped down his cheek. 

"I'll always be here, rooting for you."

"You're truly too good for me, mi amor."

You smiled—a real one this time—and shrugged. "Maybe."

Another shrug. "Guess you're just a lucky bastard then."

"The luckiest on this fucking planet," he murmured.

Like magnets finding their opposite, you drifted toward one another. Your hand rested against the back of his neck, your thumb brushing behind his ear, tracing the small letter tattooed there for you. Matching the one you wore in the same place, even if you'd gotten yours weeks later. Your foreheads touched in a grounding gesture.

He let out one long, shaky breath. "I love you."

And you knew he meant it. God, he meant it with every bruised piece of his heart.

"I love you more," you whispered. "Always more."

You smiled through tears. "And now I'll drop you off for your very expensive extended holiday."

That earned you the smallest huff of laughter.

"I'll be right here picking you up when you're ready, okay?"

You felt his nod more than you saw it.

***

A few minutes later, you watched him disappear through the doors of the rehab center. Only then did you realize your hands were still gripping the steering wheel so tightly they hurt.

For a long moment, you couldn't make yourself put the truck into gear. Watching the biggest part of your heart walk away was hard. Trusting that he was walking toward himself again was harder.

The whole drive home you cried, singing along to your shared playlist between shaky breaths, selfishly wishing that, when all of this was over, you'd get the love of your life back whole instead of only living with the fragments addiction had left behind.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist • ko-fi

June 9, 2024

“We’re callin’ for an emergency meeting in the town hall tonight,” Tommy says.

A knock came in the middle of dinner preparations, disrupting what was a quiet, late afternoon. When you opened Jeremiah’s front door and saw how Tommy and Joel were standing, Joel half-turned away and Tommy with tension trapped in his jaw, you immediately knew something was wrong. People don’t look like this when they have good news.

“8pm.”

The tea towel in your hand suddenly feels stupid to be holding. “What’s happened?”

“Stevie and Gerry. They haven’t come back from patrol.”

A cold wave runs through you and your eyes find Joel’s. He’s already drawn the same conclusion you’re drawing. Another ambush. Neither of you need to say it aloud. 

By the time 8pm approaches, you’ve managed to get Jeremiah into his wheelchair and made your way to the hall with him. The atmosphere in the settlement is almost unrecognisable compared to how it was the last time this kind of meeting was called for. Last time, there was a fragile quality to the gathering. The disbelief was what defined that day. But not this time. People are moving through the streets with a restless energy radiating off them. It’s pre-grief fused with something almost combustible.

Gerry you only really knew at a surface level. A handful of pleasant exchanges over the months you’ve lived here, but then the broken arm in March took him off the roster before anything between you could develop further. 

Stevie was a different matter. Any shift that you weren’t paired with Joel, you were almost always paired with him, and in the accumulated hours you shared doing the route together, you’d grown quite fond of him. The more experienced of the two veterans, he was always dependable and kind, especially in your early days of patrolling when you were still learning the ropes and making stupid mistakes rookies make. You’d always thought he was just built for survival, and that even in this world with it’s ruthless cruelty, he’d always be a stubbornly permanent fixture in all of this.

Once you’re inside the building, you find Joel waiting just past the doors. He takes Jeremiah from you and wheels him off to join the other council members assembling on the platform. The council cluster together doing a rather terrible job at looking composed. They huddle together in a collective bracing of what’s coming.

Joel moves the way he always does, contained and looking at nothing too long. You’ve spent enough time studying him though to catch what he’s not giving away to others. He’s just as worried as Tommy, he’s just far better at hiding it.

Tommy and Maria stand near the centre of the platform, paler than you’ve ever seen them. Maria’s pregnancy has advanced visibly in recent weeks and she seems much more exposed now. Tommy stands by her looking like he’s made of old concrete, just grey and bloodless. It’s all round unsettling seeing them this way, particularly when it’s so public.

Michelle and Arron were easy enough to spot across the room tucked against the far wall. Arron’s arm rests across Michelle’s shoulder as she chews distractedly at the skin on her thumb, not really reading the room as much as she’s absorbing it. The hall is just an assault of dozens of conversations happening simultaneously, running along the same anxious frequencies. 

“I don’t know why,” Michelle says. “But I just had a feeling something was going to happen. Things were too good for too long.”

“Well, let’s be honest, after what happened in Dubois,” Arron says, tipping his head in your direction, “we should’ve anticipated something was gonna happen. This feels like payback.”

Word had spread not long after the council were informed about what happened on the supply run. The information became distorted, picked apart and reassembled as it moved through the community though. Enough people had drawn their own conclusions to produce a narrative that you were at the centre of this in one way or another. It reignited people’s suspicions that you were either some sort of mole or someone was hunting you down for some reason.

You’d managed to stop it from getting to you for the most part, but every so often you’d catch someone staring at you for a second too long and it all would come flooding back. The hearings, the voting… It was even starting to make you question if Joel suspected something still even though he was there when you were ambushed. Memories of his accusations have been replaying in your head, chipping away at your comfort.

“So, what? You’re saying this is Joel and Joey’s fault?” Michelle replies sharply.

“No, no—, I didn’t mean it like that.” Arron has the decency to look pained by how poorly that landed. “It’s just— think about it. Two of theirs died. It makes sense they’d retaliate. That’s all.”

“They killed Kai and Archie first,” Michelle reminds him.

“Because they think someone here killed David,” you add vacantly.

“Still doesn’t make it your fault, Joey,” she says. “These are sick people. What happened to David needed to happen. Nothing after that did.”

But guilt doesn’t care for logic and it has a way of persisting through any sort of reasoning. It already reintroduced itself to you like an old friend when Tommy broke the news on Jeremiah’s doorstep. More bloodshed. More innocent people dead. And all of it circles back, by some account, to you. 

You’re feeling a little claustrophobic and considering slipping outside to regather yourself when Tommy steps forward. Conversations cut throughout the room without needing to be asked for.

“Alright everyone,” he says. His voice already has a slight shake to it. It’s abundantly clear there was no rehearsal for this because there’s no way to rehearse for something like this. “I wanna thank you for comin’ out tonight. I know it was short notice… but this is important.”

Arms fold and chins lift across the room. Everyone collectively postured like they’re squaring for impact.

“I’m just gonna get right into it. As some of you may already know, Stevie and Gerry headed out on patrol this mornin’ and… uhh… they haven’t come back yet.” 

He struggles to find anywhere to place his eyes. Across the room, Joel’s find yours. There’s no particular expression in his face, but you’ve become fluent in reading what’s hidden beneath each one, and what’s underneath right now is confirmation of everything you’ve already assumed.

“Obviously, given what happened before, I can understand if you’re worried. Scared… Even angry.” Tommy’s hands land on his sides. “Just know that we’re all feeling the same right now. And we need to remain strong.”

Then the dam breaks the way it does in these gatherings. The crowd splits into an overlapping wall of voices, fury and fear running together until they’re indistinguishable and unrelenting. The sound raises the hairs on your arms and the back of your neck. 

Joel takes a step forward then, positioning himself closer to his younger brother, instinctively anticipating that this could go south very quickly.

“EVERYONE QUIET!” Joel bellows. The volume is almost physical. The bass of it hits you in your sternum like a pressure wave. The loudest voices drop first and the rest follow until there’s only a few stray murmurs left.

Tommy glances sideways at Joel briefly before bracing himself and stepping forward again.

“I know what y’all are thinkin’, but I don’t think I need to remind anyone here that Stevie and Gerry are two of the most experienced men that we’ve got. If anyone knows how to get out of a bad situation, it’s them.”

“For crying out loud, Tommy! They’re dead and you fucking know it!” The voice comes from somewhere at the back and a tidal wave of protests heads straight for Tommy again. This time, his voice cracks across the room before the noise can fully build.

“HEY!” 

It doesn’t exactly have the bite of Joel’s, but it works. The hall pulls back into a simmering, almost dangerous quiet. Things could still go either way.

“We don’t know anythin’ right now. What I do know is if this is the same crowd that took Kai and Archie from us, I won’t rest until every last one of them is taken out. And that’s a promise.”

The silence that follows is total, but not peaceful. The fury hasn’t gone anywhere, but it feels like people’s faith in Jackson’s leadership is starting to dwindle.

“We follow protocol. They have ’til sunrise to make it back on their own.” Tommy looks out across all the faces, meeting them with what he has. 

“If they don’t, we send out a search party at first light.”

—

June 10, 2024

With no sign of Stevie and Gerry by sunrise, the search party rode out into the wilderness. The sky was painted the colour of watered-down salmon at that hour and groups of Jackson’s residents gathered in groups at the gates to wait for their return.

You keep close to Joel and Tommy, not saying much but listening to the low conversations around you and the occasional creak of the watchtower above. Everyone appears to be in a state of pre-grief, suspended with the knowledge of what’s coming but still needing confirmation.

As the hours pass, morning becomes a mild afternoon and the stares start coming more frequently. Not everyone stares, most people are too absorbed in their own internal dread, but enough that it makes you feel increasingly uneasy. The more you catch, the smaller the space feels. Joel notices too, and he reacts by standing a little closer, putting his body between yours and whoever’s looking. 

At last, one of the guards in the watchtower raises an arm and the crowd immediately snap themselves upright. Shoulders press together and hands grasp each other in sickening anticipation. The gates start their slow, grinding separation and everyone tips forward slightly as the gap widens.

All six men that were sent out come through on horseback, expressions empty, much to everyone’s relief. But the relief dies as soon as the blood-drenched woven sacks strapped to the back of two of the horses come into view though. The same type of sacks that brought Kai and Archie home.

From every direction, you hear half-swallowed gasps and uncontainable cries. Your hands move to your face without decision and something enormous and immovable lodges itself in your throat.

Beside you, Tommy turns away in hopeless defeat. Like everyone else, he knew deep down this was going to be the outcome, but it doesn’t make the reality any easier. His head bows and he hisses something blunt into the air. Joel says nothing, but the way his jaw tightens says enough.

The riders begin to dismount and carry out the grim, terrible business of bringing the dead back home.

Without warning and before your body could interpret it, something collides with you, handfuls of your collar bunched in fists and your back meeting the wall of the building next to you with a blunt, breathtaking force.

When your vision catches up, one of the two men who run The Tipsy Bison, Ronnie, is two inches away from your face. Old, scarred and bald, his eyes are red-rimmed and swimming with tears of fury and his teeth are bared in a way that genuinely strikes fear in you.

“This is all your fucking fault!” His voice cracks into a shriek. “That’s my friend! My friend is fucking dead because of you!”

Just as fast as he was on you, Joel rips him off and deposits him hard onto the ground a few feet back. He lands in a graceless heap in the dirt and sits there stunned for a second.

“Keep your fucking hands off him,” Joel says, his voice scarily quiet but cold.

Ronnie gets back to his feet and comes forward again, but is caught by a handful of bystanders. Whether it’s out of concern for you or because they know better than to let him challenge Joel, you can’t say. They speak to him in hushed, urgent voices, hands on his shoulders and trying to walk him back from whatever edge he was about to leap off. It takes a minute, but eventually he loses fight and the grief brings him to his knees. 

Joel turns back to you.

“You okay?” 

You’re still a bit winded from the impact, but his voice, low enough that only you can hear it, is exactly what you need. It pulls you back into your body and makes you feel somewhat solid and balanced again.

“Yeah,” you reply with a thin breath. “I’m fine — I think.”

He holds your gaze for a moment, not fully persuaded or satisfied, before glancing around at the crowd who are still churning with that same restless and unpredictable energy.

“You and Tommy should get inside, away from everyone,” Joel says. “Head back to Maria until everything calms down.” He practically ushers you in the other direction. “I’ll follow in a bit.”

—

For a second day in a row, a meeting was called for 8pm in the hall. What had been reported back to Tommy that afternoon made the first occasion feel, in some distorted way, pleasant in comparison. You were there when the search party’s account was delivered to him. 

Stevie was found hanging from a tree, inverted and slashed open with his internal organs left to dangle freely. Gerry had been found tied to the foot of the same tree with both of his eyes removed. Inside Gerry’s mouth, another note. This time, it read “An eye for an eye.”

The man delivering the report had the image burned into the back of his eyes and was still actively reliving the discovery. That same image had now planted itself in your mind with no intention of leaving any time soon.

It explains the look the returning search party had on their faces as they came back through the gates earlier. The blankness wasn’t exhaustion or anything remotely similar to it. It was pure, unfiltered terror.

Underneath all of that, Ronnie’s voice and the venom in it loops incessantly. This is all your fucking fault. No matter what Joel or Michelle said to try and argue you out of it, they weren’t succeeding. Four people are now dead who had been alive and had a whole life ahead of them before you showed up. The thread connecting all of it started and ended with you and it was becoming impossible to not feel it.

It’s unnervingly quiet in the hall considering it is filled from wall to wall again. Probably close to two hundred people completely depleted after spending the entirety of the day mourning. 

Kai and Archie’s deaths fractured the community’s confidence, but there was some level of healing taking place after the tragedy. This has just split it further, right down to the very foundation that Jackson had been built on. There’s a collective recognition spreading that things were going to be different from here on out.

The people are starting to doubt Tommy and question his leadership. It’s evident in the way people’s eyes move to one another and in the way they analyse how fragile he looks up on the platform this time. He can’t afford a single misstep anymore after today. That much is brutally apparent. 

Joel positioned you close to him beside the platform before anyone arrived without really offering an explanation. You don’t actually need one. Even he no longer trusted the crowd around you. With emotions running even higher, there’s something volatile in the air and he didn’t want to take any chances. 

Tommy takes the centre of the platform and clears his throat, staring out at his people and receiving nothing back.

“Uhh… I appreciate you for comin’ out again tonight, folks.”

The silence is almost aggressive. 

“I wanna start off by sayin’ that this is another dark day for Jackson, and while of course we all need to be there for each other, most importantly, right now, we need to be there for the close friends and families of Stevie and Gerry, two people who should still be here with us.”

Their families aren’t in the room. They stayed home to grieve in private while it’s all still at its most raw. 

Stevie had mentioned his eldest daughter to you once on patrol. She was finishing her training and nearly ready to join the ranks and start patrolling herself. How proud he sounded saying it. He couldn’t wait to be paired up with her and spend some time outside the walls.

“I know everyone is feelin’ all sorts of things right now.” Tommy‘s eyes move carefully to each cluster of faces like he’s checking their temperature. “But I need y’all to hear me when I say this. We are not losin’ any more people. Things are gonna change starting today. Our priority is findin’ whoever’s doin’ this and puttin’ an end to it. Once and for all.”

One of the remaining patrolmen near the front of the crowd stands to his full height with his arms folded.

“And how exactly are we supposed to track these fuckers down when there’s not enough people left to go out there in the first place? We don’t know who these Disciples are or where they‘re hiding. We have no idea what we’re walking into.”

“We’re already workin’ on a strategy for exactly that,” Tommy replies. “And I’m not concerned about numbers. There’s no chance they have more people than us and I can assure you they don’t have men as skilled as ours.”

“Bullshit, Tommy!” Ronnie’s voice pierces from the far side of the room. He’d been standing against the wall and you’d been actively avoiding looking in his direction. Now his arm is extended and he has a finger pointing directly at you. “As long as he’s here, we’re not safe! We’re sitting ducks and everyone knows it!”

Accusations and agreements flood the room and the crowd breaks apart once more. Tommy goes very still on the platform, his eyes losing focus as the volume builds around him and the pressure of it all seems to become suffocating.

There’s no thought behind the decision, but by the time your brain caught up to consider doubt, you’ve stepped up onto the platform and are stood by Tommy’s side.

The noise drops. Not all at once, but fast enough that the contrast makes you tense up a little. You’re not a member of the council. You have no business being up there. And a significant portion of the people now staring back at you believe, with varying degrees of certainty, that you are the catalyst for all of this. 

Being up there is more intimidating and exposing than you would’ve anticipated. The room feels enormous from up here. Somewhere behind you, you can feel Joel’s eyes drilling into the back of your skull, wondering what on earth you’re doing and whether or not he should intervene.

You find a point somewhere in the middle of the crowd, swallow and speak.

“Look, I know I’m still not welcome here. Not to some of you.” You let that sit for a second. “And I understand that. What’s been built here in this town is worth protecting, and after everything that’s happened, I get the fear. But we all know by now that safety isn’t guaranteed no matter who or where you are. And I know that no matter how many times I try to convince you that I had nothing to do with these attacks, some of you are never going to believe it.”

No one interrupts. The hostility isn’t as apparent as it was a moment ago, but it still sits dormant behind many of the faces glaring back at you. 

“But I’d be an idiot to ignore the fact that The Disciples want me. For what reason, I don’t really know. But I’m not going to waste any more time. Words are meaningless and at the end of the day, this isn’t about me. It’s about the four people we’ve lost and how we put an end to this.” 

You glance back at the council briefly, registering each of their expressions and Joel’s clenched fists before turning back.

“So I’m going to prove it. I’m going to go out there and find them.”

A wave of exchanged looks move through the crowd as people check to see if they heard you correctly by reading each other’s reactions. The air transforms behind you. You can feel Joel wanting to take a step forward but holding himself back.

“Tomorrow, 9am at the gates,” you continue. “Anyone who wants to join can come, but I understand if you don’t. I don’t expect it. Either way, I’m going… for Jackson.”

The faces in the crowd reflect back two clear things. Some people were looking at you as if you were making a last statement, helpless in a way that they know how this ends for you. Others were watching with something that’s a fusion of respect and relief, like this is what you should do because it’s the right thing to do.

You look away, unable to hold anyone’s gaze for long. The clod of anxiety in your throat subsides marginally and you step back down off the platform. Joel remains close by, careful to not look directly at you, but struggling to hide the fact he’s trying to restrain himself.

Tommy takes the space back, flicking a quick glance in your direction. “Okay… uhh…” He strokes his chin, ruminating on what you said for a moment. “The council and I are goin’ to discuss this tonight. We’ll have more to say tomorrow mornin’ once we know where we stand.”

He rubs his hands together nervously.

“We’ll leave it at that for tonight, folks. Please get home safely and, uhh… take care of one another.”

—

“Are you out of your goddamned mind?!” 

Jeremiah’s front door opened late that evening and Joel came barrelling through like a thunderstorm, charging straight past you and into the hallway without waiting to be invited inside. He steamrolls his way to the kitchen and you close the front door and follow him.

“What the hell were you thinkin’?!”

“I need to do something, Joel.”

“No, you don’t. Now everyone's gonna expect you to go out there tomorrow.” He paces around the kitchen restlessly trying to find something to do with his anger. He eventually finds one spot to stand in and his hands find his hips. “You should’ve kept your mouth shut! This is not up to you. This is council business.”

“Is everything alright out there, my boy?” Jeremiah calls thinly from the direction of his bedroom. 

Joel catches himself and stops, exhaling through flared nostrils and starting to move in repeated, agitated circuits around the kitchen again.

“Yes, Jeremiah, all good,” you call back. “Sorry for the noise.”

“Very well,” he replies. “Although, if Joel is giving you a hard time, please do remind him that I’m not above using my cane if the situation calls for it. I must rest and I would appreciate it if he kept his voice down.”

You press the inside of your cheek between your back molars. Joel doesn’t look even remotely close to finding it amusing. He comes back to you with the same intensity, but just more compressed now.

“You’re not goin’ out there, Joey. It’s too dangerous.”

“I can’t stay here and do nothing either. You saw how people reacted today. They want answers and they want someone to do something. Since they’ve decided this is my fault, I’m going to make it right."

“This is not your fault.” He says it with a firmness that does not invite any negotiation. He takes another step forward across the kitchen towards you. “I don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks or says. You don’t need to be puttin’ yourself in danger for anyone.”

You stare back at him as the irony hangs overhead. The man who spent all this time measuring every move because of how it might appear to others, now standing in your home telling you he doesn’t care what anyone else thinks. You don’t mention it, but he can see it in your face.

“You don’t get to make decisions like this,” he says. “Not without me knowin’ first.”

“What are we supposed to do then, Joel?” you say, getting frustrated in your own right. “Our entire patrol unit is either dropping out or dead. This has to end and it has to end now.”

“I know that! But I’m not havin’ you go out there like bait!”

You huff. “Wasn’t it you and Tommy who wanted to send me out there as bait in the first place? You sure seemed fine with it then.”

“Don’t,” he warns. “This is different. You know that. You should’ve consulted me.”

“Why do I need to consult you? This is my choice to make.”

“Because I care about you,” he says. “And I’m not willin’ to risk losin’ you. Think about Ellie. Think about the people here who care about you—”

“Joel.” Now you take a step closer to him, keeping your voice soft. “This is going to keep happening. They’re not going to stop and things will only get worse if nothing changes. I can’t let anyone else die and I can’t stay here if people don’t trust me. It’s only a matter of time before they start to question you too just for being around me.” You hold his gaze for a long moment. “So I’m going. Even if that means I’m going alone.”

His jaw goes completely rigid. His eyes move off somewhere beyond you and he has that distant, interior look he gets sometimes, like he’s being pulled into an old, unresolved memory. 

When he comes back, he swallows once with his eyes glassy at the edges.

“If I can’t make you stay,” he says, barely above a whisper, “then I’m comin’ with you.”

“No.” The word comes out before he’d even finished speaking. You shake your head at him. “No. You‘re not coming.”

“Why?”

“Because Ellie, that’s why. If something goes wrong, she loses you. No one else here is dying because of me.”

“And what about me?” The sudden softness in his voice is disarming. “I’m supposed to just let you go out there alone and be okay if you don’t come back?”

“Yeah.” You pause, overseeing the stillness in him now. “You don’t need me, but Ellie needs you. You have to stay.”

He narrows his eyes ever so slightly and closes the remaining distance between you with one slow step, his voice dropping low enough that it can’t pass the walls of the kitchen. “What are you talkin’ about? I do need you. And so does Ellie.”

You look away, staring out into the vacant space between you and the stove, anywhere away from his face. “It’ll be easier for her if she only loses one of us. I’m not letting you—”

“What’re you gonna do, stop me?” Joel asks, settling on one hip now, his arms hanging loose by his sides. He analyses the way you refuse to look at him with an expression that’s more depleted than combative.

“There is no choice here, Joey. You’re my partner. I’m comin’ with you and that’s that.”

Biting back tears, your jaw aches from the rigidity. 

He turns and starts to move back towards the hallway. One hand catches the doorframe and he pauses there for a moment.

“I’ll see you tomorrow mornin’.”

—

June 11, 2024

Unsurprisingly, no one else came forward to volunteer by the next morning. Because you weren’t expecting anyone to, you had hoped that maybe it would dull the sting, but it didn’t. At the same time, who in their right mind would go out there knowing what The Disciples were capable of? Maybe you should’ve thought about that too before committing to it yourself. But it’s too late now.

By the time you arrived at the gates with Joel and the horses, a crowd had formed. Standing there in the cold morning air, reading the mixture of expressions, it felt more like a send-off than a show of solidarity. Some wanted to be seen showing up, but others wanted to verify that you were actually keeping your word and going.

Joel came to Jeremiah’s at sunrise to walk with you. Ellie came along too, tasked with keeping Jeremiah company for the day and ensuring someone was there in case he needed help. Both of you said goodbye to them, trying to not make it sound like it was for the last time. It was particularly hard for Joel.

At the gates, Michelle finds you before you finish checking Dusty’s tack. Her arms swing around you and she pulls you into a tight embrace. “You better come back,” she says, her voice muffled against your jacket. “You hear me? Safe and sound.”

Carol’s hand rests on your shoulder as Michelle releases you, her expression barely composed. “Seems ridiculous to say, but be safe out there and good luck.”

Arron shakes your hand and holds it for a moment longer than would be considered normal. He stares at you directly and without performance. “You’ve got this. I’ll see you when you’re back.”

Lastly, Tommy‘s hand turns you around and he yanks you into him without warning, his arms solid and intentional around you. That was the moment where it felt like the ground beneath you became uneven again. The man who saved you, the reason you’re here in the first place, holding you in case its the last time he gets to do so. This really could be your last day, so you savour it all. His smell, his unrelenting kindness, everything about him that made you trust him.

“You two take care of each other out there, okay?” he whispers close to your ear. His lips press briefly and firmly against your temple before he lets you go, leaving you with a final pat on your shoulder. He turns to go to Joel.

You pull yourself up onto Dusty and take one last look back at the town behind the crowd, your eyes drifting across the rooftops you’ve come to know and the soft orange lights in the windows as the sun and the people here rise for another day.

Then you take in the faces below one more time. Michelle’s hand over her mouth, Carol and Arron tucked into either side of her, Tommy looking like he’s trying to think of a reason to call this whole thing off last minute. In your mind, you think about Jeremiah expecting you home this evening for tea and how Ellie will be sat by the window checking every few minutes, hoping to see you both walking back up the garden path like it was any other day.

The nerves had been somewhat manageable until the gates began to screech open once more. You’re suddenly more aware of how dry your lips are and numb your hands feel holding the reigns.

Joel climbs onto Old Beardy beside you and looks across. You meet his eyes and find more than worry etched plainly into his every feature. He looks at you the way he did when that Disciple almost killed you in front of him, and the way he looked at you in his bedroom when he’d asked you to stay. Like you were something he wasn’t prepared to lose.

“You ready?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

—

The ride out towards the trees is quiet, but there’s nothing peaceful about it. Birds somewhere overhead singing in another day, leather creaking and the dull rhythm of hooves on the ground beneath. Everything should feel the same as it always does beyond Jackson’s walls, but the air tastes different this morning. Your senses are more alight than they would be on a typical patrol. Even the sound of the horses feels too loud and exposing.

Joel barely blinks. His eyes move across the landscape methodically, reading the ground up as far as where the forest begins. He’s even more on edge than you, if that’s even possible. From the corner of your eye, you watch him, feeling the guilt travel down your throat and into your gut. He’s out here because of you. Every excuse you’d made last night about Ellie, the risks… He heard it all and still chose to come along. The man is as stubborn as you, also probably even more so.

At the treeline, you both dismount and tie the horses to a low enough branch set back from the path. The plan, agreed on the journey out, was to travel on foot once you were out of the open. Because you’d be covering unfamiliar territory, it made more sense to be able to adapt and cover yourselves without the two huge animals adding to the pressure.  

The humidity inside the forest’s embrace is breathtakingly overbearing. Thick air and even thicker, unexplored undergrowth snagging at your boots with every step. Before you’ve even reached a few yards in, your palm is damp with sweat as it grips onto your rifle. You’re aware of it, the same way you’re aware of your own heartbeat, and now that you’ve noticed it, you can’t stop noticing it.

Every small sound or movement between the greenery causes a small flinch. A branch waving softly on a breeze, something small retreating into the leaves on your left… All of it a violent threat.

The catastrophising starts suddenly and becomes unmanageable before you can even try to contain it. Who would take care of Jeremiah, who looked thinner this week than last? And what about Ellie, who is expecting you both home tonight unharmed?

If The Disciples were still lurking around, finding them would mean them finding you too. The absurd conclusion you have reached is that if they found you first and today truly was your last day, at the very least, it would likely be the end of Jacksons troubles. The Disciples would finally have the pound of flesh that they so desperately wanted, and Ellie and Tommy’s family would hopefully be spared. Jackson would return to the undisturbed, thriving place it once was before you washed up there.

“Just realised you never really talk about home,” Joel says, keeping his eyes forward. “Back in Ireland. Before all this.”

Pulling your attention away from the sea of trees, you glance at him. There’s his attentiveness again. He’s been watching you withdraw into those tenebrous places in your mind. Months of shared patrols have clued him up on all the tells that something has a hold of you. He knows which of your silences are comfortable and which are unsettled. This is him offering you a way back to the light.

“What do you want to know?”

“What it was like over there. What your family were like.”

You think about it while navigating over a thick knot of roots without breaking your stride.

“I remember it being the most beautiful country in the world,” you say. “And the people— Jesus… There’s no people like the Irish.” A brief pause. “You’d have hated it though.”

He looks at you sideways. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, it rains for like eleven months of the year. The stranger sitting next to you on the bus will talk to you for an entire hour whether you like it or not. And it’s a nation of tea drinkers.”

Something about that makes him smile just slightly. His eyes drop to the forest floor for a second.

“So what made you leave then?”

A fair question that didn’t exactly have a straight-forward answer. The version of yourself that made the decision to leave faded away long ago. With two decades gone by and all that happened throughout, it’s hard to know for sure what your true motives actually were.

“I’m not entirely sure,” you say, attempting to work out the thought process in real-time. “Most of the people I grew up with had this dream of getting away from it all. Moving somewhere bigger and making something of themselves. Ireland was its own little world. It was safe. I think I just wanted to see what else was out there.”

“And out of all the places in the world you could’ve ended up in,” Joel says, a dry quality creeping into his voice. “You chose Brooklyn?”

You roll your eyes at him, feeling the pull of an involuntary smirk. “Brooklyn was great, I’ll have you know. It was less of a choice and more of an opportunity that just landed on my lap. I don’t know why, but I felt something in my gut telling me to go. I kept thinking I would regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t.” You let the thought resolve. “And look how that turned out.”

Joel continues to observe you from the corner of his eye, assessing you and the tone of the last sentence carefully, trying to figure out if it’s just your dark humour or genuine self-deprecation.  

“How ‘bout your family?” he asks. “Think I would’ve hated them too?”

A grin forms before you can stop it. It’s a completely unexpected question. For whatever reason, you’ve never considered how Joel would’ve fit in that picture. As fast as the comfort of it hits you, your heart cracks a little, almost causing you to lose your footing. What could’ve been.

“Nah,” you reply. “If anything, it’d be the other way around. I’m not sure they’d warm to you very fast.”

He looks mildly put out by that. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“My parents were pretty judgemental. Ironically strict Irish catholics. Impossible to impress. My da was very protective of us. I don’t think he ever really believed I could manage out in the world on my own. He insisted on doing everything for me. The issue he’d have with you is that you’d be his competition. I don’t think he ever envisioned another man looking after me. He would’ve struggled with that.”

Joel doesn’t have anything to say to that. His eyes stay forward, but his jaw grinds without giving any indication of what he makes of it. “How ‘bout your mother?”

“You’d have better chances with her,” you say. “She had the most opinions out of everyone, but she’d only share them with others behind your back. But I have a feeling you would’ve won her over. She loved a man that could do it all. The accent would’ve helped too. She loved an accent.”

“Is that what did it for you?” Joel asks, a hint of a faint smirk forming.

“It helped,” you admit playfully, feeling some of the tightness in your chest ease a little.

Then he asks, “And Anna? What was she like?” 

The manufactured cushiness of the last few minutes expires.

Something heavy solidifies in your gut immediately. Hearing her name spoken out loud here amongst the trees makes you realise that you haven’t really spoken about her in a while. 

“You don’t have to—” he says, catching himself quickly. “Sorry. Probably shouldn’t’ve brought that up—”

You shake your head and give him enough of a smile to let him know it’s okay.

“She was everything to me,” you start, your voice betraying you almost immediately. “She was the only thing that almost stopped me from moving to Brooklyn. I couldn’t picture a life without her in it. She was much younger than me, but she was my closest friend.”

The forest goes very quiet around you. All that registers with your senses is the sound of your boots crunching through undisturbed leaves below.

“I’ve never known anyone more full of life,” you continue. “Even after the outbreak. Even after we lost our da. My only reason to keep going was to keep her alive. So when she— when I lost her, I really thought that was the end.”

Joel turns his head to look at you, but he doesn’t speak, doesn’t interrupt. He just gives you room to keep going if you want.

“Every Friday after school, I’d bring her down to the video shop. We would take turns picking the movie for the weekend every week. One week, my pick, the next week, hers. She always chose based on the box cover. The more pink and flowery, the higher chance she’d choose that one.” Some sort of laugh-breath hybrid escapes you. “I didn’t mind though. We’d be on that couch all weekend snacking on dry cereal watching movies. Nothing really mattered back then.”

“Hold onto those memories,” Joel says quietly after a moment passes. “That’s what’ll get you through all this.”

“I try to.” Your voice thins and the tone of it changes. “But they feel… tainted now. Everything does. After what he did to us. I can’t think about her anymore without thinking about him…” You stare out at the trees vacantly. “I feel broken, Joel. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to be put back together.”

He goes quiet again for a long minute, watching you carefully and wanting to offer you something he doesn’t have. He mutters an unvarnished apology under his breath and he means it, but he knows there’s nothing substantial he could say that would fix it right now.

“How about you?” you ask. “Did you have any family before all this? Apart from Tommy.”

As the words leave your mouth, it dawns on you too late that it probably wasn’t the right time for a question like that. It’s out there now though, suspended in the space between you waiting to be answered. He goes somewhere in his head again for some time, barely visible only by the vacancy moving across his expression.

Maybe it’s the surroundings, maybe it’s the worry that you’re both marching towards potential death, but something in him flattens with an eventual exhale.

“Uhh… yeah.”

Then nothing. A long stretch of nothing. Knowing him the way you do, he’s trying to structure together something he has the capacity to say.

“I had a daughter. Sarah. Her name was Sarah.” 

The photograph. The girl with the spiralled, dark hair, wearing a soccer jersey and holding a trophy. Joel’s arm around her and his face carrying a pride you’ve never seen in him before. The suspicion was there since you found the picture, but now you have the answer and another part of his past takes shape.

Still, the implication of using the past tense when speaking about her can only mean one thing. He carries on regardless, and he doesn’t conceal how it hurts him to do so.

“I lost her. On outbreak day. Died in my arms.”

“I’m sorry.” It comes out on a weak breath and feels entirely inadequate. It felt like you knew it before you knew it. There’s a particular type of pain that resides deep inside of him, one that you’ve always sensed and one that has drawn you to him this entire time.

“What was she like?”

He stays silent for another moment. He’s not exactly reluctant, just simply trying to string together an answer to a question he seemingly has never been asked before, or at least not for a very long time.

“Smart. Too smart for a fourteen year old. Real funny too. Kept me honest.” His head lifts back to scan the view ahead.

“Sh-she was caring,” he goes on. “Independent. Felt like she was takin’ care of me more’n I was takin’ care of her. I’d be workin’ late and I’d come home and she’d already have dinner figured out for us.”

“Wonder where she got those instincts from.”

He glances sideways at you and his lip curves briefly and barely, gone before it could be fully acknowledged.

“Thought I’d spend my whole life worryin’ about her. College, boys, bad decisions… The world wasn’t ready for someone like her.” His voice drops and takes on a rough, abraded quality you’re hearing for the first time. “But she was mine. She was my whole world. The only thing I ever really had.”

Your heart shatters in your chest as you picture the photograph again compare how fractured he is now to the proud father you saw. She deserved to grow up, even in this barbaric, hideous world. And he deserved to watch her do it. 

“What about her mother? What happened to her?”

Joel returns from whatever dark corner of his mind he went wandering in. “Uhh—… I don’t know. She left us when Sarah was real young. She had a lot goin’ on in her head. I wasn’t as present as I probably should’ve been. So she left. Never saw her again. Heard she might’ve moved back to Pittsburgh where she grew up, but… She told me not to go lookin’ for her, so I didn’t.”

One hell of a life for one man. Abandoned by the mother of their child, raised his daughter alone, lost her in the most cruel way and is now the guardian of possibly the only person in the world immune to the virus that tore everyone’s lives apart. The protectiveness you had once read as aggression reveals itself to actually be survival. His purpose and his instinct is and has always been to protect because that’s all he has ever known.

“You’re a really good man, Joel,” you say, softer than you intended.

He looks across at you again. “What do you mean?”

You squint up at the light filtering through the canopy above, trying to find the appropriate words. “I mean after everything you’ve been through, you could’ve turned out very different. You could’ve completely shut down. You did for a while, I guess. But you show up for everyone around you.” You pause and let him digest that much before continuing. “You wouldn’t have told me any of this a few weeks ago. That has to mean something, right?”

He stares flatly at you and then huffs silently to himself, shaking his head and looking forward again. “The only reason I’m sayin’ all this is because today might be our last. Don’t be naive enough to think this has got anythin’ to do with me bein’ a good person, because I’m not.”

You watch his side profile, mildly stung by that. A reply is already forming when you hear something sudden and harsh, putting every nerve on edge.

A single gunshot splits through the air, cracking through the trees and dispersing outward in a long, diminishing echo. You both freeze in place immediately to listen through it. Underneath the fade of it, a frantic human voice in distress, and just past that, the unmistakable shriek of runners.

“Help! Somebody help me!”

You’re already moving before a word has been exchanged. Together, you push through the undergrowth faster than is sensible, sacrificing caution for urgency. The sounds grow and separate as you draw closer, making your heart rate rocket upwards.

A clearing opens up ahead and you both drop low and slow yourselves, rifles raised and peering through the last curtain of foliage.

A man collapses in the centre of the clearing with four runners converging on him from behind. He looks like he’s been trying to get away from them for a while. He moves with ragged desperation, like he’s operating on the last of his energy reserve.

He feebly raises his gun and prepares himself for the inevitable, knowing that he won’t be able to take all four down in time. 

But then, from where you’re crouched, the recognition hits you like an oncoming train.

“Marco!”

Eyes wide, you burst out from cover before a reasoning could be justified. Behind, Joel calls after you, “Hey, what are you—” but it cuts off into profanity when he realises he has no choice but to chase after you.

Two of the runners sense your approach and break off to charge at you instead. You draw your blade and drive it into the nearest one’s skull mid-lunge, leveraging its body sideways as a deadweight shield against the other to buy yourself half a second. With a wet resistance, you pull the blade free and put it through the second runner’s face before it can get a hold of you. It drops in a heap at your feet and goes into its eternal stillness.

Joel handles the other two, dragging one off of Marco and wrestling it in a way that looked like it required no effort. The second put up more of a fight but was no match for Joel’s brute force.

The clearing goes quiet, but your pulse is loud in your ears and your breath slams inside your chest. Eventually, the adrenaline starts its slow descent. The next thing you sense is Joel’s glare, communicating several things and none of them approving.

Marco is sprawled on the ground next to you, chest heaving and still coming to terms with the fact he’s alive. He looks between you and Joel with wide and cautious eyes. Then he reaches the same realisation you did a moment ago at the outline of the clearing and his shoulders sink with relief.

“Joey?”

“Who is he?” Joel asks flatly, not even acknowledging Marco.

You extend a hand down. Marco takes it and you hoist him back to his feet. He’s in a really bad way. Gaunt, malnourished, hollow yet somehow still breathing. Overgrown hair, greyed skin and weeks of filth caked into him. Hauntingly similar to how you looked only a handful of months ago.

“This is Marco,” you say, still taking him in. “I know him from Silver Lake.”

Joel turns away briefly, making a sound under his breath that has no politeness in it.

“You made it out,” you say to Marco. As you do, you suddenly become hyperaware of the space on either side of him where his young sons once occupied. Your stomach turns and you hope you’re wrong to presume. “Where are the boys?”

His face changes. That brief warmth that appeared from seeing you simply drains out of it, leaving him looking older and broken.

“They didn’t make it,” he says, moving through each word reluctantly. “They’re gone.”

There’s nothing adequate you can say to a man in his position, but you place a steadying hand on his shoulder. The agony of losing one child is unthinkable enough, but two… And at such a young age. It’s a wonder he’s still going.

“Why are you out here?” you ask eventually. “Where have you been all this time?”

He wipes a hand down his face. “Moving. Going from place to place. Trying to find somewhere… permanent. You know how it is.”

He takes a slow breath. You can sense Joel watching him closely from over your shoulder.

“Figured I’d try find Jackson,” Marco says then. “Is that where you ended up?”

You nod. “Yeah. That’s where we came from. It’s not far. You should come back with us—”

“No,” Joel says without any hesitation or ambiguity.

You turn back to face him. “Joel, he needs somewhere to go.”

“I don’t give a damn. He’s not our responsibility. We don’t know him.”

“I do,” you say, stepping up to him now and standing your ground. “Marco is the one who told me to go and find Jackson. I can’t just leave him out here. He’ll be dead within a week. Look at him!”

“I’m not gonna argue with you about this, Joey. We don’t take in strays. You know that by now.”

You scoff at him. “Really? Because this is exactly how Tommy found me. Lost, barely alive and a second from getting eaten. I wouldn’t be standing here with you if he hadn’t sent me in this direction in the first place.”

That seems to land. Joel’s jaw moves uncomfortably and his eyes bury themselves into yours, trying to find something else he can arm himself with.

“That was different,” he says plainly.

“In what way?”

He doesn’t answer, which is it’s own kind of answer.

Behind you, Marco lowers his backpack from his shoulder and unzips it. Joel’s grip tightens around his rifle.

“Please,” Marco breathes, starting to pull miscellaneous objects of survival and sentimental keepsakes out of it as some sort of desperate offering. None of it holds any real value until he presents one last thing.

An unopened jar of coffee.

You look at Joel and Joel looks at the jar. Maybe it’s a sign or just luck.

“Let him get cleaned up and go through NAP at least,” you say. “He deserves a chance. Just like I did.”

He stares at you for a long, uneasy minute before taking a few authoritative steps through the vegetation towards Marco and snatching the jar from his hands and returning to you.

“Check him for bites,” he says. “Take his weapons and whatever else he’s carrying.”

Marco closes his eyes and bows his head briefly, lips moving in the formation of something that resembles prayers and thanks.

You begin performing the usual checks, taking a look around the collar and sleeves, looking for any sign of infection or blood and finding nothing of concern. Marco willingly empties his pockets, places everything back into his backpack and hands it over to you without issue.

Joel watches from a few feet away, deeply unsatisfied with the situation and not even trying to restrain the displeasure radiating off of him. He doesn’t like this one bit and he’s not the type to pretend he does. Even with the unopened jar of coffee secure in his hand, nothing can quell his suspicious instincts once they get fired up.

“We’re done for today. Let’s head back,” Joel says once you finish and rejoin him. He looks at you pointedly. “And you’re gonna be the one explainin’ this to Tommy.”

AN: Hey everyone! So good to be posting again. Thank you so much for your patience while I took a break to write some more and deal with some personal life stuff.

I hope this chapter lived up to the wait!

I decided to post this weekend to dedicate this chapter to my dear friend @jaymee-draws for her birthday! She has shown so much support and provided incredible artwork (with more to come btw 👀), so I wanted to honour her with the comeback chapter!

Speaking of artwork, a massive thank you to Yomi for providing this beautiful chapter artwork. Our Joely protecting each other out in the scary world. I love it so much. Please go give them some love and follow if you don't already.

While I've been taking a break, I've managed to complete up as far as chapter 33, which to be honest, I was hoping to have a little more done by now, but life has been lifeing. I'm very likely going to switch to bi-weekly posting going forward as a happy medium so that way you guys still get the episodic experience I was going for but I also get a bit more time to get ahead of myself.

But seriously, thank you so much for the continued support and the kind messages while I was gone. It really means the world.

SO MUCH coming in these next chapters so buckle up! Hehehe 😈

The storm was raging outside, throwing itself against the windows hard enough to make the glass shudder in its frame. There had been a time, not even that long ago, when sounds like that made Frankie tense instinctively. Sweat gathered at the small of his back while ugly memories flickered behind his eyelids like lightning. A life carved open by violence had a way of following a man home, even years later. It never mattered much that the things he had done were in the name of a country. That kind of reasoning didn’t quiet the ghosts. Didn’t help him sleep either.

The only thing that ever truly silenced the noise in his head was you. 

Your body tucked against his, his arms wrapped around you tight enough to feel real. Face buried into your hair while he inhaled the familiar scent of vanilla and something warmer underneath it. Something impossible to bottle up into words because it was simply you. Home in a way Frankie had never allowed himself to believe existed for men like him.

In all the years Frankie Morales had spent dragging himself across this godforsaken earth, he had become terrifyingly good at running. Never staying anywhere long enough for roots to catch around his ankles. Movement was easier. Easier than explaining himself. Easier than letting anyone look too closely at the wreckage. “No strings attached” had become less of a preference and more of a survival tactic he wore like armor. Or at least that was what he told himself.

Then somewhere along the way, there was you.

You made him pause long enough to wonder if the life he’d been living was actually freedom or just another kind of prison. Frankie had been buried so deep inside himself for so long that some days he couldn’t even see the sky anymore. Days blurred together. Time passed without him noticing. Survival became muscle memory.

But you came into his life like sunlight through storm clouds, soft and stubborn and impossible to ignore. And for the first time in years, he realized he would move mountains just to keep that warmth close to him.

Now peace looked like this: the two of you tangled together in bed while rain battered the world outside. You complaining sleepily about him taking up too much space while simultaneously stealing the blanket for yourself. Frankie smiling quietly against the curve of your shoulder blades anyway, because somehow this became his favorite thing in the world.

To be loved gently.

To be held without expectation.

To learn, little by little, that not every touch had to hurt.

Wrapped up in your softness, Frankie was finally beginning to understand that staying still wasn’t weakness after all. Sometimes it was the bravest thing a person could do.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist • ko-fi

“He’s set to be an independent operative, but know he is working for and with us.” The colonel’s words then officially etch the truth in stone.

Mando comes around basecamp like a ghost. Barely staying put for you to register his presence, yet the whispers about him grow.

“I heard he took out a whole imperial squadron and a Moff too.” Dyana, your closest friend, tells you enthusiastic to catch up on all the rumors.

Then Ward calls for you, and you miss out on any other gossip Dyana and the others had.

“I’ll be heading to Coruscant this week to meet with a few higher ups and senators… I need you to do all the debriefs with Mando while I’m away.

It’s like a rancor suddenly barreled into you.

“Wait, me?” You stupidly question confused, and Ward shoots you a look, raised eyebrows and all.

“Do you think you’re not capable of handling this, ranger?”

“No, colonel.” You quickly reply, and she nods.

“Good, that’s what I thought.”

When you see her off, it must be obvious how hesitant you still are. Her sturdy hand gives your shoulder a reassuring pat.

“Don’t worry. He’s not as scary as everyone thinks he is.” Ward reassures, but it doesn’t soothe you much.

Especially when the day arrives and you find yourself waiting for him.

Just like before, the mandalorian saunters in and your focus is immediately drawn to him. But then, it gets knocked out of orbit when you find he’s not alone.

A tiny green creature waddles in beside him, childishly blinking at every sight. Why is a child with the mandalorian?

“Where’s Ward?” A rich striking voice startles you. Of course the terrifying warrior would sound this intimidating.

“Went to Coruscant for a meeting.” You reply partly stunned you’re actually talking to him.

“And you are?” But then mandalorian questions, sharp and distrustful, and it pisses you off. He’s the newcomer here, and he decides to question you?

“I’m the person you’re stuck with for your debrief and mission logs unfortunately.” Your voice whips out sharp.

He doesn’t say anything.

“What about Teva?” He counters again, and you want to scream. What’s this guy’s problem?

“Out on a mission,” your reply is sharper, bladed with annoyance.

“If you want you can personally contact Ward and explain why I’m not satisfactory enough for your debrief. I’m sure she’d love that.” Then the defiant reply escapes you faster than you can stop it.

It’s as if the whole cantina mess hall heard you because it becomes deathly silent.

The mandalorian simply stares you down with his unflinching helmet. Then the warrior turns and strides out not saying another word.

“I think you pissed him off.” Wolf snickers breaking the stillness.

A sense of dread looms as you realize you might’ve truly just gotten yourself into a mountain load of trouble.

Ward calls that night, and you knew it was coming.

“Why do you want to start a fight with the mandalorian?” She asks calmly over the comms.

“I’m not! He started it!” You can’t help but childishly counter. You even further explain how demanding and untrusting he was.

The colonel sighs.

“You have to understand… His people don’t trust easily. And for good reason. Try to be the one to play nice here.”

You want to be petty and say he needs to as well, but you can’t argue with Ward.

“Do the whole debrief drunk.” Zeb jokes about it with you the next day, and you scoff.

But by the time sunset arrives you start getting tempted to get a drink because maybe Mando isn’t showing up.

Until he does. And again he’s not alone. The strange but sweet little creature continues waddling alongside Mando.

It’s awkward as hell when he approaches your table. The tension lingers thick from yesterday prickling across your skin in the worst way.

You don’t even know if you should say anything

“Mweh?” A surprisingly soft little noise floats through the tension and you turn towards it. You blink down to find the mysterious little being staring up at you with sweet wide eyes.

With curious claws, the baby reaches for the loth cat charm dangling off your belt, the one of many trinkets your niece has given you.

Melted by the sight, you grin and scoot closer. Then you unclasp the charm for the baby to examine it more.

“You like it? It’s cute right?”

The little one agrees with a chirp sounding so endearing.

Something softly clicks. If a creature so tiny and innocent as this baby confidently travels with the mandalorian, then he couldn't be that much of an ass.

Someone sighs. Then settling back into your seat, you find the mandalorian seated across from you. The baby hops up to sit beside him. Yet his eager eyes remain happily taken with your charm.

“That imp base on Hoth had no leads.” He speaks first.

You’re stunned.

Your gut urges you to not make a big deal about this, to simply now see him as another coworker.

So you nod and casually plug in the info on your datapad.

“Hoth was a long shot, but we appreciate you going.” You even add that in.

You knew of a few pilots who served during the Hoth raid. It’s an unforgiving planet, takes a lot of guts to investigate that icy fortress.

“What’s the next order?” Mando asks firm, all business, just like Ward had told you.

You slide him a bounty chip containing info on a possible military officer who could be running a smuggling ring. The mandalorian doesn’t say anything else, simply takes the card and stands up.

“Come on, kid.” All he does is address the baby, not even sparing you a second glance.

Cute and so politely, the kid hands back your loth cat with a noise that feels like a thank you.

“You’re welcome, little cutie,” you tell him warmly.

Once the pair are out of sight, you sigh exhausted, relieved, and sprawl out on the table glad it’s over. Someone barks a laugh, and you aren’t even embarrassed about it.

You can’t wait till this is over.

It’s already been a week and a half of being grounded, doing these debriefs with Mando. You miss being in the skies. But all that hope of getting back in the clouds gets squashed.

“I need to negotiate a few more issues with Senator Organa… can you continue to do the debrief?” It isn’t much of a question but more of an order from Ward.

So you meet with Mando for the rest of the week and into the next. It’s cordial, barely speaking for more than ten minutes with each other.

You try to be friendly, make a joke about the weather, but he just silently stares at you, obviously annoyed.

And it pisses you off all over again.

But you think of the adorable little baby who eagerly tags along with the terrifying hunter. The kid sweetly waves, and you wave back. You started bringing treats after his guardian chided him for eating some of yours.

The annoyed sigh Mando gave when you brought more snacks to share was worth it.

This time you decided to bring something else along with you.

It was the first charm your sister gave you when you became a pilot. A tradition her daughter, your niece, now does with you.

“Look!” You eagerly hold up the plush creature that makes the baby’s eyes go wide.

With adorable tiny grabby hands, he reaches for it and you happily hand it over.

You grin pleased seeing how pleased the kid coos.

“What’s your name?” The sudden question from Mando surprises you.

A bit stunned, you give it to him.

He nods solemnly, repeating it. Your heart does a strange flip hearing his deep voice say your name.

“This is Grogu.” He then introduces the kid who chimes in hearing his name.

“Nice to meet you, Grogu.” You excitedly greet the kid.

Then you turn to Grogu’s guardian. This solemn but striking mandalorian now has you curious to who he is. Your mind thinks about the rumors that have spread about him.

“And you? What’s your name?” You ask politely, but immediately you can almost hear Dyana screaming at you. She’s become the new expert on Mandalorian customs.

“They’re private people,” she had told you, confirming what Ward had said. “It’s probably why not a lot of people know about him, much less his name.”

“I’m sorry, forgive me.” You stammer quickly. “You don’t have to give it.”

A moment passes, and you worry you’ve unraveled this tentative truce or whatever it is.

“Din… Din Djarin.” His full name. It’s lovely.

“Din…” you repeat it.

“It’s nice to meet you too.” And you mean that.

Mando, Din, nods, and you think it’s worth the few weeks being out of the skies.

When Din and Grogu leave you realize the kid still holds onto your plush charm.

“Come on kid, give it back.” Din urges noticing too.

“No it’s okay. He can keep it. Give it back to me next time.” You grin at the baby, and Grogu giggles pleased at the answer.

“What do you say, kid?”

Grogu chirps a sweet thanks and waddles away content with the plushie in his arms.

The next day, as promised, he brings it back. But you exchange another charm with him. This time it’s a cute cloud with a sweet face. Eager for the new trinket, Grogu ditches the plushie and you laugh.

Work then follows suit. Din explains on the intel he’s slowly gaining on the imp official.

“Taking a bit longer than expected.” Din gruffly admits.

“Don’t worry. Rodents like him know how to hide. It’s not your fault. Then again that’s probably an insult to rodents.” You’ve been trying to stay professional, channel your inner composed Colonel Ward. But the old rebel pilot comes out.

Suddenly, a chuckle follows.

Din laughed.

You swear you misheard it. But the way Grogu giggles agreeing with his protector, you know you heard correctly.

“A fair statement.” Din agrees.

And you grin back at him. A golden victorious feeling bubbles in your chest.

Watching the pair leave, you find you’re excited to see them again.

The rest of the debriefs go smoother than ever. You bring new charms for Grogu to play with, and Din seems to settle in more.

“You have a lot of those.” He even comments a bit dry when you exchange another new charm with Grogu. This time it’s a fuzzy bantha.

“Managed to gather a small collection.” You explain.

“Really… couldn’t tell.” Din deadpans.

That’s when you realized he just joked with you.

“Think you might like those two,” Zeb teases the next time he drops by the mess hall.

“It’s called being civil.” You stubbornly reply while messing with the holopad, and the Lasat warrior barks a laugh.

“Civil? Yeah sure.” He teases further.

You stay stubbornly quiet.

“Don’t worry… They’ve a pain in my ass too.” Zeb huffs, and it does soothe your annoyance.

Especially now that something is festered in you, a sort of curious itch to learn more about Din Djarin.

“I heard… he really did blow up an entire imperial base. That’s how Teva found him.” Dyana is happy to spill more gossip about him.

“He’s quiet, doesn’t talk much. So I doubt he’d say anything even if he did.” You mutter.

“Does he really keep a pet around?” Dyana presses for any new info.

The word ‘pet’ sounds harsh.

“He’s more like the kid’s guardian.” The word ‘parent’ instead wants to slip out especially after you’ve seen Din’s fatherly watch over the baby.

“Oh that’s even more interesting! Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?!” Dyana shrieks.

“You’ve been busy.” You half lie.

You could argue that it’s because you want to protect Din’s trust and don’t want to disturb that. But the truth is, you don’t want to share this little secret bond you’ve cultivated with him.

You however rapidly kick those thoughts away.

Ward will be back sometime this week. Your brief time with the Mandalorian would be over soon.

Except that time comes sooner than expected.

The next morning Colonel Ward arrives, an early return. Disappointment arrives just as fast. You knew this was only a temporary thing.

Trying not to feel annoyed, you now work on your x-wing. Deep under the hull, you refuel trying just to keep your mind focused here.

“Didn’t know you were a mechanic.” Suddenly, the rich voice of a certain mandalorian echoes in the hanger.

You scramble out from under the ship confused if you heard right.

But standing off to the side are indeed Din and Grogu.

“What? Thought I just did paper work and worked as an assistant?” You tease.

Din chuckles, and it sinks into the glowing sunlight coating the hanger in its glory.

“You’re looking at one of the New Republic’s best pilots!” Dyana.

She perks up emerging from the other side of the ship, and you shoot a glare her way not even knowing where she came from.

“A pilot?” Din questions, curious.

His helmet tilts towards you.

“Sometimes,” you shrug.

“And I wouldn’t say best.” You weakly laugh then glower at Dyana again. She simply beams innocently back at you.

“One day you gotta tell him about Endor. Though I’m sure you have plenty of fight stories to share too, Mando!”

You want to strangle her.

“You fought at Endor?” Din asks, helmet fully facing you and voice faintly awed.

It all makes your skin feel heated and tight.

All you can do is shrug again.

Endor seems like so long ago now. You were so much younger then. Wild and ready to sacrifice it all for the sake of protecting everything you loved. A small secret corner of your heart aches for those days of when you flew with such fire.

“Well… gotta go! Nice to finally meet you both!” Dyana nods to Din and smiles at the baby before scurrying away.

A traitor in the flesh fleeing if you ever did see one.

“So…an x-wing pilot.” Din comments, still watching you. His curious and impressed tone ignites a strange sensation in your chest that threatens to consume you.

“On good days I am.” You again shrug with a half smile.

“So what was Endor like?” He inquires, and you’re surprised he’s curious about that.

“Don’t know, never went on planet… kinda was busy flying around.”

You don’t even need to see his face to know he’s giving you a silent unamused stare. He must not think your joke is as funny as you do.

A surprised giggle does come though. Both you and Din discover Grogu effortlessly climbing up onto the wing of the ship.

“Kid.” Din chides.

“How did you get up there so fast?” You laugh amused at the sight of this tiny creature waddling on top of your x-wing.

Din sighs, truly parental.

“I take it that you fly?” You ask him yet keeping your gaze on Grogu to make sure he stays safe.

“I do.” Din answers, confident.

“Must be why he’s so curious and comfortable around ships. It’s good when kids get to experience being in the air.” You think of your niece who eagerly tries to convince you to fly her around.

“My niece is the same way.” You reveal.

Din hums a noise, acknowledging he’s listening.

“Is she the reason why you have all those charms?” He asks in a tone softer than you’ve ever heard.

“Excuse you, they are medals of honor.” You jokingly try to sound offended.

“With you I wouldn’t be surprised.” He replies deadpan, and you snicker.

“But yeah… she’s the one who gives them to me.” You explain how it was your sister who first started giving you those charms to decorate your x-wing.

They were to remind you to come home safe.

“I was ordered not to come home unless I brought the charms back safe and sound.” You repeat the same words your sister told you.

A soft breeze enters the hanger bringing in a welcoming cooling touch. But it’s then you realize how close you’re now standing next to Din. You didn’t even notice when you or him moved closer to each other.

“That’s… sweet.” His voice carries a tenderness that sneaks under your ribs and sinks in deep.

You turn and find he’s already looking at you.

Under Din’s gaze, it’s like you’re caught in a tractor beam unable to speak or move.

Dangerous thoughts have already begun clouding your mind, and they all connect back to this man. Like how you’ve noticed how broad his shoulders look, and how strong he is helping move crates around the base. What’s worse is you’ve begun wondering what this mandalorian looks like under his helm.

Grogu’s little giggle finally draws your attention away. Currently he peeks inside the cockpit through the window.

“So I take it this is your ship?” Din asks.

“No, I stole it.” You quip back.

“Sure you did.” His dry reply makes you snicker.

“It’s how I got to fight at Endor.” You jest, stealing a quick glance at Din. Of course he shakes his head unamused.

“Thought you didn’t see Endor.” He uses your dry joke back at you, and you can’t help it.

You playfully elbow him.

Another little giggle comes. Glancing back to the ship, Grogu now peers over from the wing’s edge grinning at you and Din.

“Little troublemaker, are you going to be a pilot one day?” You smile at Grogu.

“Mweh!” He squeals.

“I think that’s a yes,” you tell Din proudly.

“No.” Din answers back firmly.

“It’s okay I’ll teach you one day,” you counter sweetly, and the baby giggles more.

“No.” Din repeats again firmer.

A small cluster of pilots approach. Their laughter and conversation fill the air. Guess this moment is over.

“Still need to see Ward… shouldn’t keep her waiting.” Din is smooth about making his exit.

Quickly Grogu jumps into his arms, and you bid the duo goodbye for now.

You haven’t been in the air for long, but it feels like you’re floating now.

The moments you see the pair become like scattered stars.

Months settle in, and a routine follows. You sometimes see Din in the mess hall cantina when you return from a mission. Discussing with the colonel, all you can simply do is give your boys quick smiles.

Other times Din stops by the hanger where you linger now more than ever hoping he drops by. You and him talk about work, missions, the various planets visited.

You want to ask what got him to work for the new republic, but you don’t want to disturb whatever is growing between you and him.

“It’s budding love.” Dyana sagely declares one evening at the cantina, and Zeb agrees.

“It’s not!” You screech over a drink.

“I don’t think Mando has said more than five words to me, yet I see him talking to you so much.” Another pilot chimes in.

“He talks to Zeb the most!” You argue back. The two of them are often paired up on missions now. You try not to get annoyed by it.

“Not as much as you, kid.” Zeb rebuttals.

“Don’t think we haven’t seen the way he hangs around the hanger for you.” Sash Ketter snickers, and it only ignites the discussion once again.

You dismiss all their words as attempts trying to rile you up.

Because you don’t want to face the truth. You long for your chats with Din, even just to see him for a moment and play with Grogu.

It’s just an awful infatuation. That’s it.

Your small vacation break now approaching may be more of a blessing than you realize. It’ll hopefully give you time to clear your head.

“I’m heading home to visit family. I’ll be sure to bring back something good.” You tell Din the next time you run into him outside the cantina.

“There’s no need. Just… be safe.” Din nods.

His gentle words carry you the entire flight home.

The brief week away provides peaceful moments of relaxation. While you enjoy the time spent with your sister’s family, you long to return to Adelphi.

“So, what did you get me this time?” You ask your niece the day before you’re set to head back.

“I got you… THIS!” She proudly raises up an odd creature. You can’t even tell what it is.

“She made it herself.” Your sister whispers, and your eyes go wide.

“What?! Why didn’t you tell me we have an artist in this family now?!” You cry excitedly scooping up your niece in your arms and tickle her with glee as she squeaks excitedly.

“Actually before I go… Do you think you can help me make one too?” You ask her and your niece's eyes light up.

With eager hands she gathers all her supplies to deposit them on the table ready to craft.

“So… are you going to tell me who you’re making this for?” Your sister asks slightly suspiciously as you add little puffballs to your monster creation.

“What if I just want my charm to have a friend, huh?” You deflect.

“Yeah sure.” She’s not convinced but thankfully doesn’t press any further.

As hard as it is saying goodbye to her and your niece, you’re thankful to finally be back to your routine.

And of course, the new little charm sitting in your pocket seems to hold so much weight.

Din returns a few days after you. It’s hard trying to ignore the bubbling joy that rises watching him approach your x-wing first.

“Welcome back.” He greets and Grogu squeals adorably scurrying to you.

Eagerly you welcome his jump into your arms, and you squeeze him tight.

“I miss you too,” you tell Grogu but hope his father knows you mean him as well.

“And look, I got something for you.” You shift to hold Grogu in one arm.

Then you hold up the new charm.

“What is it supposed to be?” Din sounds confused and slightly alarmed.

“It’s a little monster,” you reply lightly insulted.

“My niece and I made these, and I knew someone who might like it.” You grin towards Grogu now.

“Bweh!” He cheers and draws the charm into his small arms so enamored with the strange monstrosity already.

“See! He likes it, that's what matters.” You huff proudly at Din.

Grogu chirps like he agrees. You laugh then catch Din’s chuckle too.

“What do you say, kid?” Din says.

Grogu however doesn’t say anything. Instead he leans up and hugs you. His sweet little arms curl against your neck.

Holding this baby so tight is like holding a little newborn star. You’re grateful for this moment and hug Grogu close, closing your eyes to fully embrace this wonderful tiny soul.

“You’re welcome, little troublemaker.” You softly tell him.

The baby then settles into your arms as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Worried you might have overstepped, you quickly snap your attention to Din. His helmet stays focused on you.

You wonder what his eyes look like, what color swims within his gaze.

“Glad you’re back safe.” Din’s voice sounds low, softer and a bit thick.

“Me too,” you reply, letting yourself sink into whatever it is overtaking your entire heart.

This infatuation, or whatever it’s mutated into, grows stronger. And it terrifies you.

But you’re reminded quickly there are more terrifying things to face.

The wound isn’t looking good.

You’re more pissed at yourself for getting ambushed by damn pirates. This operation was supposed to be simple, check in on the distress signal intercepted by base. But one pirate ambush later and you’re now stranded trying to stop the bleeding.

You just hope the emergency signal you sent back to camp went through. Leaning against your ship, you take a deep breath trying to calm yourself down. You’ve dealt with worse. You can handle this.

Until something pierces your back, and a scream of pain escapes you. Electricity courses through your body knocking you to the ground.

Everything stings. You can barely concentrate, but you hear them. Gleeful disgusting laughs swirling all around. The damn pirates…

“Think of the price we’ll get for x-wing parts!” One of them muses.

“Or even for the pilot, quite a cute one.” That comment unleashes a panicked feral terror.

Get up, you have to get up. Even though every part of your body stings, screaming to stay still, you have to move.

You slowly try to sit up through the aftershocks, but then a boot comes to slowly step on your chest, pressing you down to the dirt.

“Nah uh little pilot, where do ya think you’re going.” A voice snickers.

You clench your jaw hard. This isn’t looking good.

A sudden blaster shot fires and immediately takes out a pirate with accurate precision.

“What was that?!” One of them screams.

Then a blaster shot silenced him.

“Step away from her now.” Din.

Or someone sounding like him.

The voice is deadly, terrifying, and you wonder if it even is Din.

Then the pirate towering above you with his boot still pressing on your chest suddenly gets thrown off.

Weakly you cough sitting up. While you do, you witness Din in action and realize he’s truly here.

And the way he attacks, effortlessly slicing through the pirate captain and the lackeys that try rushing him - he’s incredible.

You’ve never seen anyone fight so fluidly and powerful. You’re witnessing one of the most powerful warriors in the galaxy…

And he’s here to save you.

A small concerned whimper comes to your side and immediately you glance down. Grogu quickly waddles to your arm and flashes his wide worried eyes up to you.

“I’m okay, I promise.” He must see the wound, and you try smiling reassuringly.

He hums a small noise at you. Then he closes his eyes, laying his little claw against your elbow. Slowly a gentle warmth suddenly crawls up your shoulder.

What is he doing?

The stinging pain vanishes instantly. Reaching up to your shoulder, you find no wound.

“Mweh.” Grogu peers up at you with a small little wave.

“You really are something else, little trouble maker… thank you.” You fondly stroke his fuzzy little head, and he beams.

Din urgently yells your name and soon rushes to kneel before you. Gloved hands reach out to steady your shoulders.

“I’m fine.” You now reassure him and move to squeeze one of his hands.

An exhale escapes Din, relieved.

“I’m sorry you both had to come all the way out here. I’m sure there are better bounties to hunt.” You half tease.

“Don’t apologize.” He immediately snaps.

Grogu makes a sad noise as if chiding his father.

“Just glad you’re safe.” So Din gently adds and steadily helps you stand.

Zeb lands moments later with a mechanic to help patch up your ship. The entire time Din stays by your side, letting you lean against him for support. His guiding hand never leaves you.

You’re given the rest of the week off to recover.

“So was Mando on a mission with you when my distress beacon went out?” You ask Zeb when he drops by to check on you.

He snorts, giving you a knowing side eye smirk.

“Is that what you think?” Zeb doesn’t elaborate even when you pester him.

It’s Dyana of course who reveals the truth.

“Mando was the first to rush out. Ward had to practically stop him before he flew off on his own.” Her words unravel something effortlessly in you.

How can you ignore these feelings for a mandalorian anymore?

“I think it’s romantic.” Dyana thankfully doesn’t judge you when you finally admit everything to her.

There was no time for romance during a rebellion, during a war. Even now you almost scoff at the idea. There are other things to do, other things to focus on than get lovesick over someone.

But Din dismantled all those old thoughts in you, leaving you exposed and almost greedy for someone now.

“It’s okay to want that you know… romance and companionship.” Dyana tells you already sensing your hesitation.

You know her and a cute mechanic have been dating off and on for a while. She’s always been urging you to get out more, maybe try to find someone. Guess you just had to wait for a mandalorian to show up.

But you have to put all those giggles and feelings aside.

Your time resting is done, and immediately you’re thrown back into the rush of work.

A mission and orders arrive a few days later on your datapad.

Raid strike this week, get ready

It’s not a full strike squadron, but you’re thankful Zeb is tagging along.

“Think your boyfriend might be joining us.” He teases, and your eyes narrow hard. Now you regret him being here.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” You rapidly dismiss.

“Huh uh.” He rolls his eyes.

As if summoned to add to your pain, Din enters the command center. It feels like feral lizard birds were released in your stomach.

Immediately his helmet spots you. Grogu perched on his shoulder chirps upon seeing you. Trying to act relaxed, you give the boys a casual wave and bright grin.

Zeb chuckles, and you silently shush him again under your breath. You walk to meet Din halfway.

“Glad you’re doing better.” He says, faintly warm, and you nod grateful.

“Thanks to my two heroes,” you thank them both again. Grogu beams toothy when you tickle his chin.

Din doesn’t say anything.

“Guess we’re finally teaming up.” So you speak up first.

“Seems like it,” Din agrees.

This isn’t the first time he’s seen you in your pilot gear. Hell, he just rescued you last week. But for some reason, you feel more self aware than ever.

Thankfully Ward enters, drawing the room’s attention to her.

The mission is to ambush the warlord now barricaded up in his mansion. He’s apparently greatly armed and even hired a small air brigade. It’s why this strike squadron was called in. You’re curious why Din is here though.

“Without the mandalorian’s intel, we wouldn’t have this opportunity. So we will be following his lead.” She sends her focus to him.

Din simply and silently nods back.

Then he moves to the holo map and gives details about the estate. Hearing how commanding and surefire his voice resounds, the way he walks confidently and without any hesitation, he’s incredible.

But there’s no time to linger on this warrior.

It’s time to fly.

“Finally get to see you in action,” you tell Din as he walks out with you.

“Guess you will.” He replies with a hint of something playful, and it only speeds up your racing heart.

All you can do is laugh before parting ways.

“Don’t get lost in the clouds.” You teasingly yell to the mandalorian and he looks back at you from over his shoulder.

You can’t see Din’s eyes, but you hope they’re amused.

Him and Grogu now trail away from where you’re stationed, and you settle into your ship.

Your x-wing roars alive, and the familiar comms flicker in your ear. Then the call signals electrify the start to battle.

“Delphi squadron, lock in.” Teva announces on the main channel, the leader for this run. Everyone follows suit locking in their coordinates.

“Blue 9, standing by.” You chime in, readying the flight path.

“Starfighter, standing by.” Then a new voice floats through your helmet.

The tone resonates rich as a stormy ocean sending a shock through your system.

Hearing Din in your helmet does something to you so wild that you feel guilty at how fast your core clenched. You recollect yourself fast.

That’s when you notice the ship he joined in with.

A starfighter? There’s no way. Those ships don’t exist.

But again, you’re proven so wrong.

Among the gunfire and smoke, the sounds of battle, a new gleam of silver catches your attention. The Naboo N-1 fighter is a marvel.

A sleek whisper of a dream, one minute she’s a simple flicker of light then the next she’s firing directly in the trenches of the fight.

But as in awe of the ship as you are, it’s the mandalorian who leaves you breathless.

Din flies amazing. The fast maneuvering, the excellent read he makes of the battle, among his readiness to swoop in and out of tight spaces - you’ve never seen anyone fly this beautifully.

It inspires you, the type of flying that makes you want to soar higher to catch up.

So you do.

You embrace the rebel pilot you always might be and dive through the canyons chasing after one of the bandits the warlord hired.

Quickly you dispatch the enemy ship then swirl and maneuver your x-wing to return to the open sky.

“Target on your left.” Din’s voice suddenly thunders in your ear, chiming in on your personal channel.

“Got it.” You reply steady and twist fast enough to fire on the swing mid air.

“Got him, great shot!” Listening to Din’s deep fierce voice over your private channel, his voice colored in pride, you have to mute the channel to exhale.

Because a wave of arousal crawled up your spine so fast you had to bite your lip. Now you try settling yourself down again.

You pride yourself on being composed when you fly. There of course have been times when you’ve gotten emotional and maybe reacted.

Yet here this masked man completely disarms you.

It’s a fight you realize you won’t win.

The raid is successful, and the warlord gets taken in alive. That’s the win that matters.

“Great job,” Din suddenly voices back in your comms, still sounding so proud, and you melt all over again.

“You too, thanks for the support,” you answer back, just as fond, then rapidly switch over the channel.

“Captain,” you ask Teva on his personal comms.

“Before we leave, do you think I can test Mando on how he flies?”

Teva takes a moment then sighs.

“Make it quick.”

Giddy you quickly chime back onto Din’s channel.

“Wanna go for a run?” A part of you worries he won’t want to join you.

“Lead the way.” But Din quickly answers, and you pull back up to the clouds.

The planet is rather gorgeous, full of lush canyons and towering mountains. It’s a flight playground. Among the skies, twisting and twirling down through the natural landscape, you and Din soar around each other, with each.

Playful, yet delicately cautious, your x-wing revolves alongside his starfighter. Din keeps up with you every moment. Quietly the image of a dance among the clouds floats into your mind.

“Up for a race?” He suddenly asks.

“Oh, you know it.” You agree, excited. You settle into your seat, ready to take off.

But in a flash, he zooms past you.

“What the hell?!” You shriek over the comms.

Din’s husky laugh in your ear is a beautiful reward.

Returning back to Adelphi, you and him fly beside each other. Ward gives everyone the night off, and the cantina already seems to shine extra bright landing in.

Settling into your spot in the hanger, you notice Din lands his starfighter closer than ever.

Sliding off your helmet, for a moment you worry about how bad your hair looks, how messy and sweaty you must be.

But heading down the ladder, Din already walks towards you.

All your worries vanish. You don’t even care how fast you walk towards him. Here standing before Din under the low lights of the hanger, the world melts away.

“You were incredible.”

“You flew… amazing.”

Both you and Din speak at the same time, words jumbling up and getting tangled. It startles you, even his shoulders stiffen a bit.

Then you laugh.

“No, you were the incredible one.” You tell him first.

“Not compared to you,” he shakes his head.

“Glad I finally got to see one of the Rebellion’s and New Republic’s best pilots in action.” There’s a smirk in his voice, and heat burns through your veins.

Any words you want to say, he’s stolen them right from you. All you’re reduced to is a love struck fool caught in the orbit of this powerful mandalorian.

Din doesn’t say anything either. It’s like you and him can’t look away from the other standing this close.

“Hey! Ya two love birds gonna join us or what?” Zeb suddenly breaks the spell, and your blood instantly boils.

You hiss foul curses at Zeb, and he only cackles with laughter.

Embarrassed and trying to escape this moment you shake your head heading towards the exit.

“Come on, let’s go celebrate.” You manage to smile at Din hoping to dispel any comments about what Zeb said.

The mandalorian follows you into the mess hall cantina. The lively celebratory air glimmers with joyous laughter. It’s a welcoming atmosphere, and even Wolf along with a few other pilots ask Din to join them.

“Maybe in a bit,” He nods, instead staying by your side when you approach the bar.

“No pressure, but drinks on me if you want.” You offer.

“I’ll pass, but thanks.” He instead places down credits for your drink, and you thank him with a toast.

“Come on, let’s see how good of a sabacc player you are.” After taking a huge sip, you allow the alcohol to sting in the best way.

“Think you might be dissapointed,” Din chuckles.

Of course he’s a damn natural.

Everyone at the table cries in frustration when he wins the second round, and you even narrow your eyes at him.

“Oh, so you’re a liar.” You joke good naturedly.

“Never said I was good or bad.” He answers and it’s rather coy, lighter than what you’ve heard from him.

“Next time Mando I want you comin’ with me off planet! We could really win big.” Someone suggests and now it’s comforting seeing how much everyone has warmed up to him, how much Din has settled in here too.

Until you realize the baby is missing and immediately turn to Din. Maybe it’s the atmosphere but you lean closer to him placing your hand against his arm.

“Wait, where’s Grogu?” You ask concerned and low.

Din leans closer to you, his helmet almost grazing your face.

“Don’t worry, he’s asleep in the barracks.” Din’s answer comes low, reassuring.

Then he reaches up to lay his hand on top of yours. It’s a reassuring hold, a soft touch that brings comfort.

You exhale relieved and don’t have time to realize what he just did until someone drags Din away to play darts.

He squeezed your hand, and you now fight against a dumb smile just thinking about it.

Even after another round of getting your ass kicked at cards, you don’t care. You glance over to Din.

A cluster of pilots surround him. You’re not surprised. He’s a marvel, someone truly remarkable. But one of the prettier pilots slides up next to Din, batting her eyelashes so dreamily up at him.

Something fierce, venomous and coated in jealousy, strikes.

Reaching to Wolf, you nudge his shoulder a few times, and he knowingly looks at you. Not saying anything, he discreetly slips you a smoke stick.

You head out of the cantina into the soft warm night and light up. The smoke in your lungs settles you down for a moment and cuts through the alcohol.

Dumb Mandalorian man making you feel this way…

Taking another drag of the smoke stick, you watch the smoke you exhale mix into the air.

“Didn’t know you smoked.” Din.

His voice melts into the night like he stepped out of the shadows themselves. As he wanders towards you, you shift to lean against the rail of the patio.

“Not often,” you truthfully answer. It’s been a long time since you lit up.

A bad habit you picked up during your rebellion days, being as young as you were around seasoned veteran pilots. It became a way to calm yourself down and stop your hands from shaking from the nerves.

You even tell him that.

“What made you join?” He asks, tentative and quiet.

A loaded question but one you feel comfortable enough to answer, especially with him.

The empire took so much from you. You’re grateful you and your sister managed to keep each other safe, look out for each other. You weren’t lying when you joked about stealing ships. Learning to steal is how you survived for a while as a kid.

Then you accidentally stole from a man named Luthen Rael, and your life changed. Whatever he saw in your eyes that day when he caught you… it kept you alive.

He’s the one who helped get your wings, got you in touch with rebellion once you could fly. Once you joined, you never saw him again.

“Never looked back since.” You tell this all to Din.

You don’t regret your choices. They’re what brought you here after all, kept you safe even during the danger.

“You did what you had to… you should be proud of the life you’ve made. Of the wars you've fought and survived.” Din sincerely commends you, and his words settle deep in your heart.

You softly thank him, appreciating the sentiment.

“And you? What brought you to the New Republic?” Taking another drag of the smoke stick, you finally decide to ask.

This time he’s sighing and moves to lean against the rail beside you. He’s pressed up right beside you.

“Benn a long way to get here as well.” He’s vague, but explains how he was, and still is a bounty hunter by trade. How that path led him to the kid. How Grogu is by Mandalorian creed his son and apprentice now.

“I couldn't keep getting involved with pirates, working for gangsters. It’s not the life I wanted anymore.”

It’s admirable seeing how valiant Din’s spirit shines, yet you hear how weary his soul must be like he carries so much guilt.

“There are wars you’ve fought too, Din. You should be proud of your victories. Even the ones you don’t think you should be.” Maybe it’s the fading alcohol and slow numbness of the smoke stick, but you want more than ever to just hold him.

You go to take another drag to stop yourself from doing anything reckless, but find your smoke stick is burnt to its final end.

“I don’t.. deserve such kind words. But thank you.” Din’s voice is thick, tangled in thorny emotions.

Yet underneath it all, he sounds softer and raw, like a man trying to find comfort in your words.

So you turn and see his striking dark T visor gaze on you.

A moment passes where it’s just you and him under the night sky, staring at each other.

“No matter what path you took, I'm glad you’re here.” You earnestly tell him.

In such a short amount of time this mandalorian has reawakened something in you and takes up such a large part of your heart.

“Me too.” Din mutters, nodding.

Another x-wing lands outside stealing your attention away as the engines break the quiet night air.

“Always been curious to how they fly.” Din suddenly comments sounding intrigued.

“You wanna see?”

He turns to you, helmet tilted incredulous and challenging.

“Come on,” so you challenge him back with a toothy grin.

Immediately Din follows behind you, footsteps quick yet terrifying agile.

The hanger sits in eerie stillness this time of night.

“Should we even be here?” Din asks low, a bit cautious.

“Didn’t take you as a ‘by the books’ guy, Mando.” You use the common name everyone calls him as a tease.

“Only when it comes to my employer.” He replies unamused.

“Trust me, we’ll be fine.” You wave him off and he continues following you further into the dark hanger.

He doesn’t know it, but this place, especially for pilots, is an infamous makeout spot. You try not to think about that too much.

There you arrive at your x-wing.

“Hop in,” you nudge him towards the ladder.

“What?” Din sounding so boyish and confused makes you laugh.

“Get in,” you urge.

Sighing defeated he climbs up the ladder to the cockpit and you follow. You look away trying not to stare at his cute ass.

“Can we even fit in this?”

“X-wings are capable of holding various types and sizes of pilots. We are not the empire, thank you very much,” you proudly declare.

The hatch opens, and Din jumps in. The dashboard and control panel light up as he takes a seat in your chair.

Your throat goes dry seeing him sit in the same pilot seat you fly in.

“Throttle, control stick,” he points out immediately.

As much room as you have, it is cramped standing up. So you curl to the side, closer to him, but keep your eyes on the control monitor.

“It’s got a good radar system.” Din comments admiring the monitor too.

You rattle on about how these are the upgraded models everyone got after the war. The original ones you used during the rebellion are classic, but the upgrades were warmly welcomed.

“Sorry, this all must sound boring.” You weakly laugh.

“It’s not. Tell me more.” He reassures.

You’re about to until you hear commotion around the hanger.

So, quickly you scramble up and around to slide into the seat -

Right between the V of Din’s legs.

You crouch low and drag him down too.

“Wh…what are you-”

“Shh…” you shush him. “Have to lie low just in case.”

“So we should leave.” Din urges urgent.

“We’re fine.” You reassure him now.

The commotion you thought you heard passes by, and silence returns.

You exhale a bit relieved, moving to sit up. Then you grin at him from over your shoulder.

“See… told you we’d be fine.”

He stays quiet.

It hits you. Maybe you upset him or crossed a line being this close. Though you aren’t fully pressed up against his chest, the position is still intimate. You’re literally between his legs.

You want to apologize, especially now that the courage fades away fast.

But all you can think about is how stunning Din is, how gorgeous he looks here in your ship.

“One day you should fly it.” You truthfully blurt out while staring at him.

“Don’t think Ward would let me.” He stiffly replies.

“I would.” You immediately counter.

“Plus you look good in here...” Then you realize what you just admitted.

So you try to recover fast.

“Knowing your skills, if you had been with us during the rebellion days, you would’ve fit in just fine. Probably would’ve even been half as good as me.” You add hastily, half joking, hoping he doesn’t linger on anything you said before.

You now glance away to check out the window. The hanger is thankfully still empty.

Then Din suddenly softly breathes your name.

You’ve never heard it sound so holy and raw that it rips you wide open. You completely shift around to glance at him in the lowly light cockpit.

“How inebriated are you?” He asks husky, thick.

“I could recite the entire radar flight plan chart we made for Endor.” You tell him completely wide awake now. Every part of you feels like a live wire completely focused on this man.

His low weak chuckle makes your stomach flip in the best way.

Din exhales, breathy and deep.

You don’t want to over step, don’t want to ruin this. So you patiently wait, hoping he makes the first move.

Feeling his arms slide around yours, tentative but curious, you’re galvanized.

Immediately you rise and twist around to fully stare down at him. Looking at Din for a moment, here in the cockpit of your ship, you want to burn this image into your memory. Want to consecrate this in a way you never may do with anyone else again.

You rest your legs on either side of his, caging him in then you settle down onto his lap.

The soft low noise Din makes is music to your ears.

He says your name, but it sounds more like a warning.

“I want this… I want you.” You tell him, finally admitting the words out loud.

Then, you grind down on his lap, straddling him, and immediately pleasure floods into your system.

Din groans, and it spurs you on instantly.

Frustrated that you’re still in your damn flight suit, you unzip the top, slide off the jacket, and exhale feeling the coolness reach your skin. Sliding your hands up to his shoulders you whisper his name.

Then you grind against the bulge in Din’s pants pressing into you, and your mind goes foggy.

But not foggy enough that you notice Din remains still.

Everything collides into you with a halting stop. What if he doesn’t want this?

“I’m… I’m so sorry.” You halt your movements and apologize composed as you can. Awkwardly you lift yourself off of him.

“No I-” Din starts, but then stops himself.

You settle back down on him but this time further back on his thighs.

“Do you… not want to do this?” You ask cautiously. “Because it’s okay if you don’t.”

It’s okay if you don’t want me, is what you actually want to say. But you’re not brave enough for that, no matter how many empire ships you’ve shot down.

“No.” Din noisily exhales frustrated.

His hands go to rest on your thighs. His head falls forward, crestfallen.

“I want this, want you. Just afraid I won’t be able to stop.” He admits weak.

“You don’t have to stop… I don’t want you to.” You admit, soft and greedy, deciding not to hold back now.

Here in your ship, you think maybe he’s become your prey, trapped in your spiderweb. But then his helmet ever so slightly tilts up to you. Under the watch of his unflinching visor, you now feel like a prey caught within a hunter’s gaze.

His heavy breathing grows stronger and reignites something in you.

“Din,” You mutter his name, and he lets out a strained curse.

“I think about you… too much.” Din reveals like it’s a painful truth, as if the words hurt to say.

“I think about you all the time.” The truth leaves you effortlessly now.

“Wonder about what color your eyes are,” You decide to be the brave rebellion pilot you are.

“If you and the baby are safe, eating well,” you add, and he chuckles breathily.

“I think about how brave you are and how… lucky I am to know you,” you continue feeling molten and sentimental now.

Din says your name again, this time tender, and it almost causes you to falter.

So you lean closer to his helmet.

“I think about how handsome you are… imagine your cock inside me.” You mutter and hearing the words aloud feels too much.

But then his strong hands dig into your thighs and slide you on his lap fully, dragging you across his clothed cock.

How strong he pulled you, the fast friction draws a whine from you.

“Yeah?” He growls and leans his helmet directly against your face. The cool beskar touching your skin is heavenly.

“Yeah.” You moan, and your hips begin their rhythm again.

This time it’s not just you moving. Din finally grinds up into you, and you see stars. Your underwear sticks to your sticky core, but you don’t care.

Not when you and Din rut against each other and his hands chart a path all over you. One hand slides up to your neck, anchoring you close to him. The other moves to your back, sliding up to bunch your tank top in his grasp.

It’s too hot now, and you’re wearing too many clothes.

So you weakly draw away from his hold to reach up and yank your top off.

Then you wiggle the last bit of the jump suit off, trying to let your hips and legs be free. But it’s hard.

Din even chuckles at your struggle, and you shoot him a look, annoyed. Patiently, he helps slide the material down until it pools down your legs.

Now you’re simply in your underwear, completely bare before him.

The sensation of his gloved hands running up your stomach, across your back, reverently taking in every inch of your bare soft skin, it melts you.

“Beautiful,” Din breathes in awe.

Then one of his gloved hands crawls up to knead your breast in his grasp, pinching your nipple. Your head falls back, and your hips return to seek relief. Grinding against him without the jumpsuit, the friction is so much stronger, a delicious undercurrent making you want more.

“Din,” You sob, feeling the pleasure build fast.

“Want you inside of me,” you whimper quickly getting drunk on him.

He cusses again sharp, dragging you harder against his clothed cock.

A loss comes when his hands leave your body, but wearily your eyes open once you feel him move to his pant buckle. Eagerly you join in to help.

His cock in your hand is warm. He’s thick, delicious in size. He’s already leaking, and possessed by something raw you lean down to lightly spit on his cock. Din groans so loud you think it rattles your bones.

Stroking his cock slow, you love feeling his mess mix with your spit.

He quickly hisses your name.

“Inside now,” he urges, a desperate man. Clutching at your hips hard, he practically draws you up.

Who are you to deny your mandalorian?

He helps slide off your stick underwear, now fully bare.

Before you sink down on him, you lean closer to his helmet.

You don’t have to say anything. You simply look at him, a final reassurance to see if he wants this the way you want him.

A gloved hand curls up to your face, cradling your sweaty face, stroking your cheek. His touch is fond, and it rocks you more than anything.

He nods firm, so sure.

So you sink down on him, guiding him into you. Both you and him moan and the world implodes in the most beautiful way.

When you were younger and around the veteran pilots, they used to share tales of how they’d christen their ships. Back then, you couldn’t imagine bringing anyone into this sacred space to do that.

Now you don’t want Din to leave it.

A fervid raw desperation has you clinging to him, Din touches you so protectively, keeping you close. His hands clutch you firm, like he’s worried you could fly away from him at any moment.

Needing to be closer, you curl against his neck. You ache to kiss his skin. But the smell of gunpowder, of something beautifully musky, purely Din, floods your mind and makes your mouth water.

His pace grows sloppy, and you feel it coming too.

“Where?” He slurs urgently.

“Inside, got the implant,” you mutter half dazed, but when you feel his cock twitch inside you moan embarrassingly loud.

“Inside Din please please please.” You now beg, wanting to feel him so badly.

“Not until you come first, wanna feel you.” Din demands growling back, and it pushes you over the edge.

Your climax knocks you into another realm. You’re floating. Din follows you over not long after with the deepest groan.

His warmth fills you, even feel it leaking out, causing you to whimper so content.

Exhausted you flop against his chest loving the cool press of his armor against your bare skin. Then a part of you hisses to pull away. Until Din’s helmet gently leans to rest against your head, and his gloved fingers tenderly stroke your back keeping you in place.

“So… you ever done that before in here?” Din asks, partially joking but still curious.

You shake your head no.

“You’re the only one.” You reveal.

His hand tracing across your skin suddenly stops. Then it fully draws across you to draw you closer to him in a soft like embrace.

An aching adoration for this man cements itself into you. It’s now etched into your heart and now your ship. Maybe the two are the same.

After this night, you find him everywhere now.

Anytime he or you return back from a mission, one seeks the other out.

Din and Grogu now even rest in your quarters.

The lodging here is small, but it’s become your makeshift home. Grogu snuggles up warm among the blanket pile you’ve made for him on the extra cot. And Din sleeps beside you in your bed.

You believed it was something sacred to know a mandalorian, but you realize it’s a true honor to find one seeking rest beside you.

Bathed in the moonlight leaking into your room, you and Din stare at each other lying side by side.

You wish he could relax more, maybe take off his armor.

But remaining helmeted, you understand his creed and don’t want to push. It’s just a small piece of you being selfish and wanting to see him.

“What’s wrong?” He notices your silence.

“I wish I could make this more comfortable for you.” Is the best way you can tell him.

He chuckles.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine.”

To even prove it he settles deeper among the pillows sliding closer to you.

“Nicer than the cot that I have on Nevarro.”

You almost laugh. He’s so endearing sometimes and doesn’t even realize it.

But you’re reminded he does have a home.

“What’s your place like on Nevarro?” You ask about it.

“It’s good, simple.” Such a boring classic Din answer.

“Maybe… one day you can see it.” That addition he makes has your heart racing.

“Yeah, I’d like that” you nod, grateful for the offer.

Slowly your eyes close on their own now.

“Brown,” until suddenly he blurts out a random color.

Wearily opening your eyes blinking at him a bit confused.

“My eyes… they’re brown.” He reveals.

A soft grateful smile warms your face as you thank him.

You fall asleep beside him, wondering about his home, what it would be like to wake up and see his beautiful brown eyes.

But those daydreams get shoved away fast.

Missions begin piling up. The empire trash is getting sneakier, working faster in the shadows. It keeps everyone busy. You barely see Din. When you do the exchanges are brief, simple glances or even short catch ups.

Ward eyes you and Din suspicious but of course aware.

Approaching Din you try avoiding the colonel’s gaze as she leaves.

That’s when you spot the ship that flew in yesterday.

“You wanted… this hunk of junk?” You dubiously stare at the razor crest. This is the beloved ship Din apparently had been searching high and low for.

“She flies better than she looks.” Din defends.

Grogu excitedly waddles up the ramp eager to be inside the old ship.

You still eye the gunship worried about how good she can protect the cargo she’ll soon be carrying.

“Might not be a x-wing, but I trust this ship with my life.” Din senses your apprehension.

You give him a soft elbow nudge that barely makes his budge. But he playfully nudges you back, and a grin tugs at your lips.

“Ugh,” Zeb groans with faux disgust seeing you and Din. You roll your eyes.

“You know, I notice with all the markings… this ship looks like it could fit in with a gold squadron.” You tell Zeb nudging your chin towards the paint.

He barks a laugh.

“Wouldn’t that be a sight. This piece of junk flying with us?” Zeb muses.

“I don’t know…I think the crest would fight right in.” You shrug, fond.

“Yeah? Think we could get Mando in a uniform?” Zeb adds and Din flat out shuts that down with a hard no.

It makes you and Zeb snicker.

Now you head in to examine the ship yourself and look around. The older metal, the antique design and layout, it really doesn’t ease your apprehension, but you trust Din.

“Your beskar boy has shit taste picking a ship like this.” Zed snorts heading up to the cockpit.

“Shut up.” You practically hiss at him.

But he leaves you and Din alone.

It’s hard to navigate this strange space lingering between you and him, as if neither you or him know how to move.

So you decide to be brave. You grab his hand and squeeze it.

“Be safe,” you nod to the mandalorian.

He quietly nods back, gathering your hand in his. He squeezes back just as firm.

You head out of the razor crest and into the bright afternoon sun. From the cockpit window you spot your boys. Din nods a farewell, and Grogu spotting you waves down from the control panel. In his grasp is your silly little monster charm.

Not moving from your spot, you keep your eyes on the ship until it fades into the jump of hyperspeed.

You don’t hear from Din for half a month.

It’s nothing new. You’re had months where missions kept you both busy. And from how displeased she was with the last mission, Ward apparently has him working on something fierce.

Then another week passes, and you’re sent on a protective mission to Chandrilla.

It takes your full attention. But the entire time your mind is on Din. Are he and Grogu safe? Is everything going okay?

“You must be in love.” The Senator you’re escorting on the mission says suddenly. Embarrassment floods you fast.

“I’m sorry?” You ask slightly confused.

He smiles at you kindly.

“You’ve been sighing, seem distant. Like a heroine kept away from a lover.”

Shit.

“I apologize. I promised I’m focused.” You reassure him, and the senator laughs.

“It’s fine, my dear,” he reassures, then leans in eagerly. “So tell me about the lucky person.”

Now here you are telling this Senator about your awful admiration for the mandalorian.

“Oh, a mandalorian.” He whispers in awe. “They’re a rare kind. He must be quite a sight.”

He is. But he’s more than that.

He’s kind and unbelievingly sharp. Strikingly powerful, and unwaveringly supportive. There’s a compassion that walks hand in hand with Din’s firm courage.

“Oh you got it bad,” the Senator laughs.

It’s unfortunately true.

How fast and quickly this mandalorian has disarmed you, but what else would you have expected from a warrior like him? Maybe you were doomed from the start to fight against feelings for such a fierce conqueror.

The thoughts of him keep you going through the mission.

Arriving at base camp, you instead find there’s already commotion.

Din has returned, but he’s not alone.

Jabba’s son, Rotta the Hutt, is with him.

At least Din and the baby are safe.

Standing off overlooking the beach, Din patiently watches Grogu play among the beach waves with the young Hutt.

“So, looks like you’ve been busy.” You say moving to his side.

“Tell me about it.” He sighs.

The rundown he gives you is surface level, getting tied up among the Hutt twins while trying to search for the infamous Commander Coin.

“Things might get hairy soon. I’m heading back to Nevarro to lie low for a while.”

His somber tone says more looms.

“Din…” you mutter cautiously.

He turns to you.

“If you’re in any danger…know that I want to help.” You urge, hoping he’ll tell you more.

“I know.” He nods, yet says nothing more.

Please, your heart begs, please let me stay by your side and fight with you.

But you know fighting against this adamant man is a losing battle. So you sigh and reach down to your belt.

The charm you have on today is your favorite, and you hand it to him.

“Remember to bring it back to me.” You can’t even look at him because your eyes suddenly feel like they could spill over a river of tears.

His gloved hand cradles your face, letting you fully look at him.

“We’ll be fine.” His voice soothes you steeled with resolution.

You nod, fighting harder against tears.

Then Din leans down. He presses his helmet against your forehead. You close your eyes and lean into the cool beskar.

With a goodbye hug to Grogu, you tell the sweet little soul to keep an eye on his dad.

This time, you don’t have the strength to watch them leave.

You throw yourself into any available mission.

Ward must sense why you’re doing this and in a punishment of sorts, she instead sticks you on filing reports.

“Mando will be fine,” Teva tries to reassure you.

You hope he will be. Days pass and you try to settle into a routine.

But then a group of Anzellans arrive in a panic. You’d been working on your ship when they landed.

Currently they rapidly relay a message to Ward. She patiently tries to listen to all of their worried voices.

“What’s going on?” You ask Wolf.

“Apparently Mando and the kid are stuck on Nal Hutta… don’t think it’s looking good.” He mutters back somber.

Absolute dread is unleashed in you.

You don’t realize you’re moving until you’re standing right before the colonel.

“Let me join the rescue strike.” You urge.

Ward turns to you, then sighs, even says your name a bit heartbroken. That says enough.

“Are we really considering not going?!” Your voice raises, shocked and upset.

“It’s not that simple.” Ward, calm and composed, tries to clarify, but just hearing that line feels like an alarm goes off in your head.

“What isn’t simple?! He’s one of us. We have to rescue them.” You argue back harder.

“There are protocols. And with the intel and alliance we’ve tried establishing with the Hutts we can’t just strike in, ranger.” Ward sharply explains, putting you in your place.

Anger burns through your veins.

“She’s right, colonel…” Teva suddenly speaks up.

“Mando is one of us.” He agrees with you.

More Delphi officers stand up.

Before Ward can even say anything, you turn on your heels and head out of the hanger zipping up your flight suit.

You don’t care if this will get you in trouble, hell even dishonorably discharged. Din needs you. Grogu needs you.

Then you hear a few others arrive in the hangar.

Ward calls out your name. This is it.

Turning towards her, you ready yourself to accept whatever punishment. Yet, you instead see your commander in her flight suit as well. Your eyes can’t help but widen.

She sighs yet gives you a half grin, understanding.

“I should sit you out on this mission.”

“I know. I’ve accepted that I’ll be doing reports for the rest of the year.” You sleepily shrug.

Her smirks grows bigger.

“Try two years,” she says heading to her ship.

You’ll happily accept that too.

The twin’s palace is heavily guarded, and it’s a true dogfight on Nal Hutta.

Then Din’s voice electrifies the coms as he reports in with Colonel Ward. Absolute relief blooms in your chest, and you feel like crying. He’s alive.

Now you fly harder and faster than you ever have. It reminds you of Endor. That final battle all you thought of was the hope right before your eyes, knowing something precious was so close and needed to be defended.

That’s what this feels like.

You manage to knock out a few droid ships, but the main focus is on the palace.

Yet Din remains inside.

And Ward gives the command to light the place up.

“Get out of there. Please.” You whisper out loud or maybe to the force itself.

Then, the stronghold goes under flames.

You and the others circle around, flying out of the line of fire from the explosion. Yet your stomach stays in knots.

“Anyone got eyes on Mando?” Wolf asks before you can.

Out from the smoke, there among the water below, you spot them. Your boys are alive.

A watery relieved laugh escapes you as you blink away the tears.

“Go pick up the trash, Zeb.” Ward jokes, and you can’t even be mad.

Knowing they’re safe is all that matters.

Vibrating with so much emotion, you land besides Zeb’s ship hoping to see them.

But Ward of course arrives first.

You instead idle by your x-wing, pretending to be checking your engines. Ward tells him the truth about the Hutts that even you didn’t know. So that’s why she finally agreed to go.

“And… we don’t leave our own behind.” Her words resound within you.

Din deflects, saying how he’s not with the New Republic.

“Sure you aren’t Mando, sure you aren’t.” She says.

“If you aren't one of us… Who do you think helped convince us to come?”

Ward’s insinuating tone shoots a shock up your spine.

You keep your gaze on your ship, refusing to even look their way. Focusing on mindlessly keeping busy, you don’t notice footsteps approaching until you move out from under the wing. There Din stands waiting.

He’s here.

Grogu cries gleefully, and your attention turns to him. You eagerly accept him into your arms hugging him tight.

“I’m so proud of you. You must have been so brave, my little ranger.” You even press a kiss to his fuzzy head, addressing him as the courageous officer he is.

The baby coos back fond, embracing you with his sweet but sturdy little arms.

While he’s still in your hold, your eyes open to find Din.

He stares unwavering at you, and your eyes water again.

“Welcome back,” you croak out.

Din nods, then, he raises up your favorite charm you gave him.

“Had to bring this back.”

With a watery laugh, you shake your head.

“Your dad is so silly,” you half whisper to Grogu who giggles, agreeing.

A sigh leaves Din but, in a few steps, he walks towards you.

Then you and Grogu are gathered into his embrace. You immediately wrap one of your arms around Din.

“Thank you… for coming for us.” Din’s voice is gentle, grateful.

“Always.” You answer back with a resounding truth.

Your job is tied here, and you might fly for the sake of the New Republic. But you believe your true wings, your heart’s flight navigation, now will always include a path for and to Din Djarin.

Currently he chats with Rotta, from what you heard might be staying here too.

Once you head into the mess hall Ward calls your name. With a patient knowing grin, she holds out the datapad with the promise of the paperwork you knew would be waiting for you.

Logging in with your chain link, a new message suddenly chimes onto the monitor from an unknown contact.

It contains a coordinates location to Nevarro along with a single message attached.

Stop by whenever, we’ll be waiting

Quickly, you start the reports happily accepting your punishment.

You had been suffering through the intermittent vibrations on your clit for hours, Din never letting up on that stupid little remote. You had loved it at first, and been confident that you could hold yourself from coming, but now you were sure you would explode if you didn’t cum soon.

Din just sat and watched you squirm, a smirk forming beneath his helmet. When he turned it off for the tenth time, he was sure you would give in like he expected. But all that came from you were high pitched whines and frustrated groans. 

“Cyare, you know you can tell me if it’s become too much,” he prodded, turning his head to look at you next to him, your brow furrowed aggressively and sweat beginning to form across your forehead. 

You sighed sharply and shook your head, determined to prove him wrong for once. He was always right, and you hated it. But you needed to be right, just this once. You weren’t going to give in or beg or plead to cum in your underwear like he said you would. 

You re-situated yourself in the seat he’d made for you in your bunk, staring down his helmet with stark determination. “I can take it, I swear. I told you I could,” you stated, voice wobbly but confident nonetheless. 

Din shrugged his shoulders and reached for the remote again, this time turning it higher than it had been at any point before. You sucked in a harsh breath, clenching your jaw hard enough that you could feel it in your temples. Your eyes rolled back as the vibrations picked up impossibly more and your clit throbbed in time with your heartbeat.

You could feel every nerve in your body light up all at once, and your orgasm rocketed to the surface once again. You knew you were about to cum if Din didn’t turn the vibrator off, and as much as you tried to hide it, he knew your body better than you expected. Within a second, the vibrator was off and you were nearly screaming with the loss of sensation.

As much as you wanted to be right, there was no way you could hold off any longer. You rolled your eyes and tilted your head to look at Din with the widest eyes you could, regret written all over your expression, knowing he could see it too. 

“Something you wanna tell me, baby?” he asked, a teasing lilt to his modulated voice telling you he had a cocky smile on under that shiny helmet of his. You groaned and nodded your head, your clear hesitation making him chuckle to himself. 

“Please, Din, please let me cum,” you whined, “I need it, I don’t think I can hold it any longer.” You pulled on the restraints around your wrists, showing him the desperation you felt.

Din just nodded and turned the vibrator on the lowest setting, enough to let you feel it but not nearly enough to get you off. Your breaths picked up their speed, and with them the vibrations against your aching cunt. 

Your voice reached a higher and higher pitch with every passing second, until the dam broke and your orgasm hit you like a brick wall. Your muscles locked up as your pussy gushed and pulsed, finally releasing what had been held back for so long.

Once you had come back down to yourself, Din stood and walked over to you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before kneeling in front of you. Your chest heaved as your breathing started to regulate and you stared down at your reflection in his helmet.

“I told you you’d eventually start begging for me. It only took two hours to get you there, but I knew you could do it,” Din whispered, his voice taking on a deeper tone than it had before and sending a shiver down your spine. 

You hated that he was right but you would be damned if he didn’t sound sexy when he was. 

@ozarkthedog @hellishjoel @jolapeno @sp00kymulderr @guiltyasdave

The helmet tilted slightly toward you.

“Quiet,” he shot back immediately, voice low and edged with the same irritation while looking down.

Very much down.

Because while the two of you had been sprinting through corridors trying to shake the men chasing you, this tiny hiding place had appeared during a frantic scan of the hallway. Without pausing to debate the idea, Din had grabbed you by the arm and shoved you inside.

He followed a heartbeat later.

The security panel had slid shut with a quiet thunk.

Only then had the reality of the situation become clear.

The space was barely large enough for one adult standing upright. With both of you inside, it became an exercise in awkward geometry.

Din stood with his back pressed firmly against the sealed panel. One armored arm braced against the wall in front of him, creating a makeshift support so he wouldn’t lose his balance in the cramped quarters.

At least he was standing.

You, on the other hand…

You lifted your gaze slowly.

From the floor.

From where you were kneeling.

Directly between his legs.

“Oh, don’t you dare tell me to be quiet,” you muttered sharply, craning your neck to glare up at the visor. “You’re the one who got us into this mess in the first place.”

Technically speaking, you were right.

Months of working together had built enough trust that when Din proposed the job, you hadn’t questioned it much.

An easy contract, he had said.

Quick entry. Quick exit. Minimal guards.

Simple.

Every single part of that description had turned out to be spectacularly wrong.

The artifact storage facility had recently made local news - something neither of you had learned about until far too late. Apparently publicity had inspired the owners to double their security.

What should have been a short operation had turned into a crawling nightmare.

Air vents.

Abandoned wastewater tunnels.

Forgotten maintenance corridors that hadn’t seen maintenance in decades.

The two of you had spent hours creeping through the guts of the building just to reach the prize.

Still, the effort hadn’t been wasted.

Your hand instinctively brushed your pocket.

Inside rested the object you’d come for: a Kyber Resonance Shard, a fractured piece of crystal rumored to hum faintly with residual energy when exposed to certain frequencies. Collectors paid absurd amounts for relics tied even distantly to the old Jedi traditions.

You had managed to lift it cleanly from its display.

Unfortunately, the display had also triggered a silent alarm.

Minutes later the corridors behind you had filled with guards.

Not just a few.

Dozens.

The careful stealth of the mission had evaporated instantly. Instead of sneaking out quietly, you had been forced to fight your way through the first wave and run before reinforcements sealed the building entirely.

That was when the plan changed.

Getting out immediately had become impossible.

But hiding?

Hiding might buy time.

Eventually the guards would assume you had escaped the facility entirely. Once the search widened outside, slipping away would be far easier.

At least, that had been the theory.

Which was how you ended up here.

Wedged inside a maintenance cavity barely wider than a locker.

Kneeling awkwardly on the floor.

Directly between the legs of a fully armored Mandalorian bounty hunter who filled most of the remaining space.

You tilted your head again to glare up at the dark visor hovering above you.

“Yes,” you muttered under your breath, “this was definitely your brilliant plan.”

“Maybe you should’ve listened when I told you the alarm might trigger,” Din Djarin muttered sharply above you, the words low and tight through the helmet’s modulator.

You snorted quietly.

“Helpful warning,” you whispered back. “Shame it arrived after I had already pocketed the shard.”

You shifted slightly on your heels, trying for the third time to relieve the pressure building in your legs. The cramped position forced your weight awkwardly onto your calves, and the metal floor beneath you was doing nothing to improve the situation.

Your muscles protested.

“Next time a meteor storm smashes into the Razor Crest,” you added dryly, “I’ll be sure to warn you afterward too.”

Din’s right foot nudged lightly against your leg.

You couldn’t tell whether the movement was meant as a quiet command to shut up - or simply an attempt for him to adjust his own balance in the ridiculous configuration the two of you had been forced into.

“If we get out of here,” you continued under your breath, shifting your weight again, “remind me to avoid any future jobs that involve stealing.”

The response came immediately.

“That from the master thief?” he said. Even without seeing his face, you could hear the faint crooked humor in his tone.

Months of working together had trained your ears well. You had learned to read the small inflections beneath the helmet’s mechanical filter. The subtle changes that meant he was smirking, even if the visor hid it completely.

You had seen that smirk before though.

More than once.

Because you have seen his face many times now.

The first time had been an accident - an unexpected glimpse of his face during a moment neither of you had planned.

The second had been necessity, when he’d taken a nasty hit and removing the helmet had been the only way to patch him up properly.

The third…

Well.

That had happened in the narrow bunk aboard the Razor Crest, sometime after both of you decided that surviving too many dangerous jobs together had earned you a more… relaxed way of blowing off steam.

Originally, the partnership had been strictly professional.

Lately, things had become a little more complicated.

“I wouldn’t mind switching back to bounty work,” you murmured, glancing up toward the dark visor. “You know I’m better at luring targets out than you are.”

A faint pause followed.

Then he replied quietly, “A little too good at it.” The final word slipped out in the soft cadence of Mando’a. “Mesh’la.”

Thankfully the darkness inside the cramped storage compartment hid the warmth that crept across your face.

You had never asked him exactly what the word meant.

Something affectionate, you suspected.

Something he said with an ease that made it feel… oddly intimate.

Even filtered through the helmet, the sound carried a certain weight.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Din,” you whispered, voice tilting playfully. “Is that why you picked this miserable job? So I wouldn’t be flirting with half the galaxy while we worked?”

Your hand lifted almost absentmindedly, sliding along the side of his leg. The motion was half reassuring, half teasing as your fingers traced lightly over the armored plating before settling there.

“Focus,” he said quietly. But the word lacked its usual bite.

“Not much focusing I can do down here,” you replied softly. “We’re stuck waiting. Let me keep my sarcasm - it helps pass the time.”

Outside the sealed panel, the facility remained silent for the moment. No footsteps. No voices.

Still, both of you kept your voices low.

Better safe than discovered.

“You could start thinking about buyers,” Din said after a moment. “Once word spreads that the artifact disappeared from a secure facility, the list of interested collectors will shrink fast.”

You shrugged lightly, the movement barely noticeable in the cramped space.

“Let that be my headache.” He knew you would handle it. You always did. “You,” you added, glancing up again, “just focus on choosing our next job with a little more care.” A faint smirk crept into your voice. “I don’t mind spending time alone in a room with you,” you murmured. “But this setup? Less appealing.”

Your gaze lifted.

The visor angled down toward you.

“Think so? I can’t say the view is terrible.” There it was again - that invisible grin you had come to recognize.

Your hand, still resting on his shin, slid a little higher along his thigh. Your fingers tightened briefly in a light squeeze.

“Careful,” you murmured. “You know I like pushing my luck.”

“Focus,” he repeated again, though the command sounded slightly rougher now. “We need to be ready to move the second an opening appears.”

His tone still carried its usual seriousness. But there was something else hiding beneath it. A quiet thread of tension.

“I can focus just fine,” you said softly. “I’m practically meditating down here. Feeling like a damn Jedi.”

You shifted again, trying to relieve the ache building in your legs.

As you moved, you rolled your neck slightly - 

 - and accidentally brushed your head against his crotch.

The reaction was immediate.

Din shifted abruptly, a quiet hum escaping him through the modulator as he instinctively pulled back where little to no space was left.

You blinked, then slowly looked up. A wicked grin spread across your face.

“Well now,” you murmured, lips parting slightly. “Don’t tell me…” Your voice dropped to a playful whisper. “Din Djarin,” you teased, “are you actually getting turned on by this?”

You didn’t wait for an answer.

Instead your hand moved higher along his thigh, slipping beneath the edge of the segmented armor until your fingers found the softer resistance of the flight suit beneath. The fabric was warm from his body heat, taut where it stretched across muscle. You let your palm settle there for a moment - just long enough to confirm what your instincts had already guessed.

And there it was.

A slow, unmistakable firmness growing beneath your touch.

Your mouth curved slightly.

Well. That answered that.

“Cyar’ika…” Din’s voice dropped into a low rumble, the word dragged through the helmet’s modulator like a warning trying very hard to sound stern.

Except the tone betrayed him.

Half caution. Half something else entirely.

“What?” you murmured softly, fingers tightening through the fabric in a deliberate squeeze that completely contradicted the innocence of your question. “Should I stop?”

His breath caught.

“This is not the place,” he said, words slightly uneven now, “and definitely not the time.”

A faint inhale followed, sharp enough that he nearly stumbled over the last part of the sentence.

“Seems to me we’ve got plenty of time to kill,” you whispered.

Your hand didn’t slow.

If anything, the motion became more deliberate - testing, exploring his length through the layers of fabric while your eyes stayed locked on the dark visor above you.

Whatever sharp retort had been forming died instantly when your curious squeeze shifted into a slow, teasing stroke.

Din’s helmet tipped back against the wall behind him with a muted klonk. The hand braced against the opposite surface tightened, his fingers curling slowly into a fist as if he needed the pressure to steady himself.

“You really shouldn’t…” he muttered.

But the growl beneath the words lacked conviction.

It sounded less like a warning directed at you and more like something he was trying to remind himself.

Meanwhile your hand had already found the seam of the flight suit.

You slipped beneath it.

The moment your fingers brushed bare skin, Din’s hips shifted instinctively against your touch. A quiet roll forward.

A reaction he clearly hadn’t intended.

“You keep watch,” you suggested lightly, your voice barely louder than a breath, “I’ll keep you entertained.”

Your fingers wrapped fully around his cock now.

The muffled sound that escaped the helmet in response sent a small thrill down your spine.

You had seen Din without the helmet before. You knew the expressions he tried so carefully to hide from the rest of the galaxy - the tightening of his jaw, the way his eyes darkened when you touched him just right.

But this?

This was different.

With the helmet still firmly in place, you couldn’t rely on facial cues at all.

Instead you found yourself reading the language of his body.

Every small shift of muscle.

Every subtle change in the way he held himself above you.

The signals were clearer than he probably realized.

And right now they were telling you that you were very much on the right track.

His length twitched faintly in your grasp.

Yes.

Definitely the right track.

“You’re being reckless,” Din whispered after a moment, his head tilting slightly as if he was still trying to listen for sounds in the hallway beyond the hidden compartment.

“This entire mission has been reckless,” you replied with a quiet smirk. “I’m just staying consistent.”

Your hand moved again.

With a practiced motion you eased him free from the remaining fabric, the flight suit sliding aside just enough to reveal his length completely.

Especially from your low position you couldn’t help the brief flicker of appreciation that crossed your mind as he stood towering above you.

Your legs had been aching moments ago from the cramped kneeling position.

Now the discomfort barely registered.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your posture so you were better aligned with his cock in front of your face. Your gaze traveled upward for a moment before settling again on the task at hand.

Almost unconsciously, you wet your lips.

Your hand gave him a few slow strokes, deliberate and unhurried.

“You should stop,” he hissed quietly.

You smiled faintly.

“I haven’t even started yet.”

Leaning forward, you pressed a soft, almost reverent kiss against the soft skin of his tip.

The thing was,  you had never been particularly patient. The teasing kisses you had started with didn’t stay gentle for long. As you closed your lips around his tip you could feel a tension coiling through Din’s entire body and you could hear the change in his breathing.

The quiet restraint he usually carried with such discipline began to slip. A low sound escaped him - muted by the helmet but unmistakable.

Above you, his free hand found your hair. Just threading through the strands in slow strokes that felt almost absentminded, as if he was grounding himself in the sensation. The movement sent a clear enough signal on its own.

You were doing exactly what he wanted, that he did not want you to stop at all.

Encouraged, you took him in deeper, the tight space forcing you to adjust carefully as your tongue circled his soft skin. Din’s hand moved from the side of your head to the back of it as you leaned in further, the grip tightening just slightly as instinct took over.

For a moment the two of you went completely still.

The closeness of the compartment left almost no room for movement anyway. The faint hum of machinery somewhere inside the walls vibrated through the metal around you while you both adjusted to the new position.

Din’s breath hitched again.

“Mesh’la…” The word slipped out rougher this time, dragged low through the modulator as he looked down at you. The dark visor tilted slightly, studying you in the dim light filtering through the vent.

“You look… perfect like this.”

The praise landed like a spark and a shiver ran through you.

Your hand slid higher along his thigh to steady yourself while the other braced against the wall behind you. Slowly you began to move your head, careful in the cramped space, finding a rhythm that worked despite the awkward positioning.

You slowly started to move your head, taking him in just an inch more before rolling back, catching a breath. Spit glistened on your lips and his soft skin, even in the shady dark light of this makeshift hideout, the air inside the compartment growing thick and humid as the seconds stretched.   

Your own pulse had begun to race now and heat coiled low in your stomach. You could feel the wetness between your legs growing although he did not even touch you fully.

It was almost frustrating to realize there would be no space for him to return the favor here - not with the two of you wedged together in a compartment barely big enough to breathe in. Not to speak of the lurking danger outside.

But you had no doubt, the moment you made it back to the Crest, he would remember exactly how to repay you. And different to now he would take his time with you.

For now though, the focus was entirely on him.

Din’s grip tightened slightly in your hair as you relaxed your jaw just a bit more, to take him up to the hilt. Before you could settle fully into your pace, he guided you forward with a firm pressure at the back of your head, pulling you closer with a sudden urgency that stole your breath for a moment.

“You take me so well,” he murmured. The words vibrated through the helmet’s modulator, sending another shiver down your spine. Your lungs protested briefly at the fullness, but your mind was far too focused on the effect you were having on him to care much about that.

Just before the pressure became too much he eased the hold, letting you pull back enough to breathe again.

You inhaled deeply before leaning in once more, eyes slipping closed as you focused on the rhythm he gave you. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his flight suit for balance as you let your tongue explore his full length, feeling every vein and twitch. He felt impossibly hard now and you longed for the moment back on the ship when he would bury himself in you, hips rolling in that infuriating slowness he always used to bring you closer and closer to the edge.

Above you, Din’s movements became less controlled now. The subtle tension running through his body and the twitching of his cock told you everything you needed to know.

“I’m almost there, cyar’ika,” he breathed quietly. Then his helmet tilted downward again. “Look at me.”

You obeyed immediately, lifting your gaze to the dark visor looming above you. Your jaw softened slightly, preparing yourself for the moment - 

 - but suddenly he froze.

Every muscle in his body went rigid.

A sound echoed faintly from the hallway beyond the hidden compartment.

Footsteps, distant enough but approaching.

The situation became instantly absurd.

You were kneeling in a cramped maintenance cavity, his cock buried deep in your throat, both of you frozen in complete silence while someone walked somewhere nearby beyond the sealed panel.

Din held himself perfectly still, his grip tightening in your hair in a silent command to stop. To wait.

You felt it.

You understood it.

You ignored it. Your tongue moved again in a teasing flick against his underside and his throb told you how he ached for the sweet release. A strangled hiss slipped through the modulator.

The footsteps grew slightly louder as they passed somewhere down the corridor.

Din’s fingers clenched in warning. Not yet pulling you away, but very clearly telling you to behave.

You didn’t.

Your hands slid around the backs of his thighs instead, gripping firmly just beneath the curve of his backside. Then you pulled him closer, deeper, stealing your own breath, all while keeping your gaze fixed on him.

That was all it took.

Din’s head fell back against the wall with a silent thud as the tension snapped.

The insulation of the compartment and the distant machinery thankfully swallowed most of the sound. Outside, the footsteps continued past without slowing.

Inside, you had no choice but to hold steady as the wave finally broke and he spilled into your mouth, his warm cum coating the back of your throat and dripping down.

True to his earlier command, you kept your eyes lifted to the visor above you as you swallowed around his cock, taking every drop of him.

His fingers dug sharply into your hair now, the pressure almost painful as he fought to stay quiet through the release that rolled through him.

The footsteps faded down the corridor.

Only once the silence returned did Din finally exhale.

The breath came out slow and shaky.

After a moment he carefully pulled his still hardened length away, the movement making his tip bump lightly against your lips as he straightened.

“You…” he muttered, voice still rough. “…are an absolute menace.”

You leaned back slightly, licking the corners of your mouth before flashing him a satisfied grin.

“Happy to be of service.” You gave him a small, mocking nod.

With practiced hands you helped Din straighten himself back into the flight suit, smoothing the fabric into place before giving the front of it a light, almost condescending pat.

“Good as new,” you murmured under your breath.

The grip he had held in your hair finally loosened. Instead of the sharp hold from moments ago, his fingers slid through the strands in slow strokes, brushing your scalp before drifting down along the side of your face, tilting your face upwards by the chin. The gesture carried none of the urgency from earlier - just quiet warmth.

“We’re going to have a conversation about your sense of risk assessment once we’re back on the ship,” he said after a moment. Even through the helmet you could hear the grin in his voice. “Can’t take you anywhere.”

“Speaking of taking me places,” you said, nodding toward the sealed panel behind him, “you think things have cooled down out there yet?”

“I certainly have,” he replied dryly. The helmet tilted slightly as he listened for a moment, the faint sounds of the facility humming through the walls around you. “Seems quiet enough. Might be our best window.”

He glanced down toward you.

“Can you get it open again?”

Your lockpicking kit was still tucked safely in your pocket. After all, the panel had sealed itself automatically once you had picked it the first time and Din had shoved you inside. Your part of the job hadn’t exactly ended when the door closed.

You pulled the tools free with a quiet clink.

“What exactly are you contributing to this mission again?” you asked with a crooked grin.

Din awkwardly stepped over you in the tight compartment so you could shift forward, bracing yourself on your knees while you reached the panel controls.

“Because as far as I remember,” you continued, sliding the picks into place, “I handled the theft, the lockpicking, and the tension relief.”

Behind you he shifted his weight against the opposite wall.

“I’m making sure no one stands between us and the ship so I can repay you,” he replied calmly.

The panel hissed softly as the locking mechanism disengaged beneath your tools.

He leaned closer.

“Now hurry up,” he added quietly, “before I make you.”

You didn’t need further encouragement. You scrambled to your feet quickly - only to wobble immediately as your legs protested the long minutes spent kneeling.

Pins and needles shot through your calves.

“Stars,” you muttered, shaking them out. “Did the Jedi deal with this kind of thing all the time?”

Din didn’t slow.

“Less talking,” he said simply. His hand closed around your wrist and pulled you forward down the corridor. “More moving.”

Waiting had been the right call.

The frantic security sweep from earlier had thinned considerably. Most of the guards had clearly moved their search elsewhere by now, likely assuming you had already slipped off the premises.

Still, the path back to the exit wasn’t completely empty.

Twice you had to flatten yourselves against shadowed corners as patrols passed nearby.

Twice Din handled the problem when stealth alone wasn’t enough.

Before long the familiar shape of the Razor Crest appeared waiting at the edge of the landing platform like an old friend.

You sprinted the final stretch. By the time the ramp lowered you were already breathing hard.

Din reached the cockpit first, vaulting into the pilot’s seat as the startup sequence flared to life across the control panels.

You stumbled up into the cockpit seconds later and dropped into the copilot chair beside him, chest still rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath.

But the grin on your face refused to fade.

From your pocket you produced the prize.

The Kyber Resonance Shard caught the cockpit lights as you tossed it lightly into the air and caught it again.

“Well,” you said, leaning back slightly as the engines hummed louder beneath your feet, “that was an experience.”

You flipped the shard once more.

Din said nothing. His gloved hands moved across the controls with steady precision, initiating the final departure sequence.

The ship lifted smoothly from the platform.

You glanced sideways at him.

“What do you think this thing will sell for?” you asked, turning the crystal between your fingers.

Still nothing.

A small flicker of unease crept into your thoughts. Had you pushed too far earlier?

You cleared your throat. “Maybe we should take more breaking-and-entering jobs,” you added casually.

You tossed the shard again - 

 - but this time Din’s hand shot out and caught it midair before you could.

The motion was so quick it left you blinking.

Without looking at you, he engaged the hyperdrive controls with his other hand. The Crest lurched gently as it entered hyperspace, the blue tunnel of stars stretching across the viewport.

Din turned the crystal over once in his hand. Then set it on the console. Only after that did he rise from the pilot’s seat. His broad silhouette loomed over you.

“Bunk,” he said.

Just one word.

No humor left in it.

The tone wasn’t angry.

But it was unmistakably an order.

And stars help you - you obeyed it eagerly.

You were out of the copilot seat in a heartbeat, heading down the narrow corridor toward the sleeping quarters.

Behind you, heavy footsteps followed.

You reached the bunk and climbed inside just as the familiar sound echoed through the small cabin - 

The quiet hiss of a helmet seal disengaging.

Your grin widened.

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you stretched out on the mattress and looked toward the doorway with open anticipation.

You had worked with Din long enough to know exactly how this was going to end.

He always believed in settling the score.

My Masterlist

Taglist:

Chapter 1 - Arrival Chapter 2 - Warm Welcome Chapter 3 - Outbreak Day Chapter 4 - The Verdict Pt. I Chapter 5 - The Verdict Pt. II Chapter 6 - Jackson Chapter 7 - Dinosaurs Chapter 8 - Guardian Chapter 9 - Tea Chapter 10 - Ribs Chapter 11 - Warning Chapter 12 - Tommy's Turn Chapter 13 - Close Chapter 14 - The Final Verdict Chapter 15 - Silver Lake Pt. I Chapter 16 - Silver Lake Pt. II Chapter 17 - The Apology Chapter 18 - Birthday Girl Chapter 19 - The Letter 'D' Chapter 20 - The Kiss of Death Chapter 21 - The Great Escape Chapter 22 - An Hour Chapter 23 - Nothin' Chapter 24 - Seen Chapter 25 - Roots Chapter 26 - Ambush Chapter 27 - PB&J Chapter 28 - Pairs Chapter 29 - Take On Me

Joey by jaymee.draws

June 4, 2024

Showing up with breakfast muffins is objectively ridiculous and you realise it as you walk up to his front door. There’s something borderline farcical about standing on Joel’s porch holding the small lunchbox like it constitutes an apology he already said you don’t owe him. Still, the guilt of accidentally digging up something he had buried got worse after you left yesterday and you had to do something about it.

You knock and wait. A minute goes by.

Nothing.

A second, firmer knock then. 

Still nothing. 

That’s when the worry starts to barrel in uninvited again. It’s hard not to start thinking about the way he shut that drawer yesterday and wonder if he’s doing the same to you now. But he asked you to come back today. He wanted you here.

Trying to play it off, you glance around and attempt to not appear anxious. You decide on one last attempt and knock a third time, much louder now. Even with his bad ear, he’d feel it through the floorboards.

No answer.

Did something change overnight? Did he get back in his head and let it consume him when you weren’t around to stop it?

You’ve already turned to step off his porch in quiet defeat, swallowing the pain down when you hear the latch.

Whatever state you were expecting to see him in, it wasn’t this. He looks rough. Really rough. His eyes are at half-mast and his shoulders carrying none of their usual authority. It’s startling to witness.

“Hey,” you say carefully.

“Hey.” His voice is rougher than usual and scrapes uncomfortably out of his throat. “Sorry. Didn’t hear you knockin’.”

You just stare at him for a moment. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah…” He scratches across his stubble. “Just didn’t sleep last night, that’s all.”

“Oh,” you say, suddenly feeling like you’ve just interrupted an attempt at getting some rest. “I can come back tomorrow instead if you—”

“No— no.” He seems to wake up just enough to blurt it out quickly. “I was waitin’ up for ya. Come on in.”

You follow him in and the house confirms everything. His workstation is still scattered with yesterday’s shavings, there’s dishes on the counter and in the sink that nobody bothered to deal with and the living room looks like it has been completely neglected. This is evidence that the man had gone upstairs, shut the door and stayed there after you left. You do your best not to acknowledge any of it openly as you look around.

One thing you love about Joel is how he moves. It’s like watching a lion overseeing its pride. Today, however, he moves like every step requires energy he simply does not have. He makes it as far as the kitchen counter and parks himself there, leaning and taking the weight off of his legs.

“I brought these,” you say, holding up the lunchbox uselessly. “Thought you might be hungry.”

He takes it from you and turns it over in his hands before popping the lid off. He inhales a whiff and and something about him mellows to a degree. “Made these yourself?”

You shrug. “With Michelle’s help. Spent the evening with her and Arron after Jeremiah went to bed.” A short pause. “Wanted to make you something after yesterday.”

He musters up as much of a smile as he can before pressing the lid back on and setting them aside. His eyes drop to the tiles as he leans back against the counter again. “Sorry for how I reacted. I didn’t mean to… y’know—”

“It’s fine. I promise.” And you mean it. “Things were going a little too well. It was bound to happen.”

He looks up at you now like he expected consequences and can’t believe he’s receiving unearned generosity and understanding instead. He’s been up all night convincing himself he’s botched whatever this is, and here you are buffing it out with humour.

You stumble over and take the space next to him and let your shoulders sit together. The morning light filters through the kitchen windows across the mess neither of you is addressing.

“We’ve been through this already,” you begin. “This isn’t going to be easy, for you or for me. But I’m not here because I want answers you’re not ready to give me yet. I’m here because I want to be here. And I hope you know that by now.”

His chin stays dipped, eyes vaguely aimed somewhere near your feet. “How can you be okay with me knowin’ so much about your past but you knowin’ hardly anythin’ about mine?”

You give it a minute of thought.

“The past is the past,” you reply, glancing sideways at him. “We’ve all got one. I had to give mine up for safety, for trust. Yours isn’t mine to take. Maybe— hopefully one day you’ll feel capable of sharing it with me. But what I care about right now is the man here with me today.”

He takes a long breath and holds it before letting it out slowly. His hand starts to move across the counter, his fingers finding the edge of yours. You turn your hand over and close it around his and trace your thumb idly across his knuckles. Tommy’s voice asking you to be patient with him loops in your mind.

“It means more than you’ll ever know,” he murmurs eventually. “Just don’t know why you’d do all this for such an old sad sack o’ shit like me.”

“Ah, give over,” you tut. He turns to look at you. “You asked me for time, so I’m giving you time. And I’ll wait as long as you need me to. Until then, you’re my oldsad sack of shit.”

The lines between his brows loosen. He leans across to kiss you. There’s no trace of coffee or toothpaste, just his warmth. When your lips part with a soft pop, his eyes hang half-open, blurred by tiredness and whatever the kiss drained out of him.

“Why don’t you go lie down?” you suggest then. “Go get some rest.”

He straightens up a little and glances around. “Uhh… Yeah. Are you… are you comin’?”

“I’ll follow you in in a bit,” you say, pushing yourself off of the counter. “I want to get all this stuff put away first.”

“No, no…” he says dismissively. “Ellie’ll do it when she gets home.”

“She’ll be tired and she’ll have homework,” you reply, already rolling up your sleeves and starting to stack dishes. “Besides, I don’t mind. I have a little energy I could burn off.”

“I’m not havin’ you clearin’ up in my house—”

“Joel.” You cut him off with a stare. “I want to. Now go on. I won’t be long. Should only take me a few minutes.”

He holds his stance for another second before surrendering. He swipes a hand down his face and moves off into the living room, not having the energy to argue any further. You hear the distant sound of him losing the battle with gravity and dropping onto the couch followed by a long, exhausted exhale. 

The layout of his kitchen comes back to you quickly. You’d practically memorised it the afternoon you helped Ellie bake her own birthday cake without meaning to. Dishes get rinsed and returned to where they belong, the dried clods of mud crumbled around the floor get swept up and dealt with and the layer of wood dust gets cleared from his work station. It’s nothing over the top, but the place looks like itself again.

“Alright, all done,” you sigh, rounding the couch to find him. “Do you want me to heat you up one of the breakfast muff—”

You halt in place. 

He’s out like a light. Feet up on the armrest, one arm tucked behind his head and the other draped loosely across his stomach.

Your heart turns to mush at the sight of him. Any plan for what the day would entail is resigned in that instant.

“Hey,” you whisper, tapping the side of his foot gently. “Mind if I join you?”

His eyes open by the smallest fraction. They’re clouded and barely there, purely from surfacing back out of the deep sleep he was about to slip into. A low sound comes out of him before he starts making space and lifting his arms. It’s less of a sleepy invitation and more of an instinct.

You pull the red knitted blanket from the back of the couch, kick off your boots and tuck yourself into the gap he’s made. Your head settles under his chin and his arms come around you, one hand pulling the blanket up and the other taking hold of your forearm. 

A long exhale from him follows which lets you know he’s gone again.

You stay awake for a little while. There’s no real reason to, but you just find yourself enjoying listening to the way his breathing deepens, the way his hand stays circled around your forearm but goes gradually more slack as sleep takes him fully. 

Whatever kept him awake all night apparently left him the moment he felt safe enough to allow it. He waited for you and he opened the door. He’s resting because you’re finally here. 

His snoring starts up eventually and the heat of him becomes utterly sedating. Your eyes grow heavier with every breath you take until you finally follow him into a state of tranquility.

—

Your mother stands at the water’s edge. The sky above Silver Lake is colourless and her skin matches it, grey and papery, depleted of everything that once made it look alive. She’s speaking, but the space between you keeps swallowing her words. You can barely make out what she’s saying. I’m sorry, son. I’m sorry. Over and over. The gun appears in her hand and is pressed to her temple without warning.

Your heart starts to thud and you run to try and save her. The gravelly beach beneath your feet tilts, and no matter how hard you try, the distance between you only opens wider. 

Then you hear the bang. Blood coats the rocks where she lies. Your own scream comes from somewhere outside of your body and it’s louder than anything you’ve ever heard.

David rises from the water behind, crawling up the shore towards her body. He’s almost unrecognisable with his face reduced to a pulp of knife wounds and cordyceps claiming much of his body with thick, fungal plates. He opens what’s left of his mouth to reveal tendrils sprouting from his throat along with haunting, wet clicks. 

He starts to charge directly at you.

“Joey?”

Joel nudges you awake and his voice chases away the hazy images in your mind.

Your eyes snap open and for a brief second, you’re disorientated and trying to figure out where you are. Your pulse hammers in your throat and your whole body is tense and shivering like it’s still locked in the nightmare you just got pulled out from. As Joel’s living room starts to reassemble around you, you become aware that he’s still underneath you and you’ve got a fistful of his undershirt bunched in your hand.

“Wh-what happened?” Your voice comes out ragged. You lift your head from his chest.

“Nothin’. Everythin’s okay.” His voice soothes without even trying. He notices the fright still sitting behind your eyes. “You were mumblin’ and twitchin’. Were you havin’ a bad dream or somethin’?”

More sensation starts to return in stages. His arms are still around you and you’re overheating from the blanket.

“Yeah. Just a dream.” You swallow. “Sorry. It happens every now and again.”

His hand cups the back of your head and guides it back down to his chest. His other arm closes around you even tighter. “S’okay, baby. I’ve got you. You’re safe. Happens to me too sometimes.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt again as the last stubborn traces of the nightmare ebbs out of you. He starts stroking up and down your back in slow motions until eventually, the shaking ceases and your breath untangles itself. 

You’re almost slipping back into sleep when a distant, cheerful voice from somewhere outside Joel’s house reaches you… and it’s getting closer.

“Alright, see you tomorrow!”

Ellie. She’s home from school.

The two of you are on your feet and moving in a graceless, soundless panic before you’ve even thought to question it. The velocity in which you snatch your boots off the floor and Joel folds the blanket back over the couch ironically resembles two teenagers caught doing something they weren’t supposed to be doing.

“Bathroom,” he says, nodding towards the one tucked away under the stairs out in the hallway. “Go. I’ll try get her upstairs.”

Being asked to physically hide yourself still stings despite everything, but Ellie walking in on the two of you like this deserves more than fifteen seconds of preparation. You take your boots and head for the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind you with as little noise as possible.

At the same time, the front door pushes open. Ellie’s sigh carries across the hallway.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey kiddo.” You hear it straight away. His tone sounds like he’s trying too hard to conceal something. It’s too even and not like him. There’s no doubt she’ll notice that. “How was school?”

“Boring. Same as every other day.”

You stand there and listen to the muffled sounds of her dropping her bag somewhere and unzipping her jacket. All of it sounding way too close to the door between you and the scene.

“Got much homework?” Joel asks.

There’s a pause long enough that you can feel her suspicion forming. It’s clearly not normal for him to show this much interest in her day at school.

“Not really. Why?”

“No reason. Just— I want you gettin’ it done earlier from now on. None of this leavin’ it ’til last minute any more. Head on upstairs and make a start before dinner.”

She pauses again. 

“Why do I have to do it upstairs?”

“Because this is my house and you’ll do as your told,” he says with a touch too much force than the situation calls for.

You clamp your eyes shut and try to communicate with him telepathically. Dial it back, Joel. Jesus.

“Let me guess,” Ellie says, her voice changing from suspicious to more understanding. “Didn’t sleep again?”

You hear Joel shift on his hips and let out a small exhale right outside the door. “Yeah. Sorry. Rough night.”

“Dude, you need to get that under control,” she says, starting to move around again. “You can be such a dick when you don’t sleep.”

“Language.”

She rolls her eyes so hard you can hear it through the wood. “Sorry, sorry…”

Then, you hear her stop right by where the foot of the stairs are.

“Uh, what’s Joey’s jacket doing here?”

Your internal organs fall out of you to the tiles below. You hung it up on the banister when you arrived earlier. It was mild enough outside this morning that you didn’t even really need to bring it. You just grabbed it out of habit. And now it’s there, giving away your presence like it’s a neon sign.

Joel’s not quick enough to think of an explanation. He leaves it two seconds too long so you act on instinct and impulse. You flush the toilet and let it confirm that you are indeed in the house. After counting to ten, you push the door open and step out into the hallway with as much casualness as you can possibly gather.

Joel’s face is the first thing you see. His eyes are pulled wide open and he’s frozen in place wondering what the hell you’re doing. Ellie is stood by the banister where your jacket hangs, confounded by what’s unfolding before her.

“Hey, Ellie,” you say in the voice of someone who was absolutely not just standing in a tiny bathroom under her stairs listening to the entire conversation she was having. 

“Hey…” You can see her glancing between you both, picking you apart and trying to piece together what’s going on. “What are you doing here?”

It registers then how strange it must be from her perspective. You’re essentially a staff member at her school and a confidant she has grown to trust. And here you are, chilling at home with her guardian in your free time when you have no real business to be doing that.

“I, uhh… I was just passing through,” you begin, already aware that this is going to require some seriously believable engineering to get by Ellie. “I dropped off some breakfast muffins for you to try.” You flick your head back in the direction of the kitchen. 

“I made them last night. I wanted to see if you liked them. Thought maybe we could practice them together sometime or get Elise to do them for the next masterclass. I wasn’t even supposed to stay long, but I really needed to use the bathroom before the walk back and Joel kindly offered, so…”

She continues to dissect you. The sleep crease on your cheek, your hair flattened on one side, the relaxed attire… Something about the blankness in her expression tells you she’s not buying it. It’s too over-explained and convenient, but she opts not to dig into it.

“Oh, cool…” she says in a way that only sets you more on edge. “Well, I was actually going to stop by Jeremiah’s later to ask if you still wanted to teach me Take On Me. I know you still have a few days off work, but—”

“Of course,” you say. “No, yeah, let’s do it. How about tomorrow? Are you free after school?”

“Yep!”

You look over to Joel who’s still trying to hold himself together. “Is it okay if I stop by tomorrow then?”

He glances between the two of you and his chest slackens from letting out the breath he was holding. “Yeah… Okay. As long as your homework gets done.”

—

June 5, 2024

“Ugh, I’m never gonna get it,” Ellie says, dropping her hand from the strings. “Why is it so hard to switch from this chord to this one? I can’t get my fingers right.”

She has spent the bulk of the evening attempting it and the frustration has been accumulating steadily. There was a precise moment where she stopped playing her guitar and started fighting it.

The porch holds the last of the day’s warmth. The sun is dragging itself down slowly behind the roofline across the street. Joel is inside putting together something for their dinner. Behind the screen door, Ellie’s schoolbag is slumped against the wall where she left it the second she got home.

“Okay, I think it’s time for a break,” you say, feeling the need to step in before she throws the instrument across the yard. “You’re doing really well already, but sometimes just taking ten minutes can help reset.”

“No, my stupid brain and stupid fingers just need to coordinate properly,” she mutters.

“Hey. Enough of that. You’ve literally just started learning it today. These things take time.” You hold out your hand. “Give me the guitar.”

She gives up and shoves it across to you. You settle it on your knee and look at her for a long moment. 

“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” you say. “You’ve got a lot of skills under your belt already that most fifteen year olds don’t have. Look at how quickly you picked up the bow.”

“I know,” she says. “So why am I not getting this as easy? It shouldn’t be this hard.”

“There’s not one person alive who’s perfect at everything,” you reply, turning the tuning peg absentmindedly. “And things aren’t always easy. But think about it, it’ll be so much more rewarding when you do get it. Because you will get it. A part of the skill is the patience it takes to master it.”

“But, I am patient!” she says, as though you’ve accused her of something.

Your tilt your head and raise an eyebrow at her. “Ellie… You are many things. Patient is not one of them.”

She goes to open her mouth, but aborts and just sits back in Joel’s chair. You can’t help but smile.

A comfortable enough silence passes. The neighbourhood hums quietly as everyone starts to wind down for the night. Ellie twirls the guitar pick between her fingers, passing it back and forth and staring blankly at the wood beneath her.

“Joey, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

Another rotation of the pick. She hesitates, but then decides to just plough ahead.

“Is there something going on with you and Joel?”

The question crashes into the evening like a meteor and you find yourself trying to do anything but overly react to it. You take a sudden interest in the streetlight furthest from the house and keep your eyes fixed on it.

“Uhh— What do you mean?”

“Like, are you two…” She takes a second to choose her next words carefully. “Seeing each other?”

Nothing gets passed this little twerp. She can read people better than you can read a fucking billboard. Every time she showcases this unsettling talent she has, you’re not sure if you admire or despise her for it. Usually, you end up leaning more towards admiring because you start imagining what she’s been through that has required her to develop and sharpen this particular skill.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you say. “Why would you even ask that?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “Because it’s really fucking obvious.”

“Hey, language,”, you quip, but then immediately catch yourself.

She produces the most insufferable smirk because she knows she’s cracked the code. You can physically feel the secret slipping between your fingers. The one person Joel didn’t want to find out yet above everyone else now knows.

“Joel and I are just friends,” you say with as much conviction as you have in you. “He’s my partner— patrol partner, I mean. You don’t need to be worrying about it.”

“Oh, I’m not worried,” she says pleasantly. “I just wanted to know. Besides, I think it’d be good for him. To have someone. Especially someone like you.”

She quietly picks at a splinter in the arm of Joel’s chair and you wonder how a fifteen year old could possibly know what would be good for a man like him. 

“He’s different when you’re around,” she continues. “He’s been different since… Since my birthday, I guess.”

Your eyes are still glued to the far end of the street. You take a long and slow breath in and out. “Hmm, yeah. Well, it’s got nothing to do with me, so…”

“Ding ding ding, my bullshit-o-metre is going off,” she teases.

You’re about to double down when you catch a glimpse of scarring on the underside of her forearm. The skin there has healed over and is left smooth and shiny. You’d forgotten about the bandage she had back in March around her birthday. She catches your eyes dipping to it and quickly tugs her sleeve down.

“Ellie, is that a burn?” you ask. “What the hell happened? It looks really nasty.”

“Nothing. It was just a stupid accident.”

You tilt your head again at her. “Come on, if we’re going to be grilling each other with questions, you can give me a little more than that. Tell me what happened.”

Before she can answer, the front door swings open. Joel leans out and takes in the scene before looking down at her schoolbag. “Ellie. Homework. Food’s almost ready.”

She reaches over, takes the guitar back from you and starts to get to her feet. “Is Joey staying for dinner?”

You go very still and look at Joel. He glances between you both as she approaches the front door.

“Yeah,” he says after a brief pause. “If he wants to. I made enough.”

The grin that breaks across her face is entirely too unnerving and makes the hairs on your arms stand up. She tops it off with an exaggerated smoochy face, obvious enough that Joel catches it, before bouncing back inside.

His neck almost snaps turning to face you as she passes him by. Whatever laxness he had in his face has curdled into unbridled horror. He checks behind him and then steps out fully onto the porch and pulls the door closed behind him. 

“What the fuck was that? What did you say to her?”

You jump to your feet. “Nothing! I didn’t tell her anything, but she knows!”

“What did she say? How does she know?” The urgency in his voice almost frightens you.

“She asked if there was something going on between us. I said there wasn’t, but it was like she already knew. Apparently we’re not that good at hiding it.”

He looks off down the street, his jaw tightening and hands finding his hips. “I don’t fuckin’ believe this… How the hell would she—…”

“I think you greatly underestimate how smart that kid is, Joel.”

“Oh, I know all too well,” he grumbles. “She just wasn’t supposed to know yet. No one’s supposed to know.”

The stress visibly flourishes in his features so you step closer to try and offer him some level of comfort and reassurance. “Hey, hey… Look, I know this isn’t what we planned and I know it’s scary, but she didn’t seem to be bothered by it at all. She actually seemed quite… happy about the idea of it, if it were true…”

His jaw stills for a second before he exhales hard through flared nostrils. “That’s not the point, Joey. I’m not ready for her to know. I wanted more time. It was supposed to be just for us.”

“Well, I don’t think we have that luxury anymore, Joel,” you say quietly. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not how you wanted it, but we’ve got to do something. Continuing to pretend like this is not happening is the worst possible thing you could do right now. For you and for her.”

He lifts his eyes then and looks at you like you’ve just said something extremely dangerous. “What’re you sayin’?”

You hold his gaze and bite down on your bottom lip. “I think you should just tell her.”

“Are you— Have you lost your goddamned mind? Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

“Joel. She already knows,” you repeat. “I didn’t want to be the one to confirm it for her. It’s not my place. But she knows, and the longer you lie to her face, the less she’s going to trust you in the long run. Believe me. She needs to know she can trust you.”

That seems to register deeply in him. Trust, and the breaking of it, appears to be a subject him and Ellie might have faced at some point in their history.

“I know it’s a lot to consider,” you continue, “and I can understand not wanting everyone in the settlement knowing, but Tommy and Ellie… these are people that care about you. This is your family. And unless you’re planning on ending this, I think they should know because it’s too messy to hide. Think about how much easier it’ll be if we can at least just let our guard down around them.”

He goes very quiet and very still. He stares down at the porch boards fighting himself. The breeze picks up suddenly and rustles the trees surrounding his yard.

You take another step closer and reach to brush a finger against the side of his hand, just enough to let him feel your touch. His hand reacts and his fingers curl into yours.

“I’ll be right there with you if that’s what you want,” you say. “But she deserves to hear it from you. You know she does.”

Eventually, he nods. Once and barely.

“I’ll tell her at dinner.”

—

“Looks good,” you say as Joel places a plate of vegetables and buttered bread in front of you. It doesn’t, if you’re being truthful, but someone had to break the uncomfortably awkward silence at the table.

“Why can’t you cook for us more?” Ellie asks you from across the table.

“Because Joey doesn’t live here,” Joel says, shooting her a look. “He lives with Jeremiah. Now eat.”

He drops into the seat beside you and starts shovelling carrots into his mouth without another word, eyes fixed to his plate and brow scrunched grumpily. He’s rigid with nerves.

You pick up your own cutlery and make a start.

The first carrot you chew confirms what you suspected. It’s overcooked to the point it’s almost liquid. It just tastes like the boiling water it was cooked in. No flavour, just mush. Your eyes flick over to the salt shaker, but you resist.

“Want some salt?” Ellie says then, lifting the salt shaker like she knew you were thinking about it.

You glance at Joel next to you and then back to her. “No. I’m fine, thanks.”

She pops her eyebrow knowingly and then proceeds to lace her own plate with it until Joel notices and tells her that’s enough. You’d rather suffer through the rest of this food as it is than hurt his feelings any more than they already have been.

Everyone has almost finished eating by the time you realise no one has spoken a word. Every scrape of cutlery around the table feels amplified. Ellie has remained quiet all throughout dinner which is very unusual for her. She always fills the silence no matter where she is. It’s practically her function. A part of you wonders if she’s keeping quiet because she’s waiting for someone else to fill it tonight for a change.

Under the table, you reach over and press your knee against his. His eyes slide over to you and he reacts like he was trying to forget what he set out to do tonight. From your periphery, you watch him fight himself one last time. He swallows down his last mouthful, pats his mouth clean with his napkin and readies himself with bunched fists.

“Uhh— Ellie.” 

His voice comes out with a flakiness to it. He’s already unsure and wobbly.

She stops mid-mouthful and looks up. Without even needing to acknowledge it, you can sense that he can’t look at her directly.

“I got somethin’ I need to talk to you about.”

Her eyes flick between the two of you. The tips of her ears flush red and she presses her lips together to hide the smile pushing up at the corners. You can almost hear her saying this is gonna be good in her head. She places her fork down and leans back, open and ready.

The room quiets even more around him. It takes him a moment to get started.

“I— uhh… I heard you asked Joey a question… out on the porch earlier today,” he says quietly. “About us.”

He speaks like every word is the equivalent of stepping on glass.

“Mhm.” She doesn’t blink.

He wipes his clammy hands on his jeans, still not able to face her.

“Well, uhh—… I thought I should let you know that, umm…” He and his words start to fall apart slowly. His shoulders sag and his head dips to his lap. “Me and Joey— uhh…”

Even Ellie’s expression softens watching him struggle through whatever it is he wants to say. The amusement drains out of her now that he’s shrinking. It’s almost pitiful to witness.

He’s just about to continue on and push through when he gives up on himself and collapses inward.

“You say it,” he mumbles to you under his breath. “I can’t— I’m sorry. Fuckin’ stupid…”

You hear the frustration in it. It’s not aimed at you or Ellie, but it’s difficult watching it swallow him whole.

Taking a breath, you straighten up a little in your seat. Beneath the table, your hand finds his where it rests on his thigh. You curl your fingers around it and give him a small squeeze.

“It’s alright,” you murmur, just for him. “I’ve got you.”

When you turn back to Ellie, she’s already watching and waiting.

“What Joel wants to tell you,” you say, picking up where he left off, “is that he knows you’ve noticed that we’ve been spending a lot of time together. Outside of patrols and stuff.”

She measures you like she already knows where this is all going and she’s just waiting for you to cough it up.

“Well,” you continue, trying to choose the right way to say it, “that’s because we enjoy spending time together. And we’ve gotten… quite close in the last while.”

Beside you, Joel visibly squirms. You feel it more than you see it. His hand tightens under yours and the rest of his body goes rigid like he’s bracing for some sort of impact.

“Joel is a really, really good man. He’s helped me with a lot since I got here. And I’ve helped him too, I think. And somewhere along the way, we’ve realised that we rely on each other — and that we care about each other… a lot.”

Ellie’s expressions remains unreadable, but she’s listening. Really listening.

“So when you asked earlier if there was something going on between us… I lied, and I shouldn’t’ve lied. I’m sorry I did. But I did it because this is something Joel wanted to tell you himself in his own time… when he was ready… because it’s important to him. But I think you know the answer.”

Your thumb traces back and forth over Joel’s knuckles and it’s unclear who it’s more grounding for, you or him.

Ellie tips her head forward slightly, peering at you through her lashes. “So… you two are seeing each other?”

You don’t want to answer this part. Instead, you wait and let him do it. He eventually looks up from his lap. His eyes move from you to her and he gathers up every last bit of courage he has knowing he’s got the final word. 

“Yeah.”

A single syllable, but now it’s out there. He did it and you can’t quite believe he did it. Your hand squeezes his again. His body language hides nothing. It’s abundantly evident that it took a lot for him just to do that.

Ellie’s cheeks tint a little and that small flicker of amusement returns to her eyes.

“Cool,” she says, like you’ve just told her some mildly interesting fact about space she hasn’t heard yet and not something that has had Joel in knots this entire time.

You look at her across the table and the smile you wear is just for her. She’s young, but she’s intelligent enough to understand what she’s just done for him, and by extension, you. You see it in how she knows to not use it as an opportunity to tease him the way she normally would or make it into anything it doesn’t need to be. By being appropriately gentle, she just took an enormous burden off of his shoulders, and you’re full of gratitude for that.

Joel’s eyes find yours then and they give away exactly how he’s feeling. He doesn’t know quite what to do with it. He’s jammed somewhere between relief and disbelief. All that tension he had held on to, all that fear, and she just… accepts it like it’s nothing. Now it just needs to find it’s way out of his body.

"So you're… okay with it?" he asks, still shielding himself as if she might change her mind. "It doesn't bother you?"

She almost winces at that, like the question itself is a little painful to receive. “Psh, nope. Why would it bother me? I like Joey. Joey’s cool.”

"I just—…" He exhales and collects himself. "It doesn't change anything. Between you and me. I need you to know that."

She picks at the ends of her fingers and nods like she understands the gravity behind those words. A small silence passes before she looks back up at you both. “Wait, so how long has this been going on? Am I literally the last one to find out?”

“Not that long,” you say, your fingers still laced through his under the table. “It’s still quite new for us. But only you and Tommy know, and we’d like to keep it that way for now. Okay?”

She nods again.

“Ellie.” Joel’s voice is considerably more firm than yours. “I mean it. You can’t tell anyone. Not until we’re ready.”

“Yeah, I heard him the first time, jeez…” she replies. “I won’t say a thing.”

He analyses her for another moment, checking for any potential cracks in her demeanour, before finally letting it go. “Alright, well… clear your plate away and go to your room or somethin’.”

She slides her seat back, takes her plate to the sink to rinse it and then begins to make her way out to the hallway. Back at the table, you and Joel follow suit, collecting what’s left of the dishes to finish tidying up.

She stops in the doorway and turns.

“You know,” she says, making you both pause. She takes the sight of the two of you in, standing together in the amber light of Joel’s dining table with dishes in hand, like she’s piecing you together in a new way for the first time. “You guys kinda suit each other.”

She says it simply and like she’s pleased with herself for saying it. Then she’s gone. Her footsteps go climbing up the stairs and her bedroom door closes.

The silence she leaves behind is very different than the one before dinner. 

Joel leans forward onto the back of a dining chair, propping himself up and letting it take some of his weight. His eyes find the tiles below and he lets out a resolute exhale as he starts to process what just happened. You set down the dishes you’re holding and cross to him. Your hand moves up his arm and stays there. You fold yourself against his side, resting your face on his shoulder and your arm curving around his back.

“You did it,” you whisper against his flannel, pressing several little kisses there. “I’m so proud of you.”

He doesn’t move for a minute. He just stands there and lets it all flow through him.

When he finally straightens and looks at you, his eyes are glossy and a little lost. Not lost in a bad way, lost in a way that someone would look if they carried that much shame and worry only to learn that they never needed it in the first place.

“How do you feel?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “I dunno…” he says. “I don’t know what’s goin’ on… I just didn’t think it’d be like this. I don’t know what I thought was gonna happen.”

“She’s not like us,” you reply softly. “You’ve got to remember that, Joel. Ellie didn’t grow up with what we grew up with. None of this matters to her the same way it did for us. She’s like Tommy. She just wants you to be happy.”

He absorbs that somewhat and nods slowly, his gaze drifting somewhere past you before finding their way back.

“Would it be alright if— uhh…” He clears his throat and tries again, quieter this time. “Would you mind stayin’ tonight? I just— I think I’d sleep better if you were here.”

The shyness of it, the need… it makes you melt. It’s still very much apparent how hard it is for someone like him to be this way, so you don’t take it for granted. 

“Yeah,” you nod. “I can stay. I’ll just need to go and get Jeremiah sorted first. I’ll be back in a bit.”

—

Joel eases his bedroom door closed with a soft click once you’ve returned and everyone has decided it’s time to turn in for the night. With Ellie tucked away in her room and getting herself ready to sleep, you can’t help but notice the subtle difference in how he moves around his room now. He’s still carrying some residual tension from the reveal earlier tonight, but he’s definitely a little looser. Even when he answered the door downstairs just now, there was an openness that wasn’t there before and almost a relief that you had returned.

Your patrol backpack has been repurposed to an overnight bag for the night. Some spare clothes and a few essentials, nothing major. You set it down at the foot of the bed and take in your surroundings like it’s the first time. Nothing has inherently changed except the eyes that look around it now. Everything feels different through this lens.

The room still holds Joel’s version of cozy. It’s practical and a little worn-in, but it’s tidy. Lamps hum warmly in the corners, casting shadows along the walls. Every surface still holds tools, books or just random belongings of his. Nothing feels out of place though.

At the window, he draws the curtains closed to shut out the quiet stretch of street outside.

“How’s Jeremiah?” he asks, unbuttoning his flannel and toeing off his boots.

“He’s actually doing pretty well,” you reply, doing the same, starting to shrug off your own layers. “You know how much I hate leaving him on his own, but I think he enjoys having the place to himself. Less of me hovering around him all day.”

By the time you’ve brushed your teeth, he has already changed into his nightwear and passes you in the doorway with a graze of his shoulder as he heads to take his turn at the sink.

The bathroom door swings half-shut behind him and you take a second to just watch him. It’s strange how easily it’s all slipping into place. It feels almost presumptuous to wonder if this could become a regular thing, but the thought is there nonetheless.

When he reemerges, you’re standing at the end of his bed.

“Which side do you want me on?” you ask.

“You choose,” he murmurs, barely glancing over as he busies himself with folding the last remaining articles of clothing left lying around.

There’s no need to overthink it. Naturally, you gravitate to the same side he made you sleep on the last time and tuck yourself under the covers.

The sheets are fresh and cool against your skin as you slide in. You catch the scent of soap as you pull them up over your chest. You watch him circle the bed before following you in and leaning down to press a light kiss to your forehead.

He reaches behind him to switch off his bedside lamp. In that moment, something nags at you. You consider letting it pass. Tonight has already taken enough out of him and out of you. But you need to know the truth.

“Joel,” you say quietly, just before the lamp goes off. “I need to ask you something.”

He pauses and glances over his shoulder at you. Whatever he sees in your face makes him stop. He turns back to face you and props himself up on his elbow.

“What’s wrong?”

You take a long breath in to buy yourself a second, trying to think of the smartest way to ask.

“I know today has been a lot. And I meant it when I said I wasn’t looking for answers that you’re not ready to give me yet, but there’s something I really need to know.”

He shifts again and sits up a little like he’s bracing for whatever it’s about to be.

“How did Ellie get that scar on her arm?”

It drops on him heavier than you intended it to. The stillness is immediate. His eyes become quite vacant as they drift past your shoulder. You can see thoughts starting to churn uncomfortably in his head.

“I saw the bandages before and I asked her, but she wouldn’t say what happened,” you continue. “I asked her again out on the porch when I saw it had healed over, but she still wouldn’t tell me a thing. She just kept saying it was nothing.”

His gaze drops to the rumpled sheets between you. He swallows nervously. 

You hesitate, but then decide to push a little further.

“It didn’t look like nothing. It looked like she was trying to cover something.”

That pulls his eyes back to you. He receives it almost like it’s an accusation. Without you needing to say it, he knows what you’re insinuating.

There’s no mistaking what he’s thinking now. You can see it written all over his face. You’ve stepped on the line, maybe even over it, but he’s calculating whether this is something he can be truthful about with you. After the past few months you’ve had with him, if he can’t trust you at this point, maybe he’ll never be able to fully trust you.

It takes a long moment, but he eventually breathes out slowly, like he’s decided what he needs to say.

“She’s immune.”

He says it flatly and with no build-up or cushioning. The words are so disorientating that you’re not even fully sure you heard or understood them correctly.

Your brows pinch slightly. “What do you mean immune?”

There’s a clench in his jaw. His eyes stay glued to the creases in the sheets like he’s reading from them, like it’s easier than looking directly into your eyes.

“She got bit,” he says then. “Long time ago now. But she didn’t turn.” He pauses and swallows. “It just healed. By itself. That’s how she ended up with me. Someone wanted me to take her out west — to Salt Lake City. Fireflies had a base out there. Said they might be able to use her to make a cure.”

Your head feels overloaded and like it’s struggling to keep up. Every piece of information shatters everything you thought you knew even more.

“A cure?” you repeat, but your voice is barely audible.

“It ended up not workin’,” he continues. “So we left. Came back here so we could be with Tommy. Give her a life worth livin’. Keep her safe. She burned herself to hide the bite. Didn’t want any attention.”

You drag your gaze away from him because looking at him feels like too much right now. The world you’ve been surviving in, as broken as it already is, has never felt more out of alignment. 

Immune. The word runs circles around you and refuses to sit still. A cure. A concept you didn’t think was even possible anymore. 

All the years passed. All those that were lost. The idea that things could’ve been different or still could be different. It’s crushing. It’s too great to even comprehend.

“If people knew,” Joel says, and this time you feel his eyes on the side of your face, “I don’t know what they’d do, so they can’t find out. There ain’t anyone else like her. Might never be anyone else like her again.”

Just when you thought you had him figured out, he uncovers this layer to him that completely rearranges any notion of reality you had. Jackson doesn’t feel quite as simple anymore and neither does this.

“If we’re really doin’ this,” he murmurs, each word measured carefully, “I need you to swear to me that you’ll keep her safe. No matter what.”

Your eyes meet his again. They’re heavy with the burden of what it takes to be around him. Joel’s fear is never loud, it’s always buried deep enough that only those who truly know him get to see it.  He’s speaking to you in a way that should feel like you’re being given an ultimatum. But you made your mind up the day she barrelled into you in Elise’s bakery, whether you knew it or not.

You give one slow and certain nod. “No matter what.”

Joel watches you carefully after that, in that way he does when he’s testing for any fragility. You just let him. You can feel it in the way his eyes move across your features. He doesn’t find anything. You mean it and he knows you do.

Still leaning on one elbow, he reaches over and cups the back of your head to pull you into him. He kisses you with intention. It feels less like affection and more like an unspoken oath you’re making here in his bed. When you part, your lips separate softly and he keeps you close for another minute, foreheads pressed together while the quiet breathes around the two of you.

Then he shifts lower beneath the covers, settling into the mattress and ready to rest. Instinctively, he reaches to pull you against him, but you stop him halfway and flip the motion on him, guiding him carefully until his back rests flush against your chest instead. You tuck yourself into him, your arm slipping under his and lacing your fingers together. You press feather-light kisses to the back of his ear.

Tonight, you’re holding him.

After the day he’s had, after everything he’s done to include you, you don’t want anything from him now other than to let you hold him. It’s a wordless gesture to let him know that he no longer has to carry the full weight of all of this by himself anymore. 

Things between you have moved faster than you ever imagined they would. Faster than either of you probably intended. But that’s the new world. It’s all about survival and rebuilding. Healing. It just so happens that you’re both puzzle pieces that fit perfectly together the way you do right here in this bed.

Who knows how it will end. Who knows if any of this is a good idea.

All you know is that lying here with him, with Ellie asleep a few doors down the hallway, it’ll all be worth it.

—

June 6, 2024

The first thing that registers as you stir awake is the light, brilliant and insistent pouring through the gaps in the curtains. The second is the empty space beside you when you stretch your leg over to feel for his. The sheets have already gone cool where Joel had been. 

The en-suite door is open and no one is beyond the frame. The house feels eerily quiet and there’s a sharp chill in the air that the duvet had been shielding you from. Propping yourself up on both elbows, you look around the room one-eyed as you slowly surface from sleep, listening for any sign of life until you hear something.

Before your heart has a chance to start ticking, the clang of something heavy being placed on the hob in the kitchen downstairs confirms someone is still here.

Once your chest has unknotted, you climb out of bed, throw on some fresh clothes and head out to the hallway. Ellie’s bedroom door is still closed, but she’ll surely be up for school soon. 

You head downstairs and round the corner to find Joel in his pyjamas at the stove with his back to the doorway, moving around the kitchen like he’s taking the job of cooking breakfast way too seriously. 

The kitchen is a little warmer, golden and smells of butter heating gently in a pan. Sunlight spills through the window in angled, honey-coloured rays, spread across the countertops and dishes that have already started to accumulate by the sink. 

He doesn’t seem to have heard you come down the stairs. He only realises you’re there when you mumble “morning” from the doorway, your voice still sandpapery with sleep. He turns fast enough to suggest he wasn’t expecting you to be awake just yet.

“Oh. Mornin’.”

You flatten your hair and cross the tiles to him, drawn by the promise of his body heat and the smell of bed still clinging to his skin. He sets the eggs he was holding down on the counter and opens his arms just as you reach him. You press your cheek into the side of his neck, close your eyes and just stay there to breathe him in. His arms encircle you and hold you against him and his mouth presses comforting kisses into the side of your head.

“You alright?” he murmurs quietly. “Sleep okay?”

The answer you give is more of a noise than it is language. It’s a soft, sleepy mhm. You lift your head to find his mouth and kiss him once before returning back to the space between his chest and jaw. He starts to sway you slowly in place and lets you stay there with him until you’re ready to detach, peel yourself away and drop into one of the dining room chairs.

“How d’you like your eggs?” Joel asks, turning back to the pan.

You scrub both hands across your face and yawn before answering. 

“Sunny side up.”

He gets to work, so you just sit back and watch. The level of concentration he’s using for the task is downright adorable, but you do your best to make it seem like you’re not enjoying it more than you should be. He clearly really wants this to go right.

“I’m gonna make a pot of coffee,” he says over his shoulder. “You want some?”

“Nah, I’m grand.”

He turns to look at you fully then at a speed that is almost comical. His face drops because he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

“Of course I want coffee,” you say, grinning back at him.

He shakes his head disapprovingly and reaches for the coffee tin on the top shelf near the stove. He rattles it in his hand before pulling the lid open and peering in. “I’m runnin’ a little low.”

It should be no surprise seeing as he’s been making more servings than he normally would since he found out you love coffee as much as he does, but he’s assessing and calculating roughly how many more cups he’ll get out of what’s left.

“Don’t worry about me then,” you say. “Save it. I’ll just have water.”

He gives you a look that he would only reserve for suggestions that he considers thoroughly idiotic. “No, I’m makin’ you some. I keep it for special occasions.”

“Then don’t waste it on me,” you repeat. “It’s a finite resource. Save it for a special occasion.”

But he’s already spooning some out into two separate mugs. “I’d argue today is a special occasion.”

That makes you go quiet. Inside, your chest feels like it’s struggling to contain your heart. There’s no way to hide what’s going on on your face, so you pick at the corner of the napkin lying on the table next to you and let yourself continue to be surprised by this man who has done nothing but surprise you in the last few months.

“If you’re sure,” you say finally.

He carries one of the mugs over and sets it down in front of you. 

“Just means I’ll have to go find more soon,” he says. “And when I do, you’re comin’ with me.”

Your eyes meet across the table for a moment, long enough for the idea to form in your imagination. Riding out together at some point in the future for something as ordinary as coffee seems way more romantic than it probably should.

“Need a hand with anything?”

Joel surveys the kitchen in a quick audit, tallying up what’s left to do. “Uhh, no. S’pretty much all done. Just waitin’ for the bread to toast.”

It’s only a minute later that the toaster pops and you watch him start to assemble everything onto plates. A thought repeats in your mind, how strange it still feels to be sitting in his kitchen. It feels like watching a dream play out in front of you. It’s reality allowing one of your wildest fantasies to seep through just for once. Your fingers have barely closed around it and you already can’t bare the thought of letting it go.

Plates start hitting the table, and that’s apparently all the signal that’s needed to summon Ellie from her bedroom. She barrels down the stairs and stops for a split second in the doorway when her eyes land on you first. You can’t blame her for forgetting you were staying the night. It’s a new visual seeing you sat at Joel’s dining table with sleep still holding you — and it’s still early in the morning. 

She smiles, somewhat delighted with the scene that greets her, and drops into her chair at the head of the table.

“Sup.”

“Morning,” you say. “How’d you sleep?”

“Fine,” she says, picking up her fork and examining the slightly burned toast and eggs on her plate. “What about you two?”

You glance across to Joel, who is finishing dumping dishes into the sink with his back to you. “Really well, actually. We were out like a light. Especially Joel. He was exhausted.”

“Well, just so you know,” Ellie says, lifting her brows as she starts cutting into her eggs. “I didn’t hear a things, so don’t worry.”

The look that Joel gives her from across the kitchen would frighten a heavily armed raider, but as always, Ellie remains totally unfazed and unaffected. “Keep quiet and eat your food.”

“I was talking about snoring.”

You duck your head and bite the inside of your cheek to suppress the chuckle that’s attempting to disrupt the silence left behind.

Joel drops into the seat next to you and starts eating. If the unspoken awkwardness of everyone adjusting to this wasn’t there, this would be rather peaceful and comfortable. It’s the ordinary percussion of a shared meal. Cutlery against ceramic, the crunch of toast… Blissfully plain.

Your eyes are drawn to the kitchen window and a thin cloud moving slowly across the pale sky. With the inhale of a breath, you realise for once in God knows how long, you don’t feel dread. There’s nothing to worry about in the next hour, the next day or even the next week. You’ve taught yourself to not put too much faith into feelings like this because they never last, but maybe this time they will.

“This is nice,” Ellie pipes up after a while.

Both you and Joel look up at her from your plates. Her eyes move between you and she has that same satisfied smirk that make her freckles appear more prominent on her nose and cheeks somehow. 

“What, the eggs?” you ask, glancing over to Joel. “Yeah, they’re actually really good. They turned out perfectly.”

“No, I mean…” She waves her fork in a vague arc to gesture to the three of you arranged around the table in the remarkably simple way that you are. “This.”

She just goes back to eating like it’s nothing. 

Joel’s eyes have already found yours by the time you look back at him and they stay there for a minute. No one else would be able to read what he’s thinking the way you can. He’s having the same realisation you did moments ago. He’s watching something he imagined, hoped for, becoming real right in front of him. 

In some ways, maybe Ellie is reaching that same conclusion too. In one way or another, all three of you have craved safety and belonging and everything under the umbrella of that. And here, at this table, it feels like you may have finally found it.

Outside, the world comes to life for another day. There’s warmth when you curl your hand around your coffee mug, but it’s nothing compared to what’s going on inside of you. 

And right on cue, the dread comes crawling right back, cruel and unwelcome, because now you have something that you can lose.

AN: And there we have it, folks! The final chapter of this act. Thank you so much for reading this far.

I'm going to be taking a few weeks off from posting while I write the next chapters and try to catch up with myself. I have no exact idea how long it'll be for the next chapter, but it'll be a few weeks. Make sure you're following me on my socials as I'll keep everyone updated there! (SuniSid3Up on Twitter and suni.sid3.up on IG).

Some more BTS stuff -- Since I posted chapter 28 last weekend, my dad developed some chest pains and went to get it checked out and it turns out he was on the verge of having a major heart attack and is now preparing to get a quadruple bypass surgery, so things have been a little nuts for me the last few days. His surgery is coming up and I don't know what lies ahead, but writing is helping me stay sane and level to some degree.

Like I said last week, I hate asking for this, but I would love it if you could like, share, kudos, comment on the story as much as you can because it makes all the difference! I hope you go back and re-read your favourite chapters while I'm gone too because it's fun finding all the little details and easter eggs buried in there.

Also can we PLEASE give it up for the incredible artwork for this chapter by my friend Jaymee?! Please go send her lots of love and follow/support her.

Friday had a way of loosening men up in all the worst ways.

By noon, the air smelled like cut lumber, diesel, sweat, and sawdust, the kind of smell that clung to skin long after the day was over. Hammers rang out in uneven bursts, a nail gun snapped somewhere near the back, and country music crackled low from a radio somebody had balanced on an upside down bucket by the porch steps.

Joel stood near the stack of framing lumber with a pencil tucked behind one ear and a tape measure hanging from his belt, scanning over the plans in his hand with the kind of focus that made most men think twice before interrupting him.

“Hey, I’m just sayin’,” one of the younger guys called from the far side of the site, loud enough for half the crew to hear. “If I’m takin’ her somewhere expensive, least she can do is not make me sit in the damn car for forty-five minutes waitin’ on her.”

A couple of snorts of laughter answered him.

Joel didn’t look up right away. He kept his eyes on the plans, jaw set, trying to decide whether the floor joists were gonna be a bigger problem than the mouths on his crew.

“She ain’t even late in a normal way,” another guy said, dragging a gloved hand across his forehead. “Nah, it’s always some little emergency. ‘Babe, I gotta redo my eyeliner.’ ‘Babe, I don’t like my hair.’” He pitched his voice higher in a cruel imitation. “I’m starvin’ by the time we leave the house.”

That got more laughter.

Tommy, who was up on the temporary decking checking measurements, sighed loud enough for Joel to hear. “Here we go.”

Joel still didn’t say anything.

He should have. He knew that. He knew the shape of this kind of conversation and exactly where it usually went. But sometimes, if you cut in too early, it only encourages idiots to perform for each other. Men like that got louder when they thought they had an audience.

“Mine puts on lipstick to go buy milk,” another one said. “Milk. From the damn grocery store. I told her, sweetheart, the dairy aisle is gonna fall in love with you.”

The laugh that followed was uglier than the last one.

Joel’s eyes lifted.

He knew these boys. That was the thing. Boys, most of them. Old enough to swing a hammer, young enough to still mistake being dismissive for being funny. He’d worked with all kinds over the years: good workers, lazy workers, drunks, hotheads, quiet ones, fools. The loudest were usually the least sure of themselves. Had to fill the air with something before anybody noticed there wasn’t much beneath it.

Still, that didn’t mean he had to listen to it.

“Hell,” the first one went on, encouraged now, “I don’t even get it. They complain they ain’t got enough time, then they spend two damn hours in the bathroom paintin’ themselves like they’re headed to some red carpet thing.”

Joel folded the plans once.

Another voice chimed in. “And then you gotta tell ’em they look pretty like you ain’t been lookin’ at the same face for three years.”

Tommy winced and muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

That was enough.

Joel started walking before he even fully decided to. He stopped a few feet from the group gathered around the sawhorses—three of the younger subcontractors and one laborer with more confidence than sense—and looked at each of them in turn.

Nobody spoke.

Joel nodded once. “Y’all done?”

The guy in the baseball cap gave a half shrug, half grin that died fast under Joel’s stare. “We’re just talkin’, man.”

Joel’s face didn’t change. “Ain’t what I asked.”

Silence.

He slipped the folded plans under one arm. “I said, are y’all done.”

“Yeah,” one of them muttered.

Joel took another step closer. “Then maybe y’all can get back to work and quit runnin’ your mouths long enough to remember I’m payin’ you to build a house, not stand around bitchin’ about women who apparently still choose to go home with you.”

Tommy turned away, rubbing a hand over his mouth to hide a grin.

One of the younger guys, John maybe, ducked his head. “We were kiddin’.”

Joel fixed him with a look. “That so?”

“Yes, sir.”

Joel hated being called sir. Normally he’d say so. Right now he let it stand.

He hooked his thumbs through his belt and looked between them. “Tell me somethin’. You got a woman at home who takes time gettin’ ready to go out with you, and your first thought is to complain?”

Nobody answered.

“That woman picked out a dress, did her hair, stood in front of a mirror decidin’ she wanted to look nice, and you somehow made that an inconvenience to you.” His voice stayed level, but the disappointment in it landed harder than if he’d shouted. “That what we’re doin’ now?”

The laborer with the red bandana shifted on his feet. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

Joel’s eyes cut to him. “That’s usually when a man oughta think a little harder about what’s comin’ outta his mouth.”

Tommy climbed down from the decking, landing beside them with a thud. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t need to. He knew Joel well enough to hear the line in his voice that meant this wasn’t just irritation anymore.

Joel went on, “You wanna know what I hear?” He tapped two fingers against the rolled plans. “I hear a bunch of fools complainin’ that somebody gives enough of a damn to wanna look good standin’ next to ’em.”

That got their attention.

One of them tried to laugh it off. “It ain’t that deep, Joel.”

Joel turned his head slowly. “No?”

“No, I just mean—”

“I know what you mean.” He took a breath through his nose. “You mean you’re too young and too selfish to understand that not everything a woman does is for your convenience.”

The site has gone quiet now.

Even the men who hadn’t been part of the conversation were listening, pretending not to.

Joel looked down at the open toolbox on the sawhorse, then back at them. “Some of you got girlfriends. Some of you got wives. And near as I can tell, not one of you sounds near grateful enough for the women keepin’ your lives stitched together when you go home actin’ like this.”

Nobody met his eyes.

“Maybe she takes too long in the bathroom,” Joel said. “Maybe she changes clothes three times before dinner because she wants to feel pretty. That ain’t foolishness. That ain’t vanity. That’s her wantin’ to feel good in her own skin, and if your reaction to that is to stand around mockin’ her with other men, then you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.”

Caleb swallowed. “We weren’t mockin’ them.”

Joel gave him a look so dry it bordered on pity. “Son, if you’re gonna lie, at least do it convincingly.”

Tommy barked a laugh and turned it into a cough.

A few of the older workers smirked into their sleeves.

Joel kept going, because now that he’d started, he knew exactly what was bothering him. It wasn’t just the words. It was the casualness of them. The way men could take something tender and make it small just because they didn’t know how to hold it properly.

“My wife,” he said, and that alone changed the air, made everybody listen closer, “can take as long as she damn well pleases gettin’ ready for anything she wants. Grocery store. Dinner. A walk down the block. I don’t care if she’s puttin’ on lipstick to sit in the livin’ room and watch television. If it matters to her, it matters. End of story.”

That landed.

Because when Joel spoke about you didn’t sound like a man making a point for the sake of winning. He sounded like a man stating a universal truth.

The laborer scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, but women don’t do all that for us anyway.”

Joel’s brow lifted. “Well, congratulations. That’s the first smart thing anybody’s said in five minutes.”

A few snickers broke the tension.

Joel didn’t smile. “No, they don’t do it all for you. That’s exactly the point. Maybe she does some of it for herself. Maybe it’s fun. Maybe it makes her feel confident. Maybe it’s the one damn thing in a day that’s just hers. And maybe instead of complainin’, you oughta learn enough respect to keep your mouth shut and tell her she looks beautiful.”

The man in the cap looked down at his boots. “Alright.”

Joel’s expression hardened. “That ‘alright’ better means somethin’.”

“It does.”

“Good.” He glanced between all of them. “Now pick up your tools and get back to work. We’re behind, and I’ve had about enough of hearin’ how burdensome it is that women continue to exist as full human beings.”

That actually got a real laugh, even from a couple of the guilty ones, though they had the decency to look embarrassed about it.

Joel let the silence sit a beat longer, then pointed at the framing on the east wall. “John, if you’ve got enough energy to complain, you’ve got enough to finish bracin’ that corner.”

“Yes, sir.”

Joel’s stare sharpened.

Caleb sighed. “Yes, Joel.”

“Better.”

The group broke apart at last, muttering to each other in lower voices now, heads down, hands moving quicker than before. Tommy stepped up beside Joel and watched them scatter back into usefulness.

For a second neither brother said anything.

Then Tommy glanced at him. “You feel better?”

Joel bent to grab the level off the sawhorse. “Not especially.”

Tommy’s mouth twitched. “You know they’re all scared of you now.”

“They oughta be scared of bein’ stupid in public.”

Tommy laughed under his breath. “That speech about your wife?” He nudged Joel with an elbow. “Bit dramatic.”

Joel shot him a look. “Wasn’t dramatic.”

“No?” Tommy grinned.

Joel set the level against the brace and adjusted it with one hand. “You got somethin’ useful to do, or you plannin’ on botherin’ me the rest of the afternoon?”

Tommy leaned against a stud, folding his arms. “I am doin’ somethin’ useful. I’m watchin’ you pretend that wasn’t personal.”

Joel didn’t bother looking at him. “Go measure somethin’.”

Tommy ignored that completely. “You thought about her, didn’t you?”

Joel checked the bubble on the level, shifted the brace half an inch. “I’m workin’.”

Tommy rocked back on his heels, pleased with himself now. “So when those idiots were yappin’ about women takin’ forever in the bathroom, you were thinkin’ about her sittin’ at the mirror?”

Joel let out a quiet breath and straightened. He should’ve known better than to engage. Tommy had the kind of nosiness only a younger brother could get away with, half affection and half appetite for trouble.

Joel grabbed the drill. “Tommy.”

His brother laughed. “Alright, alright.”

But he didn’t move away yet, and after a moment he said, softer this time, “You know, you were right.”

Joel glanced up and Tommy shrugged one shoulder. 

Joel shook his head, but there was no real heat in it now. “You’re annoyin’.”

“Runs in the family.”

Joel drove the screw in with more force than necessary. “Go to hell.”

Tommy laughed and pushed off the wall at last. “Can’t. I work for my brother.”

Joel watched him go, then looked back out across the site.

Work picked up again in the wake of the interruption. The radio came back into focus. Men shouted measurements, wood scraped against wood, someone swore after dropping a box of nails. The day moved on the way it always did, one task into the next, one hour bleeding into another until the sun shifted.

But Tommy was right.

Of course he’d thought about you.

He had the moment those boys started talking.

He could picture you too easily.

Standing in the bathroom in one of his old shirts, hair pinned back, leaning close to the mirror with that concentrated little crease between your brows. Sitting at your vanity—your vanity, the one he’d built with his own hands after seeing your face fall when the one you wanted sold out before he could order it—surrounded by brushes and powders and little bottles that all looked nearly identical to him and yet somehow never were. Looking over your shoulder to ask him which earring. Holding up two lipsticks and asking if one looked too dark. Smiling when he got the answer wrong but tried anyway.

He never mocked any of it. Never would.

Half the time he didn’t understand what half those products were for, but that had never seemed like a reason to dismiss them. They mattered because they were yours. Because they brought something bright into your face. Because he had learned, over the course of loving you, that attention was a kind of devotion all its own.

That was the part those boys didn’t get.

Loving somebody meant noticing. It meant learning the shape of their rituals, even the ones that didn’t belong to you. It meant understanding that intimacy wasn’t just the big things like the hospital visits, funerals, marriage vows, bad nights or worse mornings.

Sometimes it was remembering the exact height she liked a table because she tended to hunch if it sat too low. Sometimes it was sanding the edge of a drawer three extra times so it wouldn’t catch on her dress. Sometimes it was building something beautiful out of wood and patience because she had looked disappointed for all of two seconds and that had been enough to undo him.

Joel drove another screw into place and exhaled slowly.

He hadn’t meant to build the vanity quite as elaborate as he did.

At first, he’d only intended to make something simple. Clean lines, sturdy legs, decent storage. Then he’d remembered the way your face had lit up describing the one you’d wanted, the little details you liked, the mirror shape, the drawers, the finish. By the end of it, he’d spent nearly three weeks in the garage after work, pretending he wasn’t enjoying himself every time you wandered in and tried to peek beneath the tarp he kept throwing over it.

When he finally brought it inside, you’d looked at him like he’d hung the moon in the bedroom with his bare hands.

That expression had stayed with him. It still did.

“Joel!”

He turned at the shout.

One of the crew was waving him over near the back of the house. Something about the window framing looked off. He tucked the level under his arm and headed that way, slipping back into the rhythm of the job because there was always another problem to solve, another correction to make, another young man to stop from ruining good lumber with bad math.

The afternoon wore down by inches, the light changed and the heat eased. By the time they started packing up, Joel’s shirt was stuck to his back, his shoulders ached, and there was sawdust worked so deep into the lines of his hands it would take a brush to get it out.

He signed off on the delivery order for Monday, checked the lock on the storage trailer, and made sure the site was squared away before anybody left. Tommy came up beside him with a clipboard tucked under one arm and a half finished bottle of water in the other.

Tommy studied him for a moment. “You tell her about this?”

Joel frowned. “About what.”

“The little feminist awakening you had in front of the crew.”

Joel shot him a flat look. “That what you’re callin’ it?”

Tommy grinned. “I’m callin’ it funny as hell. And yeah. You should tell her. She’ll eat that up.”

Joel shook his head and started toward his truck. Tommy followed for a few steps before peeling off toward his own, still smiling to himself like he’d been handed some private joke he planned on keeping.

Joel climbed into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and let the quiet settle around him for a second. He dropped his head back against the seat and closed his eyes just long enough to feel the day in his bones. Then he started the engine and pulled out onto the road.

The drive home wasn’t long, but it was long enough for his thoughts to drift where they usually did at the end of the week.

To you.

Maybe you’d be on the couch with a blanket over your legs and an episode of the Gilmore Girls half watched because you’d been waiting for the sound of his truck.

God, he could picture it so clearly it almost made his chest ache.

He thought, not for the first time that day, that the men back on that site had no idea how lucky they were if there was somebody waiting for them at all. They have no idea what a privilege it was to be known that intimately by another person. To have your favorite plate set out before you asked. To be greeted by the sound of their voice from the next room.

Joel flexed one hand on the steering wheel.

He thought of you in front of a mirror again.

Of your careful hands. Your patience. The little pleasure you took in things most men would dismiss because they had never learned how to look properly. He thought of how easy it was, in a world this ugly, to sneer at softness just because you didn’t know what to do with it.

He also thought, with a private heaviness he never quite voiced, of how much of your life lived in those little rituals. The tender ordinary things. The things he catalogued without meaning to. The products lined up on the vanity. The order you used them in. The brushes you reached for first. The colors you favored when you were happy, or when you were quiet, or when you wanted him to notice.

Joel always noticed.

And somewhere deep beneath that noticing lived the old anxiety he carried like a second spine, the one that made him prepare for loss even in the middle of joy. It came uninvited, as it always did, whispering its ugly what ifs into the back of his mind. What if one day you were too tired. What if one day your hands hurt. What if one day life turned cruel in some new and inventive way and you couldn’t do these things for yourself anymore.

He hated those thoughts. Hated the shape of them. Hated that fear had taught his mind to brace for impact even when nothing was wrong.

But still he learned.

The names of things. The purpose of things. The order of them. Not because he expected praise for it, and not because he ever intended to say any of this aloud. Only because if the world ever tried to take some small comfort from you, Joel wanted his hands ready, wanted to know enough to step in gently and give it back.

His throat tightened a little, and he swallowed it down.

By the time he turned onto your street, the sun was lower, the sky softening into streaks of amber and pale blue. Home came into view steady and familiar, porch light not yet on, the windows warm with the first signs of evening.

Joel eased the truck into the driveway and killed the engine.

For a second he stayed where he was, one hand still on the wheel, looking at the house like he did every now and then when the day had been long enough to make him feel the full weight of what waited inside it.

His true home.

Then he got out, shut the truck door, and headed for the front porch with sawdust on his boots, tiredness in his shoulders, and the faintest trace of a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth for no reason other than the simple fact that he was almost home.

You.

He pushed the front door open with one hand, already loosening up a little at the simple fact of stepping inside, and was met at once by warmth, soft lamplight, and the unmistakable smell of something good waiting in the kitchen. Then, Joel set his keys in the bowl by the door and shrugged out of his jacket.

“Honey?” he called, voice carrying low through the quiet.

“In here!”

Something in your tone made him pause.

A kind of carefully held excitement you were trying, and failing, to disguise as casual. Joel’s mouth pulled almost into a smile before he even saw you. He followed your voice into the kitchen and found you standing near the stove.

There you are, he thought, with that immediate, quiet hit of relief he never quite got used to.

You turned when he appeared in the doorway, and your face lit in a way that still undid him a little, no matter how many times he came home to it. “Hi.”

Joel leaned one shoulder against the frame for a second, just looking at you. “Hi, baby.”

He heard the roughness in his own voice and saw the way your eyes softened at it.

You crossed to him without hesitation, and he opened an arm automatically, catching you against him with all the ease of a long habit. Your hands slid around his middle carefully, as though you knew exactly where the day tended to settle in him, and his palm spread over your back. He bent to kiss the top of your head first, breathing you in, then your temple, then finally your mouth, the kind of kiss that means that he was finally at home now, and home meant you.

“You smell good,” you murmured against his mouth.

Joel huffed a tired laugh. “Smell like sawdust.”

“But it's sexy,” you said, pulling back just enough to look at him.

That did make him smile. His thumb brushed once at your waist. “That so?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

He let his gaze move over your face, lingering a beat too long because something about you felt gently charged tonight.“You been waitin’ on me?”

You widened your eyes with exaggerated innocence. “Maybe.”

Joel studied you. “That look usually means you’re hidin’ somethin’.”

You gasped softly. “I’m offended.”

“No, you ain’t.”

You tried not to grin and failed. Joel watched the smile break across your face and had the strange, familiar thought that if he died tomorrow, this would be the shape of heaven in his head. You in the kitchen, looking pleased with yourself. The light warm on your skin. The house quiet around you both. Something cooking. The weekend beginning at the edges of the room like a blessing neither of you had earned but both of you needed.

He brushed his knuckles along your cheek. “What’s for dinner?”

Your whole expression brightened. “Sit down and I’ll show you.”

That got a low chuckle out of him. “Bossy.”

“Just tonight.”

“That’d be a first.”

You swatted lightly at his arm, laughing, and he caught your wrist before you could move away, tugging you in just enough to kiss you once more, this time with a little more intent, enough to make your breath catch and your fingers curl against his shirt. Then he let you go before either of you leaned too far into it, because there was still dinner on the stove and because he knew that if he stood there kissing you too long after a week like this one, he might never make it to the table.

He washed up at the sink while you moved around the kitchen putting the last things together, and Joel watched you in the window reflection while the water ran over his hands. You kept glancing at him like you had something else to say. Something you were sitting on. He knew you well enough to spot the tells now; the little smile you bit back for no reason, the extra care you took with the plates, the way your body seemed almost too still whenever you were trying not to blurt something out too soon.

“You gonna tell me what’s got you lookin’ like that?” he asked, drying his hands on the dish towel.

You set a plate down. “Like what?”

“Like you’re about two seconds from spoilin’ your own surprise.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Joel pulled out his chair and sat, eyes never leaving you. “Baby.”

You laughed, soft and guilty, and finally brought the plates over. “Fine. Maybe I’m just happy it’s Friday.”

He accepted that with a slight tilt of his head, though they both knew that wasn’t all of it. “That much, I believe.”

Joel took the first bite of the tender meat you've cooked for him and closed his eyes for half a second before he meant to.

You noticed, of course.

“That good?” you asked, trying not to sound too pleased.

He opened his eyes and looked at you over the table. “You fishin’?”

“Yes.”

Joel leaned back slightly in his chair, chewing, making a deliberate show of considering it. “Might be the best thing I’ve eaten all week.”

You laughed, and the sound of it loosened something in him he hadn’t realized was still tight.

That was the thing about Friday nights with you. The workweek wore him down and you gathered him back together. Not all at once. Just piece by piece. A hot meal. Your voice across the table. Your foot brushing his under it. The look on your face when he reached for a second helping like he hadn’t spent the whole drive home pretending he wasn’t hungry.

He told you a little about work. Not too much. Just enough for you to follow the shape of his day. A delivery that came late. A measurement that had to be redone because somebody hadn’t listened the first time. Tommy nearly stepping backward off the decking because he’d turned around too fast while arguing with one of the electricians.

You laughed at that. “Was he hurt?”

“No.”

“Then I can laugh.”

“You already were.”

“I know.”

Joel watched you talk, watched your hands move when you got animated, watched the way you leaned in when you were interested in something he’d said as though there might still be new things to learn about him after all this time. It made something warm and almost painful spread low in his chest. He’d never been very good at making speeches about love. But if anybody had asked him where most of his peace lived, he would’ve had to point right here. To this table. To your voice. To your company at the end of the day.

At some point your foot slid against his calf beneath the table and stayed there.

Joel’s eyes flicked up.

You were smiling down at your plate, pretending not to notice what you’d done.

His mouth twitched. “You bein’ sweet, or are you up to somethin’?”

You looked up, all innocence again. “Can’t it be both?”

He held your gaze for a beat, then reached for his glass. “That answer concerns me.”

“It should.”

He laughed under his breath.

When the plates were nearly empty you rose to clear the table but when Joel started to stand with you out of instinct, you pointed at him.

“Sit.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I mean it. You worked all day. Sit there.”

Joel settled back slowly, one brow raised. “You order me around awfully easy for somebody this small.”

You gathered up the dishes with a smile. “And yet you listen.”

“Sometimes.”

“Most times.”

He gave you a dry look. “Don’t push it.”

You disappeared into the kitchen with the plates, and he sat there listening to the music of you moving around… water running, cabinets opening, cutlery clinking softly against ceramic. Domestics sounds. He loved them with a ferocity he kept mostly to himself.

When you came back, you weren’t empty handed.

Joel’s eyes dropped to the plate you set in front of him, and he went still for half a second.

Not just any pie. Apple pie. His favorite. Still slightly warm, the crust golden, the scent of cinnamon and butter rising up before it had even properly touched the table.

You folded back into your seat trying and failing to look casual. “There’s ice cream too, if you want it.”

Joel looked from the plate to you. “You made pie?”

Your expression softened. “I did.”

“For me.”

The corners of your mouth lifted. “Well, I don’t know many people who get this emotional about apple pie, so yes. For you.”

Something in his face must have shifted, because your own expression gentled further.

Joel glanced back down at the dessert and let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost a laugh, almost not. “Christ.”

“What?”

He looked at you again. “Nothin’.” His voice came out lower than before. “Just… thank you, baby.”

You leaned your chin into your hand. “You’re welcome.”

He took a bite, closed his eyes and opened them again. “That’s real good.”

Your smile went luminous. “Yeah?”

“Mm.” Another bite. “Dangerously good.”

You watched him with such open fondness it made him shake his head a little and look back at the plate, because being adored that plainly still makes him blush some days. 

“There’s more,” you said after a moment, like you couldn’t possibly hold it in any longer.

Joel looked up, chewing slowly. “More pie?”

You laughed. “No. Although yes, there’s more pie. But that’s not what I meant.”

He set his fork down. “Alright. Go on.”

Your eyes brightened immediately. “I restocked everything.”

He frowned mildly, trying to follow. “Everything.”

“For the weekend.” You started counting off on your fingers. “Coffee. The good kind you like.”

Joel felt an involuntary little stab of gratitude so strong it was almost ridiculous. “You got coffee.”

“I got coffee,” you confirmed. “And beer.”

His brow lifted. “Beer too, huh?”

“And your barbecue chips. And the pretzels you pretend you don’t like that much but somehow always eat. And those peanuts Tommy keeps stealing every time he comes over.”

Joel stared at you for a second, then leaned back in his chair with a quiet exhale, one hand coming up to scrub over his beard. “You’ve been busy.”

Your face softened into something tender. “I wanted you to have a nice weekend.”

There it was again, that precise, deadly thing you did to him without even trying. You said simple sentences that landed somewhere deep because they carried more than the words themselves. I wanted you to have a nice weekend. As if his comfort was something worth planning for. As if the shape of his rest mattered enough for you to think ahead about coffee and snacks and the exact beer he reached for first.

Joel looked at you for a long moment. Then he said, quieter, “C’mere.”

You got up at once and crossed the space between you, and he drew you gently between his knees, one hand settling at your hip while the other curved around the back of your thigh. He tipped his head back to look at you properly. Your hair had fallen forward a little, your expression open and sweet and expectant, and the simple sight of you there, taking such obvious pleasure in taking care of him, nearly undid him.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” he said.

“I know.”

His thumb rubbed once over the fabric at your side. “Then why’d you?”

You looked at him like the answer was the easiest thing in the world. “Because I love you.”

Joel’s throat moved.

He knew better than most men how dangerous those words could be when spoken carelessly. How people used them as decoration. As habit. As currency. But you never did. When you said them, you meant them all the way through.

He rested his forehead briefly against your stomach and let the quiet sit. Then he leaned back enough to press a kiss there through your shirt, right above your navel, and felt the little shiver that ran through you.

“You keep this up,” he murmured, “I’m gonna start thinkin’ again that you’re after somethin’.”

You smiled down at him, fingers slipping into his hair. “Maybe I just missed you.”

That, too, he believed.

Joel turned his face and pressed another kiss to the heel of your palm before letting you go. “Alright,” he said, clearing his throat a little as you stepped back. “Now I’m definitely suspicious.”

You laughed, gathered the pie plate, and turned away before he could see too much of whatever was passing over your face. Joel watched you go, watched the sway of your body as you moved around the kitchen, watched the little lightness in you that had only grown since he came through the door.

He knew now with certainty that you had something planned, he just didn’t yet know what shape it would take.

Once everything was cleaned up and the kitchen restored to order, the evening softened around the two of you. Joel checked the locks out of habit, turned off the extra lights, and came back to find you already collecting his towel from the linen closet before he could ask for it. He took it from your hands with a low, amused noise.

“Baby, I can get my own towel.”

“I know you can.”

“Then why am I bein’ supervised?”

You stepped closer and smoothed a hand over the front of his work shirt, over the dust and wrinkles and the tiredness still hanging off him. “Because you’ve had a long week.”

Joel looked down at you. “And?”

“And because I like taking care of you.”

His expression shifted into something softer, more serious. “I know you do.”

You held his gaze for a moment too long, and once again that same curious charge moved through the room. Not enough to name yet. Just enough to feel.

Joel tipped your chin up with two fingers and kissed you slowly, until your body leaned into his and the hem of his shirt bunched a little in your fists. When he pulled back, he lingered close enough that your breath still crossed his mouth.

“I’m gonna shower,” he said.

You nodded. “Okay.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “You say that like you’re plannin’ somethin’ while I’m gone.”

You widened your eyes. “Maybe I’m just going to… fold laundry.”

Joel let out a short laugh. “That lie was insultin’.”

“Go shower, Miller.”

The way you said it, bossy and faintly pleased with yourself, made him shake his head as he turned toward the hallway. “Yes, ma’am.”

He heard your little triumphant laugh behind him all the way to the bathroom.

The shower was hot enough to ache pleasantly over his sore body. Joel stood under it longer than usual, one hand braced on the tile, letting the day rinse off him in layers. The dust fell away first, then sweat, then whatever lingering irritation had stayed with him from the workplace. By the time he stepped out, the mirror had fogged over, and the house beyond the bathroom door had gone quiet in that particular evening way that meant you were no longer puttering around downstairs.

He dried off, wrapped the towel low around his waist, and dragged one hand through his damp hair before stepping into the bedroom.

And stopped.

You were waiting for him.

Not in bed, not curled up under the covers with a Jane Austen book or half asleep with the lamp on. You were seated at the bedroom vanity with your back mostly to the door, posture straight, legs crossed at the ankle, like you’d been there long enough to settle into the moment. The vanity itself caught the warm glow from the bedside lamp making you look almost ethereal. He looked at the whole scene at once and felt something inside him go very still.

You’d changed into a nightgown while he was in the shower, your hair arranged just so, your expression reflected in the mirror as you looked at him through it with a smile too small to be innocent.

Joel stayed by the bathroom door for a second, towel slung low, water still cooling on his shoulders. “There it is.”

You turned slightly in the chair. “There what is?”

“The surprise.”

You tried to look confused. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He huffed a laugh, already moving toward the bed. “Sure you don’t.”

Joel sat down at the edge of the mattress, elbows resting loosely on his knees for a second as he took you in. Then his gaze dropped to the box in your lap—black and white stripes, tissue paper peeking out the top—and his mouth twitched.

“Sephora,” he said.

Your face brightened at once. “I went today.”

“I can see that.”

“You said I should get myself something nice.”

“I did.”

“And I listened.”

That made him smile properly now. “I’m learnin’ that can be dangerous.”

You angled the box toward yourself protectively. “No take backs now, Miller.”

“Ain’t askin’ for any.”

He leaned back slightly, one hand braced on the bedspread, and watched as your fingers slipped beneath the tissue paper with excitement. He recognized that look on you too. The one that made you seem younger and softer all at once.

You glanced at him over your shoulder. “Do you want to see?”

Joel’s eyes moved from your face to the box and back again. “Baby, you know I got no earthly clue what half that stuff is.”

“I know,” you said sweetly. “That’s why I’m going to explain it to you.”

He laughed under his breath and settled in, already knowing he was done for. “Alright, then.”

And because it was you asking, because it mattered to you, because he loved the sound of your voice when you got excited about something, Joel gave you his full attention.You shifted in the chair until you were facing him a little more fully, one leg tucking beneath you, the Sephora box still balanced carefully in your lap like something precious. Joel stayed where he was at the edge of the bed, damp hair curling slightly at the ends, towel slung low around his waist, watching you with attention.

You dipped a hand into the box and pulled out the first item. “Okay. We’re starting easy.”

Joel’s mouth twitched. “That suggests we ain’t stayin’ easy.”

“We are not.”

He nodded once, resigned already. “Go on, then.”

You held up a sleek bottle. “This is primer.”

Joel frowned faintly. “Primer.”

“Yes.”

He leaned forward slightly, forearms braced on his thighs. “Like paint.”

You stared at him for a beat, then sighed. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“Well, it’s called primer.”

“It is not a paint primer.”

Joel tipped his head. “How do I know that?”

“Because this one costs thirty eight dollars and if I ever put it on a wall, you’d have me committed.”

That earned a low laugh out of him.

He reached for the bottle, and you handed it over. Joel turned it in his hand, studying the label with the seriousness of a man trying very hard not to look like he was reading another language. “So what’s it do?”

“It goes on before makeup.”

“Hence the name.”

You squinted at him. “You can either be respectful during my presentation, or I can pack everything up and go to bed.”

“Presentation?” he repeated, eyes warm now. “Baby, are you givin’ me a seminar?”

“Yes.” You folded your arms. “And if you’re lucky there’ll be a practical demonstration.”

Joel’s gaze flickered over your face for half a second, before he handed the bottle back. “Now that sounds promisin’.”

You ignored the way your stomach fluttered and went on. “Primer makes everything sit better on the skin. It helps smooth things out, helps makeup last longer, and sometimes it gives you a certain finish.”

He blinked. “A finish.”

“Yes. Glowy. Matte. Blurring. Hydrating.”

Joel was quiet for a second. “That all different from just… face?”

You laughed. “Yes, Joel, that is different from just face.”

He gave a solemn nod. “Alright. Good to know.”

You placed the primer on the vanity and reached into the box again. “Next: concealer.”

Joel watched the little tube appear in your hand. “Lemme guess. Covers somethin’.”

You pointed at him. “See? This is good. You’re learning.”

He leaned back a little, smug enough to annoy you. “I ain’t dumb, darlin’.”

“I didn’t say you were dumb.”

“Your tone did.”

“My tone is educational.”

“That so?”

“Yes.”

Joel’s smile deepened, but he let you continue.

“Concealer can be for dark circles, redness, blemishes, whatever.”

His brow furrowed almost immediately. “You don’t have any of those things on your pretty face, baby.”

You stared at him, then softened a little despite yourself. “That’s sweet, but that’s not the point.”

He looked genuinely unconvinced. “Seems like the point exactly.”

“No.” You set the concealer down with a small huff. “The point is not fixing some horrible flaw. It’s just… enhancement. Evening things out. Playing around. Feeling put together.”

Joel nodded slowly, eyes still on your face. “Alright.”

You narrowed yours. “You still look like you disagree.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I can disagree privately.”

“You are not disagreeing privately. Your whole face is disagreeing.”

A laugh escaped him then. “You know my face too well.”

“I do.”

That landed softly between you.

Joel’s gaze stayed on you and you had the strange feeling that he was not just watching you talk… he was memorizing you. The way your fingers handled each item. The way your voice changed when you were explaining something you liked. The way you lit up when he listened properly.

He did listen properly. That was the thing.

You cleared your throat and reached for the next item before the moment got too soft to bear. “Okay. This one is blush.”

Joel nodded. “I know blush.”

“Oh?”

He gestured vaguely toward his own cheekbones. “Pink.”

You blinked at him. “That is both offensively simple and, unfortunately, correct.”

He looked pleased with himself.

You held up a compact and opened it, letting him see the soft rosy color inside. “Blush goes on the cheeks. Sometimes a little on the nose too. Depends on the look.”

“The look,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“You got multiple looks?”

You gave him a flat stare. “Joel.”

“What? I’m askin’ questions.”

“Of course I have multiple looks.”

He held up both hands in surrender. “Alright, alright.”

You turned slightly toward the mirror and tapped your cheek. “Blush can make you look healthy, fresh, sweet, sunkissed, romantic—”

Joel interrupted. “Sweet.”

You glanced back. “Yes.”

He tilted his head. “You already look sweet.”

Your expression betrayed you then, a little smile creeping in despite your best efforts. “You can’t just say things like that in the middle of my explanation.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m trying to be serious.”

Joel looked at you for a beat, taking in your face, your excitement, the slight pink that had risen in your cheeks before you’d even put any actual blush on. “That may be the problem right there, baby.”

You laughed softly and reached into the box again. “Fine. No more compliments until the end.”

“That doesn't sound natural.”

“It’s a rule now.”

“Seems harsh.”

“You’ll survive.”

He considered that. “Debatable.”

You had to look away for a second because the sight of him sitting there barely dressed, all broad shoulders and damp hair and sleepy amusement, making himself the world’s most attentive audience for a makeup breakdown, was almost too lovely to process in one go.

You pulled out a small palette next.

Joel squinted. “That one looks expensive.”

Your face changed instantly. “It was a little expensive.”

“A little.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

He extended a hand. “Lemme see.”

You passed it over carefully, and Joel turned the compact in his fingers. The palette was heavier than he expected, the case clicking softly when he opened it. Inside were shades of brown, gold, rose, and deep muted plum, each one arranged so prettily it almost did make sense that you’d looked delighted pulling it out of the bag earlier.

He studied it in silence for a moment.

Then, very seriously: “These are all nearly the same color.”

Your mouth fell open. “Joel!”

“What?”

“They are not.”

He looked at the palette again, then back at you. “Baby, I’m lookin’ at seven versions of brown.”

You snatched it from him with exaggerated offense. “This is taupe. This is a soft rose. This is bronze. This is a champagne shimmer. This one is mauve.”

Joel blinked slowly. “That last one was definitely still brown.”

“It was not.”

“Looked brown from here.”

“You are impossible.”

He grinned then. “Maybe. But I’m listenin’.”

You held the palette protectively against your chest. “Eyeshadow,” you informed him, in the tone of someone recovering from a great insult, “is what you put on your eyelids.”

“I gathered.”

“It can change the whole mood of a look.”

He raised a brow. “Can it?”

“Yes. Soft. Smoky. Dramatic. Fresh. Sultry.”

Joel’s expression altered at that last word, barely. “Sultry, huh?”

You pretended not to notice. “Yes.”

“And you’re sayin’ that like it’s a normal thing to tell me while sittin’ there lookin’ like that.”

“Like what?”

He looked you over once, slowly enough to make your pulse jump, then brought his eyes back to your face. “Like you know exactly what you’re doin’.”

The silence that followed lasted a beat too long.

Then you cleared your throat again. “Anyway. Moving on.”

Joel let out a quiet laugh but didn’t argue.

You pulled out a fluffy brush, and his brow furrowed. “That one for paint too?”

You gasped. “Joel!”

“I’m kiddin’.”

“No, you’re not. You think all of this is construction supplies in disguise.”

He looked at the brush. “You gotta admit there’s some overlap.”

“There is absolutely no overlap.”

“That primer still sounds suspicious.”

You shook your head, smiling helplessly now. “This is an eyeshadow brush.”

He gave the brush a dubious look. “Seems too soft to do much.”

“It’s not supposed to do much. It’s supposed to blend.”

“Blend what?”

“The eyeshadow.”

Joel leaned back and rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Alright, hold on. So first you put color on your eyelid.”

“Yes.”

“Then you use another tool to sort of… smear it around.”

“It is not smearing. It is blending.”

He nodded gravely. “My mistake.”

You pointed the brush at him. “Mock me again and I’ll use this against you.”

Joel looked at the brush, then at you. “Sweetheart, I am not afraid of a tiny fluffy weapon.”

You fought a smile and lost badly. “You should be.”

“What, you gonna do my makeup in my sleep?”

That image hit you so suddenly and vividly that you nearly laughed. “Honestly? You’d look gorgeous.”

“Would I?”

“Yes. Maybe a nice neutral eye to enhance your hazel eyes or something soft and romantic with berry tones.”

Joel gave you a long look. “You flirtin’ with me or threatenin’ me?”

“Bit of both.”

“Mm.”

His voice dropped on that little hum in a way you very deliberately chose not to think about too hard.

Instead, you kept digging through the box and grabbed a lipstick. “Okay. This one you know.”

Joel’s gaze landed on the tube and warmed immediately with recognition. “Now that one I know.”

You looked pleased. “You do?”

“Yeah.” He pointed lazily. “That’s similar to the color you wear when we go out somewhere nice.”

You paused.

Then slowly: “What?”

Joel shrugged, like this was obvious. “The darker one.”

You blinked at him. “You know this shade?”

“Could pick it out in a lineup.”

You stared.

His expression shifted, a little wary now. “What?”

“Joel.”

“What.”

You turned fully toward him on the stool, lipstick in hand. “Are you telling me you can identify my lipstick shades?”

He frowned as if the question itself were strange. “Some of ’em.”

“Some of them?”

“Well, not by all the names,” he said. “Those names are ridiculous.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What do you mean, ridiculous?”

He held out a hand, and when you passed him the tube he read the label aloud with a face like he was being personally offended by it. “‘Rosewood Whisper.’” He looked up. “That’s not a lipstick shade. That’s some fancy car freshener scent.”

You laughed so hard you had to grab the edge of the vanity.

Joel kept going, encouraged now. “Y’all never just call somethin’ red. No. It’s ‘midnight garnet seduction’ or ‘velvet sin’ or ‘spiced fig dream.’ Sounds like a fancy cocktail menu.”

You were laughing openly now, shoulders shaking.

He pointed the lipstick at you. “And I’m right.”

“You are a menace.”

“I’m observant.”

“That is not the word I would’ve used.”

Joel smiled and handed it back. “It’s the one I’m usin’.”

You twisted the lipstick up and held it near your mouth. “So which one is this, then?”

He squinted. “That’s not the darker dinner one.”

“No.”

“And it’s not the peachy one you wear with that cream sweater.”

Your eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

Joel blinked once. “What.”

“You know the peachy one?”

He shifted slightly on the bed, suddenly looking like a man who had stumbled into revealing more than intended. “Baby, I got eyes.”

“No, no. That’s not just eyes. That’s data collection.”

A reluctant smile pulled at his mouth. “You say that like it’s criminal.”

“It is deeply suspicious.”

Joel looked down, then back up at you. “You want me not to notice?”

It got you in the chest a little.

Your voice softened without permission. “No.”

He nodded once. “Then I'll keep noticing.”

You looked at him for a moment, then turned back toward the mirror before he could see too much on your face. “Well,” you said, trying for lightness and getting only halfway there, “for the record, this one is newer.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And it’s not for every day.”

Joel watched your reflection. “Special occasion?”

You glanced at him in the mirror. “Maybe.”

His eyes held yours there for one quiet second before you broke the look and set the lipstick down.

You reached for another item. “Okay, next: highlighter.”

Joel exhaled. “That one also sounds like office supplies.”

“It does not.”

“It absolutely does.”

“It makes the high points of the face catch the light.”

He nodded slowly. “Now that, I understand.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“Sure.” He pointed gently toward you. “Bit on the cheekbone. Maybe here.” He gestured near the inner corners of his own eyes with shocking accuracy. “Makes things brighter.”

You stared at him, deadpan.

Joel’s mouth twitched. “Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?”

“How do you know that?”

He shifted one shoulder. “Seen you do it.”

“When?”

His expression was almost offended now. “What d’you mean, when?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “No, I just—I don’t know. I didn’t realize you were paying that much attention.”

Joel went quiet.

Then he said as a matter of fact, “I pay attention to you all the time.”

The words settled over the room.

There was no vanity in the way he said it. He sounded like a man stating something as ordinary and unremarkable as the weather, when to you it felt like being handed his heart in the simplest possible form.

You swallowed. “I know.”

His gaze lingered on your reflection. “Do you?”

The question was gentle enough to hurt.

You looked down at the highlighter in your hand, then set it beside the rest. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I do.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He just watched you, something tender moving beneath the calm of his face, and then the moment loosened because he cleared his throat and tipped his chin toward the clutter spreading over the vanity.

“So how much of that did you buy?”

You laughed, grateful for the release. “Rude.”

“I’m serious.”

“You told me to treat myself.”

“I did not expect to finance a full cosmetic expansion.”

“Expansion,” you repeated, grinning. 

“Looks expensive enough to be one.”

You picked up two little containers. “These were mini sizes.”

Joel narrowed his eyes. “That means they’re small.”

“Yes.”

“Not cheap.”

You sighed. “No.”

He nodded like a man whose suspicions had been confirmed. “Thought so.”

You held up another gloss tube. “This one was on sale.”

He gave you a long look.

“It was!”

“That phrase’s dangerous in your mouth.”

“It’s not dangerous.”

“Darlin, every time you say somethin’ was on sale, somehow three bags appear.”

You put a hand to your chest. “I can’t believe you’d stereotype me like this in my own bedroom.”

Joel laughed and the sound of it curled around you like a warm blanket.

He rubbed his hand over his beard and nodded toward the products. “Alright. So what else we got.”

You brightened immediately and began lining them up in order like you were preparing to teach a masterclass. “Skincare.”

Joel made a face.

You caught it instantly. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say nothin’.”

“Your face said enough.”

He leaned back on one arm. “How many steps?”

You looked away. “That depends.”

Joel groaned quietly. “Baby.”

“It depends on the night.”

“That means too many.”

“It does not mean too many.”

“How many.”

You started counting under your breath. “Cleanser. Serum. Moisturizer. Eye cream if I feel like it. Sometimes an exfoliant, but not every night, obviously. And then if my skin is dry, maybe—”

Joel held up a hand. “I blacked out halfway through that.”

You laughed. “No, you didn’t.”

“Felt like I did.”

“Skincare is important.”

He gave you a skeptical look. “You’re twenty seven, not ninety.”

“That has nothing to do with it.”

He watched you for a second, then asked with suspicious sincerity, “Is that why there are so many tiny bottles in the bathroom that all look exactly the same?”

You gasped. “They do not look exactly the same.”

“They absolutely do.”

“That one has niacinamide.”

He stared.

You lifted another. “This one has hyaluronic acid.”

He kept staring.

You held up a third. “And this one is peptides.”

Joel blinked once, then slowly dragged a hand down his face. “You just cast a spell at me.”

You burst out laughing.

“I’m serious,” he said, though he was smiling too now. “That sounded illegal… like drugs and that stuff.”

“It’s not illegal, it’s skincare.”

“Same difference.”

You shook your head, still smiling, and then your fingers dipped back into the box one more time.

Joel watched your expression change before the product even cleared the tissue paper.

His brows lifted. “What’s that look for?”

You bit back a grin. “Nothing.”

“Sweetheart.”

You looked over your shoulder at him with eyes far too innocent. “This one’s just… funny.”

Joel straightened a little. “Funny how?”

You held the tube in your hand but didn’t show him yet.

He narrowed his gaze. “Why’re you hidin’ it?”

“Because you’re going to be immature.”

Joel actually looked offended. “I am never immature.”

You stared at him.

He waited.

Then one corner of your mouth lifted. “That was embarrassing for both of us.”

A laugh escaped him. “Alright, fine. Little bit.”

“Little bit,” you echoed, unconvinced.

You turned the tube in your fingers, smiling to yourself now, and Joel could already tell from the expression on your face that whatever came next was going to amuse you entirely too much.

He shifted closer to the edge of the bed without even meaning to, curiosity plain on his face now. “C’mon, then. Lemme see.”

You looked at him, still grinning. “Promise you’ll behave?”

Joel met your eyes. “No.”

That made you laugh again and you lifted the last item slowly, ready to show him the thing you already knew was going to make him lose it.You held it up between two fingers with a grin you were making absolutely no effort to hide now, the little metallic pink tube catching the warm bedroom light as you turned it toward him.

Joel squinted at the label.

Then he went very still.

His eyes moved across the words once. Twice.

And then, exactly as predicted, he barked out a laugh so sudden and unguarded it startled even him.

You pointed at him immediately. “Don’t.”

That only made it worse.

Joel bent forward, one hand over his mouth now, shoulders shaking as the laugh hit him again, deeper this time, rough and helpless and impossible to stop. He looked up at you with tears of amusement practically threatening in the corners of his eyes and repeated, disbelieving, “Better Than Sex?”

You stared at him, trying very hard to look stern and getting nowhere. “Joel.”

“Baby.” He shook his head and laughed again. “No. I’m sorry. I know I’m supposed to be respectful, I do, but that is the dumbest damn name I ever heard in my life.”

“It is not dumb.”

“It is ridiculous.”

“It’s marketing!”

“Marketing by a thirteen year old boy, maybe.”

You slapped a hand over your mouth to stop your own smile and failed miserably. “You said you were going to behave.”

“I very specifically did not promise that.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to be mean.”

Joel sat up a little straighter, still grinning, and held out a hand. “Lemme see it.”

You hesitated just long enough to make a point, then passed it over. He took the tube carefully, turning it in his fingers like maybe the name would somehow become less absurd if he looked at it from another angle but it did not.

He read it aloud again, slower, like he was trying to understand how a real company with a real boardroom and real adult employees had come to this decision. “‘Better Than Sex.’” He looked up at you. “There was nobody in that office brave enough to stop this?”

You laughed despite yourself. “Apparently not.”

Joel stared down at the tube. “Who approved that?”

“People smarter than us, probably.”

“No, ma’am.” He handed it back with quiet authority. “Ain’t no smart person names a mascara after sex.”

You took it from him, smiling now. “That’s because you don’t understand branding.”

He leaned back on the bed again, one hand braced behind him, expression dry. “Then explain it to me.”

You drew in a dramatic breath and straightened in the chair like you were about to defend a thesis. “Alright. The point is not that the mascara is literally better than sex.”

Joel immediately cut in. “Well, that’s disappointin’, because that is very much what they printed on the tube.”

You glared at him. “Would you let me finish?”

He made a little go ahead gesture with his fingers, though the smile was still pulling at one corner of his mouth.

“The point,” you repeated, “is that it promises drama.”

Joel’s expression remained skeptical. “Drama.”

“Yes. Big lashes. Volume. Length. Impact.” You held the tube up between you both like a piece of courtroom evidence. “It’s not subtle. It wants attention.”

He looked from the mascara to you. “So the mascara is flirtin’.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I hate that you made that sound logical.”

Joel’s mouth twitched. “Ain’t wrong.”

You rolled your eyes and unscrewed the tube, pulling the wand out with a soft wet click. “Look.”

He leaned forward instinctively, curious despite himself now, watching as you angled the wand so he could see the brush.

Joel frowned. “That’s it?”

You looked at him. “What do you mean, that’s it?”

“It’s just a little spiky stick.”

“It is not a spiky stick.”

He pointed. “That’s absolutely a spiky stick.”

“It’s a mascara wand.”

Joel nodded once, solemn again. “That’s what I said.”

You shook your head, smiling in spite of yourself, and turned toward the mirror. “You are impossible to educate.”

“Yet you persist.”

“Because I’m committed.”

“To what, exactly.”

“Improving you.”

Joel’s low laugh followed you into the mirror. “Good luck with that.”

You angled closer to the glass and lifted the wand to your lashes. “Okay. So mascara darkens them, lengthens them, thickens them—ideally.”

“‘Ideally’ don’t sound confident.”

“Because some mascaras clump.”

Joel frowned. “Clump.”

“Yes.”

“That bad?”

“It can be.”

He was quiet for a second. “How many problems y’all got in that industry?”

You laughed under your breath. “More than you could possibly understand.”

He watched your reflection carefully as you started applying the mascara with slow, practiced movements, the brush catching at the roots and pulling upward. Joel had seen you do this before, of course. More than once. But there was something different about being invited into it this closely, being talked through the steps like he belonged there in the middle of the ritual instead of merely passing by the doorway while it happened.

He found himself following every little motion.The steadiness of your hand. The slight concentration in your face. The way your eyes widened a touch as the lashes separated and darkened.

“Waterproof,” you reminded him, glancing at him through the mirror.

Joel nodded. “That part I understand.”

“Do you.”

“Sure. Means it won’t run if it gets wet.”

“Exactly.”

He folded one arm across his chest. “Good for rain.”

You smiled. “Yes.”

“Cryin’.”

“Yes.”

“Humid weather.”

“Yes.”

Joel considered that, then squinted at the tube as if he could extract more information from sheer suspicion. “And that’s it?”

You took your time with the other eye, far too aware now of the way he was watching. “Not exactly.”

His voice changed a little. “No?”

You kept your gaze on the mirror because looking at him directly would’ve been too much too soon. “No.”

Joel waited.

He had that patience when he wanted to. He could make silence feel like a gentle and guiding hand at the small of your back. You felt him watching as clearly as if he’d touched you, and it made your skin go warm in places you were trying very hard not to think about yet.

You cleared your throat softly. “It also says it holds up against sweat.”

Joel made a small thoughtful sound. “Alright.”

“And…” You adjusted the wand, pretending great interest in the angle of your lashes. “Other… things.”

Joel didn’t move right away, didn’t speak either. The quiet between you lengthened until it had weight, and when he finally did say something, his voice came out rougher than before.

“What kind of things.”

You looked at him in the mirror then.

There was the answer.

You turned back to the mirror and gave your lashes one more slow coat. “Fluids.”

Joel let out a breath through his nose that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so much like restraint. “Darlin'.”

“What?” you asked, all false innocence.

He looked at the back of your shoulder, then up to your eyes in the mirror again. “You know exactly what.”

You capped the mascara with careful fingers, buying yourself a second. “I’m explaining the product.”

“That's what this is.”

“Yes.”

He nodded once, but his eyes stayed on you. “Seems awfully selective.”

You smiled faintly. “It’s an important feature.”

“Is it now.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Joel leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, gaze intent enough to make the room feel smaller. “So let me get this straight. Some genius came up with a mascara named ‘Better Than Sex,’ and then another genius decided to advertise that it survives…” His eyes moved over your face, dipped to your mouth, then back up. “Fluids.”

You swallowed, trying not to show it. “That seems to be the implication.”

He sat with that for a second. Then, very dryly, “That may be the most committed sales pitch I’ve heard all year.”

You laughed, but it came out weaker than before.

Joel watched you set the tube down on the vanity, watched the way your fingers lingered on it for a fraction too long. “And you bought this because…”

“Because it had good reviews.”

“Mm.”

“And because it’s supposed to make lashes look dramatic.”

His gaze flicked up to the mirror again. “Mission accomplished.”

Your breath caught a little at how simply he said it.

You looked at yourself then, partly to avoid looking at him. The mascara had done what it always promised to do: your lashes looked darker, longer, fuller, framing your eyes in a way that made your whole face read differently. Less soft. Less sleepy. Sharper somehow. More deliberate. Your eyes looked bigger, yes, but definitely not innocent.

You turned on the stool, one hand settling in your lap. “Well?”

Joel didn’t answer immediately.

He just looked.

His gaze moved slowly over your face, taking in what had changed. The lashes now casting longer shadows against your skin. But he was not just looking at the makeup. He was looking at you inside it. At the way you wore it. At the confidence that had crept quietly into your posture because you knew you looked good and you wanted him to know you knew.

It made his heat tighten behind his ribs.

“You’re pretty,” he said at last.

You made a face immediately. “Joel.”

“What.”

“That is not a serious review.”

His mouth twitched. “Didn’t say it was.”

“I’m asking about the mascara.”

“Mm.” His eyes stayed on yours. “And I’m answerin’ honestly.”

You tried not to smile and failed. “Be specific.”

Joel let out a quiet breath, like he was indulging you, but there was no impatience in him. Only attention. “Alright.”

He stood then.

Joel crossed the small distance between the bed and the vanity until he stood just behind your chair, close enough that the warmth of him slid over your bare shoulders before he even touched you. In the mirror you watched him lift one hand and rest it lightly on the top edge of the vanity, caging you in without quite meaning to. His other hand came to your jaw, fingers rough and warm as they tilted your face very slightly toward the light.

Now you could barely breathe.

Joel studied your reflection and yours alone, his eyes narrowed in concentration as if he were trying to get this right. “They do look longer.”

His thumb brushed once, barely there, near your chin. “Darker, too.”

You kept still.

His gaze lingered. “Makes your eyes look…” He trailed off.

You looked up at him in the mirror. “Look what?”

Joel’s eyes met yours there. For one suspended second he seemed to debate with himself. Then he gave in, just a little.

“Like trouble,” he said quietly.

Your heart stumbled.

He looked down at you then and whatever he saw on your face must have reached him, because something in his expression softened even as the heat stayed.

You tried for lightness. “That’s not very technical.”

Joel’s mouth curved. “You want technical?”

“Yes.”

He leaned down just enough that his voice brushed near your ear. “Alright, then. They make it hard to look anywhere else.”

You exhaled shakily.

He stayed there a moment, close enough that your whole body had gone aware of him in pieces. The smell of soap from his shower. The quiet scrape of his thumb when it moved once more against your skin.

Then, because you needed the thread picked back up before it snapped entirely, you looked at the mascara on the table and said, with a little too much brightness, “And it’s waterproof.”

Joel laughed softly, the sound low in your ear. “You already sold me on that part, darlin’.”

You swallowed. “Did I?”

“Yeah.”

He straightened just enough to look at you again in the mirror, one hand still resting beside you on the vanity. “Only thing I’m still unclear on—”

You turned your head slightly. “What’s that?”

His eyes dropped to your mouth, then lifted again, maddeningly calm. “Whether all that advertising’s true.”

The words landed between you dangerously.

You stared at him.

Then his hand slipped from your jaw, slow enough to feel deliberate, and he stepped back just one pace, enough to give you air without really undoing what he’d started.

His voice, when it came, was gentler. “Though I should probably mention”—his eyes moved over your face once more—“you didn’t need it.”

Your expression softened despite yourself. “Need what?”

“Any of it.” He nodded toward the products scattered over the vanity. “The primer, the blush, the dramatic flirtin’ mascara with the terrible name.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re beautiful without all that.”

You looked down for a second, smiling helplessly. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“I know.” You glanced back up at him. “But that’s not the point.”

Joel nodded slowly. “No. I know it ain’t.”

There it was again. The understanding, the quiet way he met you where you actually were instead of simplifying you.

His gaze moved to the mascara one last time, then back to your eyes, still darkened and dangerous in the vanity light. “Still,” he murmured, voice gone rough at the edges again, “I gotta admit.”

You waited.

Joel’s eyes held yours.

“It does look real good on you.”

You looked at him through the mirror.

He looked back.

And then his gaze drifted over the products scattered across the vanity and he said, low and thoughtful, “Seems a shame, though.”

Your brows lifted. “What does?”

“All that effort.” His eyes came back to your face, to the lashes you’d darkened on purpose, to the mouth that had been trying not to smile for the last thirty seconds. “All that makeup.”

You turned a little more in the chair. “What about it?”

Joel’s mouth twitched faintly. “Gonna go to waste.”

You stared at him for half a beat, then let out a tiny laugh. “Waste?”

He gave one slow nod, like this was the most reasonable point in the world.

“How exactly is it going to waste?”

Joel shifted his weight, one hand catching the knot of the towel at his hip for the briefest second before falling away again. The motion was absentminded, but your eyes dropped there anyway, and when they lifted back to his face he had already noticed.

That did not help.

His voice dipped lower. “Well, darlin’… unless I’ve badly misunderstood the shape of this evening, I figured we’d be goin’ to bed before too long.”

The words themselves were almost innocent.

Almost.

You felt the silence that followed settle over the room, and for one suspended second you didn’t answer.

Joel noticed that too.

His eyes narrowed just slightly as he watched your face, watched the way your fingers tightened in your lap, watched the little shift in your breathing. He knew that look by now. Knew the exact moment a thought took hold in you and turned from playful to dangerous. It was always there first, in your eyes. That glint. That pause. That split second where he could practically see the idea forming before you ever said a word.

And judging by the way his chest rose on a slow inhale, he knew this one was going to be trouble. The kind of trouble he never once tried very hard to avoid.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he murmured.

You stood from the vanity slowly, turning fully to face him now. The height difference between you always felt more pronounced when he was like this, with his eyes fixed on you with that patient, dangerous attention that never rushed and never missed a thing.

You stepped closer.

Joel’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then lifted again.

“How do you mean, waste?” you asked softly.

His expression shifted, something amused and warmer than amused flickering through it. “Darlin'.”

“No, tell me.” You tilted your head just slightly. “Because from where I’m standing, nothing’s being wasted.”

Joel let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost a laugh, except there was too much heat in it now to really be one. “That so?”

“That so.”

You could see him trying to read you, trying to decide whether this was still teasing or whether the ground had shifted under his feet without him noticing.

Then his eyes moved over your face again, slower this time, taking in the lashes, the mouth, the expression you were making no attempt to soften.

When he spoke, his voice had gone gravel deep. “Baby.”

That one word should not have felt like a hand sliding over bare skin. And yet you took the last half step in, close enough now to feel the heat coming off him, close enough that if you lifted your hand it would land on the center of his chest. The towel sat careless and unfair around his waist, his hair still damp, his whole body loose with the kind of comfort that only existed in private, in the quiet safety of home, in the hour when the rest of the world stopped mattering and there was only this room and this man and the way he was looking at you now.

You smiled teasingly.

“It’s not going to waste,” you said.

Joel held very still.

“No?”

You shook your head once, eyes never leaving his. “No.”

He swallowed.

That was it. Just a tiny movement in his throat, but you caught it, and the satisfaction of being able to do that to him with so little nearly made you bolder than you already were.

Joel’s hands remained at his sides, though you could tell by the tension in them that it cost him something now. “Alright,” he said carefully. “Then I’m listenin’.”

You let your gaze flick down his chest and back up, deliberately mirroring the way he’d looked at you before. “I’ve been thinking about this mascara all day.”

That got his attention in full.

“All day,” he repeated.

You nodded.

Joel’s mouth curved, but it was thin now, held back by effort. “Should I be worried?”

“Probably.”

He laughed once under his breath, but the sound came out uneven. “You say that awful casually.”

You took another inch of space, enough that the edge of your nightgown nearly brushed the towel at his hip. Joel didn’t move away. If anything, he seemed to brace without meaning to, like his whole body had recognized the shift before his mind could catch up.

And still you made him wait.

“I’ve been waiting,” you said, voice softening, “to see if it’s actually as good as it claims.”

Joel stared at you.

His eyes searched yours, and when he spoke, his voice was so low it barely seemed to cross the space between you. “Baby…”

You smiled wider.

“So no,” you said gently. “Nothing’s going to waste.”

He exhaled slowly, chest rising under the warm lamplight, and there it was again, that look. That exact look. The one you knew got under his skin every single time. Part disbelief, part desire, part the dawning realization that he was no longer in control of the direction this night was taking and that, worse, he did not want to be.

Your fingers lifted at last, just enough to rest lightly against his chest.

Joel’s eyes dropped to the touch.

Then back to your face.

And you gave him the line like a gift.

“I’ve been waiting all day,” you said softly, “to test with my husband whether this mascara really holds up to everything it promises.”

Joel went completely still.

His jaw tightened just slightly. His hand flexed once at his side. His eyes dragged over your face as though he were seeing you and the trouble in you with punishing new clarity.

Then he laughed, just once.

And when he looked at you again, whatever amusement had been there before had burned down into something darker.

“Jesus,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Joel’s hand came up then, rough fingers finding your waist with slow intention, like he was giving himself one last chance to be careful and already knew it was too late. 

“Baby,” he said, and this time it sounded like a warning aimed at both of you.

His hand tightened slightly at your waist, thumb pressing in just enough to ground himself, or maybe to make sure you were real and not something his tired brain had invented after a long week and a hot shower and too much time thinking about you.

You tilted your head, lashes dark and deliberate, exactly like you’d intended. “What?”

Joel let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, except there was no real humor left in it now. Just pure heat turned into desperate need. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”

You smiled. “That’s not very reassuring, you know.”

“Ain’t meant to be.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth, lingered there just a second too long, then dragged back up like it cost him something. 

He shifted his weight slightly, like he was bracing for something he’d already decided not to stop.

“Say that again,” he murmured.

Your breath caught. “What part?”

“All of it.”

You held his gaze, fully aware now of how close you were, how little space there was left to hide behind anything safe. “I said,” you began softly, fingers still resting against his chest, “that I don’t think anything’s going to waste.”

Joel’s jaw tightened.

“And,” you continued, quieter now, stepping just a fraction closer, “that I’ve been waiting all day…”

His hand slid from your waist to your hip, like he was mapping out the line of you again just to be sure.

“…to test it with my husband,” you finished.

The silence that followed was thick.

His control was still there, you could see it in the tension of his shoulders, in the way his grip hadn’t tightened too much, in the way he was still choosing every movement instead of letting instinct take over completely.

But it was slipping.

And you could feel that too.

Your hand moved slightly against his chest again—just enough to tempting him—and that was all it took.

Joel closed his eyes for half a second, like he was giving himself one last moment of control.

Then he opened them again.

And whatever had been holding him back was gone.

“Alright,” he said, voice low and dangerous in that quiet way that meant he was done pretending this wasn’t happening. “You wanna test it?”

Your pulse jumped.

He leaned in just enough that his breath brushed warm against your cheek, close enough to make your thoughts scatter without even touching you yet.

“Let’s see how well it holds up,” he murmured.

That was the moment everything tipped.

His thumb dragged slowly along the curve of your hip. “All day, huh? Thinkin’ about me ruinin’ it?”

“Every hour.”

A low, dangerous sound rumbled out of his chest. He spun you around so fast your breath caught, pressing your front against the vanity edge until the cool wood bit into your hips. The mirror reflected everything: your flushed face, the new mascara, Joel towering behind you like a man who’d just been handed permission to lose control.

“Look at yourself,” he ordered, voice right against your ear. One big hand slid up your sternum, fingers spreading wide over your throat, not squeezing, not yet, just resting there like a heavy reminder. “You’re gonna watch every second while I fuck that pretty makeup right off you.”

Your eyes met his in the glass. His were dark, pupils blown, jaw tight with restraint he was already losing.

“Yes, Joel.”

He hummed approval, free hand shoving the towel away. It dropped to the floor with a soft thud. His cock was already hard, thick, flushed dark at the tip and curving up against your clothed ass. He dragged it slowly between your cheeks, teasing, letting you feel exactly how much he meant every word.

“Gonna start slow,” he murmured, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Deep. So you feel every inch stretchin’ that tight little pussy while you keep those eyes on the mirror. Then I’m gonna fuck you stupid. And every single time you’re about to come…” His fingers flexed around your throat. “I stop. You’re not comin’ till that mascara’s runnin’ down your cheeks like you’ve been cryin’ for me. Understand?”

You whimpered, nodding frantically. “Yes—please—”

He kicked your feet apart wider, one hand still collared around your throat, the other sliding down to pull your panties aside. No patience left for taking them off. The blunt head of his cock nudged at your entrance, already slick from how long you’d been teasing each other.

“Eyes on the mirror, darlin’,” he growled. “Don’t you fuckin’ look away.”

Then he pushed in. One long, slow, relentless inch at a time until he was buried to the hilt and your mouth fell open on a broken moan. The stretch burned so good your lashes fluttered, but you kept your eyes open, locked on the reflection like he’d commanded.

“Fuck,” Joel breathed, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second. “So goddamn tight. Always so perfect for me.” He rolled his hips once, grinding deep, letting you feel him throb inside you. “Look how pretty you look takin’ me. Those lashes still all nice and dark… for now.”

He started moving then. Slow, deep drags that pulled almost all the way out before sliding back into your dripping cunt. Every thrust dragged against that spot inside you that made your toes curl. His hand stayed firm around your throat, thumb stroking the side like he was petting you while he ruined you.

“That’s it, baby. Watch yourself get fucked.” His voice was pure filth now. “See how your tits bounce every time I bottom out? See how your mouth opens like you can’t even breathe right? That’s my cock doin’ that to you.”

You moaned, the sound loud in the quiet bedroom. Your hands gripped the edge of the vanity so hard your knuckles went white. The mirror showed everything: the way your eyes were already glassy, the faint sheen of sweat starting on your collarbones, Joel’s broad body behind you, muscles flexing with every controlled thrust.

“Gonna take my time,” he rasped. “Gonna fuck you so deep you forget your own name before I even let you come.” He snapped his hips a little harder on the next thrust, making your breath hitch. “But not yet. Not till I say.”

He kept the pace torturously slow for what felt like forever. Long, rolling strokes that had you whimpering and pushing back against him, chasing more. Every time your moans pitched higher, every time your walls started fluttering around him, Joel would still completely, buried deep, and just hold you there.

“Not yet, baby, not a chance,” he murmured against your neck, biting down lightly. “Feel that? Feel how full you are? That’s where you belong, baby. Stuffed full of my cock while you watch yourself fall apart.”

“Joel—please—”

“Please what?” He flexed inside you, grinding slow circles. “Use your words. Tell me what you want while you’re lookin’ me in the eyes.”

“I need to come,” you gasped, voice shaking. “Please let me come—”

His hand tightened just enough around your throat to make your pulse jump. “No, sweetheart,” He pulled out almost completely, then sank back in so deep your knees buckled. “Not till those lashes are ruined. I want black streaks down your pretty cheeks. I want you lookin’ like you’ve been cryin’ and chockin’ on my dick.”

He started fucking you harder then, still controlled, but deeper, faster, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. Your mascara was already starting to smudge at the corners from the tears of frustration gathering in your eyes.

“Look at that,” he groaned, eyes locked on the mirror. “Already runnin’. My pretty little wife’s mascara can’t even handle a little foreplay. What’s it gonna do when I really start wreckin’ you, huh?”

He picked up the pace, hips snapping forward harder, the hand on your throat keeping you upright and forced to watch. Every thrust jolted you forward against the vanity. Your lashes were definitely smearing now, faint black tracks forming under your eyes.

“Fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he growled. “Pussy’s greedy tonight. You love to watch while I ruin you, don’t you?”

“Yes—yes, Joel—”

He reached around with his free hand and found your clit, giving it a light, stinging little tap with two fingers. You cried out, hips jerking.

“Uh-uh,” he scolded, tapping again, harder this time. “No comin’. Not yet.” Another sharp little slap right over your swollen clit. “This pretty pussy’s gonna wait till I’ve got black tears runnin’ down your face.”

Joel kept fucking you hard and deep, hips snapping forward with that relentless rhythm that had the vanity creaking under your hands. He leaned in close again to whisper in your ear.

“Who’s the most beautiful woman in the world, baby?”

You laughed. A broken, desperate sound that turned into a moan halfway through because he chose that exact second to grind against your spongy spot. Joel’s hand cracked down on your ass in a sharp, stinging spank that made you jolt forward. He didn’t miss a beat, cock still buried to the hilt.

“I asked you a question,” he growled. Another hard thrust. Another spank, this one right on the same ass cheek, making your skin bloom hot. “Who’s the most beautiful woman in the world?”

Your voice came out wrecked and breathless.

“Me—fuck, Joel— it’s me.”

He was grinning in the mirror. He rewarded you with a deep, punishing stroke that made your eyes roll back.

“That’s right,” he rasped, spanking you again. “My beautiful girl. Say it again while I fuck you.”

“It’s me,” you sobbed, voice cracking as an orgasm threatened to rip through you. “I’m the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Joel groaned low in his chest, hips snapping harder.

“Damn right you are,” he muttered almost tenderly while he kept pounding into you. “And don’t you ever fuckin’ forget it.”

He fucked you like that for what felt like hours with hard, deep thrusts interspersed with those cruel little clit slaps every time you got too close. Your mascara was a mess now, dark smudges under your eyes, streaks starting to run down your cheeks every time a tear slipped free.

“Goddamn,” Joel muttered, voice wrecked. “Look at you. So fuckin’ pretty when you cry for me.” He slammed in harder, grinding against your spongy spot again. “Almost there, baby. Almost got you lookin’ exactly how I want.”

Your legs were shaking. You were babbling —please, Joel, please, I can’t, I need— but he just kept going, relentless, edging you right to the brink and then stopping or slapping your clit until the orgasm retreated.

One final hard thrust and he stilled again, buried to the hilt, hand flexing around your throat.

“Look at yourself,” he ordered, voice rough. “Look how ruined you are.”

In the mirror your reflection was wrecked: You were shaking, tears spilling faster, mascara dripping off your chin onto the vanity. Joel looked feral behind you with his hair damp with sweat.

“That’s it,” he growled. “That’s the face I wanted. Now you can come, baby. Come all over my cock while I watch those tears run.”

He didn’t give you time to answer. He fucked you with brutal, perfect strokes that hit exactly where you needed every single time. His hand left your throat only to slide down and rub tight, fast circles over your clit, no more teasing, no more denial.

“Come on, baby. Let go. Soak my dick while I ruin the rest of that mascara.”

The orgasm crashed into you like a freight train. You screamed his name, walls clamping down around him, body shaking so hard he had to hold you up. Black tears spilled freely down your cheeks now, mascara running in messy streaks all the way to your jaw.

“Fuck—yes—that’s my girl,” Joel groaned, voice breaking. “Look at you. So fuckin’ beautiful when you fall apart for me.”

He fucked you through it, hips stuttering, chasing his own release. “Gonna fill you up, baby.”

One more thrust and he buried himself to the hilt, coming with a low, guttural moan, cock pulsing hot inside you. He kept grinding through it, milking every last drop while you trembled and cried in his arms.

For a long moment the only sound was both of you panting, the mirror fogged slightly at the edges from heat and breath.

Joel stayed inside you, arms wrapped around your middle now, gentler. He pressed a slow, open mouthed kiss to the side of your neck, then another to your tear streaked cheek.

“Jesus Christ, baby,” he murmured, voice soft and wrecked. “You look like a goddamn dream.”

He reached over to the vanity without pulling out, grabbed the pack of makeup remover wipes you always kept there, and tugged one free with his teeth. Then, still buried deep inside you, he turned you in his arms, lifted you clean off the floor, and carried you the few steps to the bed.

He sat down on the edge, keeping you straddling his lap, cock still snug and warm inside you. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically. He cradled the back of your head with one hand and brought the wipe to your face with the other.

“Hold still, darlin’,” he said gently, voice full of that quiet affection that always undid you. “Let me clean my pretty girl up.”

He wiped your cheeks with slow, careful movements, thumb brushing tenderly under your eyes as the black streaks disappeared. Every few seconds he’d lean in and kiss you with soft, lingering kisses on your lips, your forehead, the tip of your nose.

“That mascara didn’t stand a chance, did it?” he teased between kisses, a crooked smile on his face. “Promised it was better than sex… and here you are with black rivers down your face after one round with your husband.”

You laughed, watery and breathless, and he kissed the sound right off your lips.

“Shh, I got you,” he whispered, wiping the last smudge away. “All clean now. My beautiful girl.”

He tossed the wipe aside and wrapped both arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. His cock twitched inside you, still half hard, like he wasn’t quite ready to leave yet.

“Love you,” he murmured against your hair, voice low and reverent. “Love you so fuckin’ much it hurts sometimes.”

You buried your face in his neck and smiled against his skin.

“Love you more.”

Joel huffed a soft laugh, hand stroking slow circles up and down your back.

“Nah, baby. Not possible.”

He stayed like that for a long time, still inside you, holding you close, kissing your temple every few seconds while the bedroom lamp cast a warm glow over both of you. The vanity mirror behind you reflected the two of you tangled together.

“Next time you buy somethin’ similar to ‘Better Than Sex,’” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, “I’m makin’ you wear it so I can prove it wrong all over again.”

You laughed into his neck, and he tightened his arms around you, heart beating steady against yours.

“Deal?” he asked, smiling.

“Deal,” you whispered.

“Stop,” you mutter under your breath, carrying just enough weight for him to hear.

It doesn’t matter, though—Javier never listens when it comes to this. His hand is already settled high on your thigh, large and warm, his fingers teasingly close to the damp heat of your panties.

The pad of his thumb drags lazily over your stockings, grazing the delicate lace edge, making your pulse race.

He doesn’t bother responding—of course he doesn’t. That maddening smirk spreads across his face instead, the dimple in his cheek deepening as he nods at something the man across the table is saying.

His expression is cool, composed, even charming. The contrast to what he’s doing beneath the table has your head spinning.

You shift subtly, attempting to press your knees together, but he’s quicker, his fingers digging in just enough to warn you.

A sharp press of blunt nails against the softness of your thigh nearly makes you gasp. “Don’t,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough for his breath to brush against your ear before he picks up his drink and takes a leisurely sip. “Keep them open.”

“Now’s not the time, Javi,” you hiss, your voice strained as you try to keep your composure.

Around you, laughter and idle chatter fill the air, everyone engrossed in their own conversations. No one suspects a thing, yet the way his fingers start to press firmly along your inner thigh makes it harder to focus.

Ignoring your weak protests, he slides two fingers over the damp seam of your panties, applying just enough pressure to make you suck in a sharp breath.

His touch is deliberate, slow strokes that rub against your aching pussy in a way that has your thighs trembling.

Arousal pools feverishly in your sex, and you have to bite down on your lip to suppress a whimper.

It’s fucking maddening—too much and not enough all at once. Your horniness is undeniable now, the fabric of your panties clinging to your slick folds. 

The bastard knows exactly what he’s doing, teasing you with each measured motion, dragging his fingers just slightly faster, testing your restraint.

You cough, desperate to cover up the soft sound that escapes you when his thumb presses firmly against your clit, circling with infuriating precision. The woman beside you turns, her brow arching in mild concern. “Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah,” you stammer, your voice hitching as his fingers rub a little harder, threatening to pull you under. “Just... just a scratch.”

Her attention lingers for a moment too long, and Javier seizes the opportunity, dragging his fingers down the soaked fabric, pressing them right against your entrance. The sudden pressure makes your thighs jerk apart involuntarily, and your breath catches.

“Oh,” you choke out, forcing a laugh as you wave a hand dismissively. “Scratch in my throat. I’m fine.”

The fakest smile you’ve ever worn stretches across your lips, and it must be convincing enough because she nods and turns away.

The second she’s distracted, Javier’s hand shifts again, this time slipping under the lace edge of your panties. His bare fingers glide over your wet and sticky cunt, and you bite down hard on your lip to stifle the moan that threatens to escape.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, so low only you can hear, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction.

The slow, teasing circles he draws against your clit send waves of pleasure rippling through you, leaving you squirming helplessly yet as subtly as you can in your seat, praying no one notices just how thoroughly he’s unraveling you.