Vic

July 12th, 2013

Gravel crunched underneath your boots as you walked backwards, one hand held up over your brow to shield your eyes from the sweltering sun. Your other arm started to ache from holding your thumb up for so long, and even the strap of your duffel bag felt damp with sweat on your shoulder.

Even with all the little inconveniences that would normally sour your mood, you felt better than ever. You were free.

No more Sunday school. No more church basement lunches. No more morning, meal, and bedtime prayers. It made you nauseous to think of all the minutes of your life wasted on your knees, hands clenched in prayer, in front of the congregation during the altar call, singing words with such steadfastness that made bile rise in your throat—praying until you were out of breath and crying when nothing came to show of it. It was one too many times getting locked in your room and told to kneel, one too many crosses held up in your face, one too many prayers following you around the hall when you came in late.

Your mother didn’t know she was sending you to bed for the last time when she closed your creaky bedroom door that fateful night after checking on your routine invocation. You sat before your usual spot by your bed, wooden floor scuffed from years of devotion. You ran your fingertips over the small indents left behind from years of repetition. Who would you become without slotting your knees in the familiar shallow notches every night? They had brought you nicks and bruises throughout your lifetime, but it was the place you always came back to at the end of the day. You traced the groove until your finger caught on a chip, then pulled back with a hiss. A sliver. Great. You brought it to your lips, searching to soothe the pain. It wouldn’t be dealt with tonight; you’d have to leave your room to find tweezers and risk running into family members. No, you needed to leave before you lost the nerve. Grabbing your biggest bag, you packed everything you could in the span of ten minutes and slipped out your window, bidding a silent good riddance to the people you left behind.

The Bible in your back pocket felt heavy with every staggered step – you weren’t even sure why you brought it in the first place. Mrs. Marsh… What would she think of you now? Thick, warm air blew against you with every passing car on the highway. Barely anyone stopped anymore, only old guys solo-travelling who knows where, who seemed way too interested in the cut of your shorts instead of focusing on the road. No doubt with wives back home, too. You supposed you couldn’t complain if it helped you skip town. You were about to call it for the next few hours and grant your cramping arm a break when a gray Chevy Silverado pulled onto the shoulder some yards ahead. Catching the silhouette of a man through the back windshield, you braced yourself for some more awkward talk and glances as you approached the now lowered passenger-side window.

Handsome was the first word to come to mind upon laying eyes on him. He sat relaxed, one hand still on the bottom of the wheel, and his head slightly bowed to see you through the frame on the other side of the cab. You leaned in, arms burning a bit against the door’s hot aluminum. The muscles in your forehead relaxed as you gave yourself a break from squinting in the sun.

“Where’re you headed?” was the first thing he said to you.

“Anywhere as long as it’s not back east.”

He only gave a curt nod before unlocking the doors and reaching over to crack the passenger side open.

Serial killers could be handsome… Still, you hopped in with a mumbled thanks, reaching over to drop your duffel in the back before settling in. The man avoided looking too far in your direction, keeping his eyes on the road ahead as you lifted your hips to remove the small Bible from your shorts’ pocket. You slipped it between your thigh and the soft seat, mindful not to curl the paper too much.

Your driver cleared his throat, as if not accustomed to speaking to strangers. “Good?”

With a final breath of courage, you nodded. “Mhm.” No matter how many times you had done this in the past few days, there was always a surge of anxiety upon getting in a new car for the first time.

So started the usual routine. Your eyes flickered around the cab, looking for any immediate red flags. It was something you knew you probably should have done before getting in, but you had yet to get over the nerves of what to say when people stopped over in the first place. Better late than never. There was a pack of Marlboros in the cubby under the stereo, a crumbled napkin in the cup holder, what you assumed to be his own suitcase in the back… Nothing incriminating yet.

The man must’ve noticed the unease in your posture because he spoke again, a little gentler, “Joel.”

Your head turned to him, heart rate picking up at the thought of having gotten caught analyzing his things. “Sorry?”

“My name’s Joel. Miller.”

“Oh. Right.” You risked a smile and offered your own back. Joel didn’t strike you as the chatty type, so you turned your attention to the window, every passing tree bringing you farther away from everything you thought you knew about life. Your hometown. Your family. Your church.

“You can roll your window up if the wind’s too much, y’know. Do… whatever you need.”

You breathed in the wild wind and let your arm hang outside. You had never felt so free where you came from. Here, there was no one to scold you for getting your hair matted or being improper. “I’m okay for now,” you replied, and Joel let it be.

You both sat in quiet company for a while, relishing the hot summer air and dull hum of the radio– some old country you might’ve heard at gatherings back home. Your father wasn’t one for music in the house, only gospels. The memory unnerved you the more you lingered on it.

“Do you pick up people often?” You broke the silence, searching for a distraction.

Joel seemed caught slightly off guard by the sudden small talk. His eyes flickered from the road to you and back. “I don’t make a habit of it, no.”

“Then can I ask why you stopped this time?”

He shrugged. “I got two daughters… If they were ever doing what you’re doin’, I’d hope they get picked up by someone decent. This highway ain’t exactly the most reputable either. Wouldn’t have felt right, leaving you there.”

Daughters. That alleviated the tension in your chest. “Well, thank you. I didn’t know.”

“Anyway, aren’t you scared doin’ this kind of thing? Getting in strangers’ cars? For all you know, I could have about six different felonies.”

You looked down at your shoes in the footwell, the corner of your lips curling up. “S’alright, I’ve got nine of my own.”

You heard something like a huff over the music from Joel’s side of the car and took that as a win. “Alright then.” You were about to open your mouth to double down on your small victory when Joel spoke up again. “My daughters— S’actually why I’m out. My youngest, Ellie, she goes to school in Santa Barbara. My brother and his wife up in Wyoming, just had their first baby, and I’m going to pick her up to go visit. It’s outta the way, but… I like the time with her.”

“Oh, that’s really exciting.” You leaned in a bit at that, surprised he’d share such details about his life so freely. He didn’t seem the type. “Man, Santa Barbara? She’s lucky,” you mused. “Always wanted to see the ocean… Actually, I think that’s where I’ll go… Yeah, I wanna see the ocean.”

Joel took a small break in traffic to glance at you as if you’d grown a second head. You didn’t blame him. What kind of girl hitchhikes along sketchy freeways without a predetermined end goal? Probably not one with a clean story. Still, his tone wasn’t at all unkind when he next uttered, “Bet that’ll be real nice.”

Your focus shifted once again to the scenery outside, slowly rolling up your window. You allowed your body to sink into the smoke-bound seat and forgot about the Bible pressed up against your thigh and the splinter in your middle finger. Joel turned up the choppy radio, and for once, it didn’t remind you of prayers in the grass or old folk gossiping about the length of the Campbell girl’s skirt. You only heard the crunch of tires on asphalt and the occasional soft hum along to the music that your companion definitely didn’t mean to let out.

“I’m off, babe!” your roommate Mel says when you meet her at the dorm on the way to your room. She’s carrying a big sports bag, ready to drive to her parents’ house for the weekend.

“Oh! Your dad’s here. He’s in our room,” she nods in the direction of your suit and adds with a playful smile, “he’s hot!”

You furrow your brows, blinking at her with confusion.

“Dad? But.. He lives in Europe.”

“Ehm…Maybe it’s your stepdad then? He said he was your daddy.”

‘Daddy’. Your jaw drops and your heart plummets into your stomach.

“You ok?” Mel places her hand on your shoulder, with a worried expression. “You look… shook.”

“No, I’m fine… just surprised.”

You wave her goodbye with a strained smile and your weak legs carry you to your dorm room.

Your mind is racing and every step seems to last an eternity. You can’t believe he’s here. A mixture of guilt, fear and excitement fills your chest. What are you going to tell him?

You haven’t talked to Tommy in more than a month, scared to face him, to admit that you had ruined his life because of your desire. You hoped that he realized that Joel was the real villain of the story but you couldn’t deny that all that mess had started with you. After that horrible day, your mom flooded your phone with hateful messages, calling you a slut, a whore and a homewrecker. You didn’t pick up her calls which were rare. Apparently she didn’t want to hear your voice, just like you didn’t want to hear hers. Indifference filled your heart. You had already hated her for years, your relationship ruined long before you slept with her husband.

And Tommy…You couldn’t bear to hear him breaking up whatever thing you two had so you just blocked him. His hate would be too much for you. You had never felt anything like that before and you wanted to save those moments together untainted by his resentment.

You did the same with Joel’s number. But you pressed ‘block caller’ only after you phoned him and cursed the fucker out. How did he dare to drop a nuclear bomb on your life like that? Deep in your heart you knew that he had overplayed you in your own game and your pride was hurt. What made matters worse was your sickening yet undeniable desire for the bastard.

When you come up to your room, you see that the door is slightly ajar. He really is here. After taking a deep breath, you step into the room and find Tommy, sitting on your bed, elbows planted on his knees, your exercise book in his hands. He’s wearing a black shirt with a white tank top underneath and a pair of dark jeans. Your pussy tingles just from a sight of him, his big body, soft curls, but you drive away these thoughts, trying to concentrate on the goal that you set on the way here - to get him back.

Your stepdad raises his eyes to you. Is it a trace of smile on his lips? What if he doesn’t hate you after all? A slither of hope gives you much needed courage and you take a few steps towards him.

“Hey. What are you doing here?”

Your voice is small and shaky and you hate it but it’s stupid to deny your overwhelming feelings for him.

Tommy gives you a little smile and throws your book back on your desk, next to your bed.

“I wanted to see you. We need to talk.”

“Yes, daddy,” you agree, biting your lip and batting your eyelashes at your stepdad.

“I didn’t think you’d call me that after blocking me.”

“I’m sorry, but… I was scared. I thought you hated me. But it’s not my fault. I had feelings for you and Joel used it. He ruined your life. I’d never do it.”

Tommy drops his head, rubbing his hands, and hums. You start seeing red as soon as your step uncle's name leaves your lips and your anger spills out.

“That fucker secretly took the photo and sent it to our fucking family chat?! Who the fuck does that? Is he insane?”

Tommy looks up at you and then his gaze slides to the side, somewhere behind you, before he says,

“You can ask him yourself, sweetheart.”

For a second time your heart jumps in your chest, when a pair of strong arms grabs you from behind and you sense a broad chest pressed tightly to your back. Startled, you are about to scream, but a huge hand claps over your mouth.

“Surprise, angel,” Joel gruffs in your ear while his arm squeezes your waist. You thrust and shake but all your attempts to break free are fruitless against his strength.

“Keep wriggling, baby, I love feeling your ass, grinding against my dick.”

He hums and pushes his hips into you. You sense his huge bulge and your pussy tingles when you remember what he can do with this cock. Joel’s scent envelops you just like his body and you gush. Yet your hatred for the man overpowers your desire and you keep thrashing in his steel embrace. Your nostrils flare, and searching for help, your pleading eyes dart to Tommy.

To your surprise your stepdad doesn’t rush to help you— he sits up straighter and spreads his thighs wider, while his darkening eyes are sliding up and down your bound body, powerless in Joel’s arms.

You whine, realizing that he’s enjoying it, the view is turning him on. You’re getting worked up as well, feeling yourself small and helpless, fully at the mercy of the two men.

Joel’s arm, wrapped over your arms and under your chest, pushes your breasts up and they almost spill out of your neckline. You can feel your step uncle’s breath on your cleavage, and he’s groaning, probably enjoying the view of your tits. A new surge of arousal makes you press your thighs together. Are they gonna fuck you in your dorm room like it’s some raunchy porn? You really hope so.

Not being able to hide your desire any longer, you make a loud moan, muffled by the hand covering your mouth, but it still electrifies the air in the room, and both men grunt.

As much as you love Joel’s strong back and huge bulge pressed against you, scorching anger rises from the pits of your stomach again, and you try to push him off yourself. Tommy’s watching your weak attempts for a few seconds before taking pity on you.

“Let her talk, Joel.”

The older brother puts his hand away and you exclaim, wriggling in Joel’s arms, trying to break free.

“Let go of me, perv!”

"You had this perv's cock in your mouth and your ass not so long ago," he reminds you, not easing his grip.

"I'm not fucking proud!"

"You should be, angel. You took it like a champ both times."

He emphasizes his words with a thrust of his hips and you growl, trying to hide your arousal.

“Daddy, what the fuck? Why’s he here? Why didn’t you tell him to fuck off?”

Joel tightens his python-like embrace and gruffs in your ear,

“Blood is thicker than water, angel. But you and your “mummy didn’t let me host a party and now Ima fuck her husband” will never understand that.”

“It’s not…you know nothing about me, you asshole.” Your voice strains as the rage suddenly mixes with deep sadness. Trying not to burst into tears you grit your teeth as you explain,

“She ruined my whole life, drove my dad away. She cheated on him and now he’s not even talking to me, just sends money for college. It’s all because of that slut.”

Tommy drops his head and you know that he's feeling sorry for you right now. Your pride pangs but a ray of hope dries your upcoming tears - he cares, he still cares about you.

Joel on the other hand is not sympathetic in the slightest, commenting with a chuckle, "Damn, angel, you're a textbook example of daddy issues.

Not saying we ain't happy, right, brother?" He looks at Tommy and adds, "it got our dicks wet."

You begin thrashing harder and exclaim, “Fuck you!”

“Yeah, you will.”

“Let go of her, Joel,” Tommy commands, steel in his voice, and to your surprise, Joel follows his brother's order immediately.

You hurry away from your step uncle and stand closer to Tommy.

Your eyes dart between the men, as you’re fixing your bunched up clothes, panting heavily after trying to get free.

Joel grabs your chair, plops down and places his booted foot on the edge of your desk with a thud.

You’re glaring at him, trying to convey all disgust and hatred for the man with your expression, but Tommy sighs and your gaze darts to him.

“Daddy,” you whisper, taking a shy step in his direction.

His eyes freeze your heart. He looks serious, too serious for your liking.

Tommy leans on his knees again and starts talking, eyes moving between you and Joel.

“Joel is an asshole, sweetheart, you’re right. But what’s new? I’ve known him all my life and I understand what he’s capable of. Yes, he ruined my marriage but to be honest…I’m glad.”

Your jaw drops as you’re staring at your stepdad, and he continues,

“Life with Jess was suffocating me. I thought I needed to settle down, to start a family but I was wrong. I was happy in Austin. And she…fuck,” he shakes his head with a sigh, “She’s a lot. You’re the best person to know it.”

His eyes set on you and you see a genuine regret and sadness in them. You want to reach for him, hug him, kiss him but he needs you to listen. So you listen.

“In an absolutely horrible way, yes, but Joel helped me to get out of it. I’m gonna lose a lot of money in the settlement but it’s just money.”

“Shoulda got a prenup like I told you,” Joel mumbles.

The longer Tommy speaks, the more you can’t believe what you’re hearing.

“Wait! So now he’s your savior, huh? He manipulates you, Tommy! He says what you want to hear and then stabs you in the back!”

“Baby, the only thing I did behind your back is come in your ass,” Joel smirks and then points his thick finger at you, “And not you talking about fuckin’ loyalty! We had a deal but you weren’t gonna do shit with that recording! I saw your fuckin’ heart eyes. You’d never do it to your precious daddy so I had to do it my way. And it needed to be done!”

You narrow your eyes and clench your fists, barely holding yourself from hitting the man, as you exclaim,

“You sent the pic of me fucking my stepdad to my family group chat, you fucker! My nana’s there! She almost died after seeing that photo!

All you get from your step uncle is another bark of a laugh.

“Who gives a shit? She’s ancient.”

“You motherfuckin’…” you’re about to launch at the men but Tommy rushes up and steps between you and his older brother.

“Stop!” His hands are on your shoulders, his eyes kind and warm. “Calm down, sweetheart. Please.”

You take a deep breath and inch closer to him and Tommy doesn't push you away. He hugs you, pulling you closer to him, and rubs your back with his big hands. You immediately melt in his warm embrace with your cheek pressed to his chest, your arms wrapped around his waist. You bite your lip and squeeze your eyes shut, fighting back tears as a mix of strong emotions- hate, love, desire, rage, fills your heart and you take a deep breath, wishing to find comfort and peace in your stepdad's arms.

You open your eyes and see Joel watching you two, his gaze piercing, expression pensive. You’d give a lot to know what he’s thinking about at the moment. Probably scheming again.

You turn your face away from him and press your cheek to Tommy’s chest.

Suddenly he pulls away and looks down at you, head tilted.

“You hurt me, baby. I needed you, and you left. Even blocked my number.”

You swallow loudly, shifting on your feet, as fear is rising in your chest again. With your eyes downcast, you mumble, “I’m sorry.”

“Are you really?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Are you willing to show us how sorry you are?” He sits back on the bed, manspreading, his gaze dark, intense.

“To you? Yes. But not to him!”

“Sweetheart.” His warning tone binds your pride and you stop fighting what you really want. What your pussy wants.

“Ok, daddy.”

A corner of Tommy’s mouth curves up a little and he says,

“Good girl. Take your clothes off.”

Joel groans and slightly shifts in his chair, making it squeak. You glance at him but your eyes return to Tommy.

You start discarding your clothes piece by piece, gaze locked with your stepdad and he drinks in every exposed part of your body. Your panties fall on the floor last and you step out of them.

Now you’re standing in your dorm room completely naked in a company of the two fully clothed older men. You’re already dripping, the wetness between your thighs is evident just to you for now but you desperately wish for them to discover it.

“We’ve talked enough about Joel. Let’s talk about you, babygirl.”

You feel your stomach twist, nervous about what he might say.

"Have you fucked anyone since you left?" Tommy asks, his expression serious.

"No."

Your stepdad's eyes are darting between yours, searching for any sign of you lying.

"Has anyone fucked you?"

You hate that he doesn't trust you but it's hard to blame him —he knows better than anyone how thirsty you're.

"No, daddy. I promise. I've... only been making myself come, thinking of you. All this time.”

You bite your lower lip and purr, "been imagining you fucking me. Your kisses. Your hands on me. Your cock in my mouth."

Tommy's chest expands and he squirms on the bed. You clasp your hands in front yourself and drop your head down, telling him the truth,

"I've missed you. Still miss you."

"Aww, how sweet," Joel mocks you with a laugh.

Tommy frowns at him and you shoot a fiery glance at the older brother for ruining the moment.

“What about your favourite uncle, angel? Have you fantasized about me?”

"No," you reply without hesitation through the gritted teeth.

"Don't lie," Tommy commands, his tone cold and demanding.

You avert your gaze from them both and look in front of yourself.

"Yes," you admit as your voice is barely audible,

"yes, I did."

Joel's smug grin is noticeable even from your peripheral vision.

"What was it about? Your fantasies?” Tommy asks.

"You both fucking my pussy."

"Damn, angel," Joel groans, palming himself.

“I know my pussy is off limits to Joel. I’m sorry for thinking about it, daddy.”

“It’s ok, sweetheart. You’re allowed to imagine whatever you want.”

You inch closer to Tommy and his eyes slide down from your face to your breasts and then to your wet pussy.

Your stepdad licks his lower lip and a memory of him making you come on his tongue in the darkness of your bedroom overflows the glass of your desire and you kneel slowly between his legs.

“Sweetheart,” Tommy breathes out in surprise but spreads his legs wider for you.

“She remembers well where she belongs,” Joel comments as you feel his hungry gaze on your naked back and ass.

You place your palms on Tommy’s jean-clad thighs and sit on your heels, batting your lashes, before you lower your head to his crotch. You press your cheek to his huge warm bulge and whisper, “let me suck your cock, daddy. I want to apologize.”

Tommy takes a sharp breath and Joel whistles. You feel cold air on your naked pussy and squeeze your thighs together to relieve the ache in your needy center.

Then you nuzzle the stiff lump under his jeans and rub your nose and cheek over it. It twitches against you and a moan escapes your lips. Tommy bucks his hips against your head but then his hand on your cheek stops you.

“We have something else in mind for you, babygirl. You can’t deny that you deserve a punishment, right?”

You drop your eyes in agreement and Tommy continues.

“Your step uncle promised you something that morning when we ehm… had breakfast together.”

You hear the squeak of your chair and then Joel’s heavy steps. The older brother stands next to you two and you lift your head to look at him.

He’s looming over your body, tall and broad and your pussy throbs harder as your eyes involuntarily slide down from his handsome smug face to his broad chest and then huge bulge.

“Get your ass on the bed so I could eat your slutty pussy.”

You scream internally, keeping a straight face, and ask,

“Are you that bad that it’s considered a punishment?”

Joel shifts his jaw and gruffs,

“Let’s hope I won’t bite your clit off, brat.”

You wince and Tommy curses under his breath. Then he pulls you up from your knees and gets up too. You’re standing between the two men, burning up with desire to be used and Tommy doesn’t help you to calm down, when he starts taking off his shirt, leaving only his white tank top on and exposing his thick muscular arms. When you glance back you notice Joel is doing the same, and you softly moan at the sight of his broad torso in a mesh top.

“Moaning like a whore already,” Joel mocks you, stepping up to you and pressing his body to your back and ass.

You gasp but don’t pull away. His hands on your hips slide up and down, until he brings one palm to your pussy and gives your mound a light slap.

“Joel,” you whimper as it sends a wave of arousal through your body.

“You’ve been a bad girl, sweetheart,” Tommy chides you, stepping in front of you.

“Worse than usual?” You purr, biting your lip.

With Joel’s at your back, Tommy presses his hips to yours, sandwiching you between the two brothers and your pussy cries for them so much that you feel your slick run down your inner thigh.

With Joel’s arms wrapped around your torso, Tommy locks eyes with you and you reach for his lips but he immediately pulls away, takes your hand and leads you to the bed.

He sits down, leaning his back on the headboard and pats the place between his legs.

“Get in here, babygirl.”

You want to sit on your knees but suddenly Joel roughly turns you around and pushes you to plop between Tommys legs.

Your stepdad pulls you to lean against his warm chest before Joel kneels on the floor.

“Oh wow, big bad Joel Miller on his knees for me? Not the first time though,” you gloat and Joel grinds his teeth and roughly pulls your hips to the edge of the bed. You gasp as your head slides down Tommy’s chest and your naked breasts jiggle. Joel’s thick fingers dig into your skin as he throws your legs over his shoulders, and your pussy blooms for him. His dark eyes get obsidian with lust, as he glides his palms up and down your thighs.

“Fuck, ya seeing it, Tommy? She wasn’t lying about not fucking. This pussy is desperate for cock. ‘m afraid I’m gonna choke on all this slick,” he comments, not tearing his eyes from your needy cunt.

“I’ll be ok with this outcome,” you grunt as your clit twitches with anticipation.

Joel looks up at you with a sneer and then leans down to your mound. You hold your breath, expecting him to finally start eating you out but his lips land on your inner thigh instead of your waiting cunt. He kisses your skin there and you squirm in Tommy’s arms as Joel’s facial hair tickles you. He gets lower, peppering kisses along your inner thigh, moving closer to your center and you buck your hips to meet him halfway and to finally shove your pussy in his face, but Joel places his big palm on your lower belly and pushes your back on the bed. You hear Tommy’s voice over your head,

“Don’t move, honey. Promise to be a good girl for us, ok?”

“Yes, daddy,” you breathe out and tilt your head up and to the side to look up at him. He’s giving you a warm smile, its effect spreads warmth deep in your belly, but soon it turns into a scorching fire, when Joel’s lips finally latch onto your aching pussy. You gasp and turn to him and the sight almost makes you come. Joel fucking Miller, your asshole step uncle, a mean, selfish, arrogant prick, is on his knees for you, feasting on your wet cunt, lips smacking, tongue gathering all the wetness between your folds.

Already feeling like you’re in heaven, you moan loudly, not caring who might hear and catch you getting a head from your step uncle, while your stepdad’s hands are kneading your breasts and twitching your hard nipples.

“You love it, sweetheart?” Tommy whispers in your ear, as you’re fluttering your eyes shut with pleasure, when Joel’s skillful tongue flicks your throbbing clit and then he sucks it into his mouth.

“Yes—yes—yes,” you chant, almost tasting the climax on your tongue. But a second away from the explosion, Joel parts from your puffy cunt and presses his wet lips to your inner thigh again, kissing and nibbling on it lightly.

“No, Joel, my pussy,” you desperately whine.

“What is it, angel?”

“Make me come, please.”

“Good start but you can do better,” he mumbles while he’s watching his fingers trace your sopping hole. It’s hot but not enough to push you over the precipice.

You grit your teeth but your pride is quickly drowning in the sticky pit of desire.

“Joel, please, please make me come on your tongue. Please, I need it,” you beg and his smile is triumphant and content.

“I’ll do anything for my little niece.”

His mouth returns to your pussy and he grabs your thighs tighter as his tongue swirls your clit around and then slides down to your leaking hole.

“Fuck,” you hear Tommy curse and you feel his stiff cock under your back, he must be so turned on by this.

The older brother starts fucking you with his hot muscle and your hand slithers down to rub your puffy clit but Tommy grabs your wrists and pulls your hands up to your chest, crosses them and keeps them there with his one strong hand.

“Daddy, I wanna come,” you beg the moment Joel’s mouth leaves your pussy again and again whenever you feel so close to ecstasy.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but bad girls don’t get to come so fast,” Tommy smirks and his fingers tighten around your wrists.

You feel tears well up in your eyes, your breaths heavy, belly and chest heaving and your whole body is vibrating in frustration.

“Joel,” you sob and your step uncle lifts his head, his lips, mustache and beard glistening with your juices.

“I’ll give the candy to you, slut. But only if you tell me why you love your uncle Joel so much.”

“What?”

“You heard me, baby.” Joel’s lips are so close but, at the same time so far from where you need him. You curse and whine, grinding your teeth while anger is taking over you again.

Joel hurries you by planting a feather light kiss on your clit and your whole body jerks from a bolt of pleasure but it quickly dissipates, leaving you desperately needing more.

So you cave in.

"You're hot, Joel."

"Yeah, I know. What else?" your step uncle mumbles, drawing a path from your pussy to your knee with his lips.

Tommy chuckles and you squirm in his embrace, annoyed and frustrated.

"You... you're a good fuck."

"Mmm... don't ya think 'great'?"

"Yes. You're a great fuck, Joel."

"You sound like a horny slut, angel," he grumbles, "Hot and a great fuck. Way to objectify your poor uncle. I need more."

His lips travel back down to your cunt and you raise your hips in search of his caress, but Joel pushes you down and Tommy's free arm wraps around your waist tightly.

“Keep still, sweetheart,” he orders and emotions take over your mind and burst out of your mouth.

“Wanna know what I feel? I fucking hate you, Joel. I see myself in you and I fucking hate that. Because it’s like I’m staring at my own future. Just like you I want someone so much that I grab onto them until I realize that they don’t need me. Not as much as I need them. So I lie and manipulate and make them love me. But sooner or later they will see the real me. See my tiny black heart and they will get disappointed and dump me. And I’ll lie and manipulate more to get them back. And it’s a fucking cycle. I’ll never be loved for who I am. Because who I am doesn’t deserve any love.”

Joel freezes with his face between your legs, his expression pensive and serious. If you didn’t know him you’d say you see a trace of sympathy and sadness in his eyes.

“That’s why I hate you, Joel. And you know what’s funny? It’s that I can’t get you out of my fucking mind.”

You want to puke at how vulnerable you’re feeling, baring your soul and body to him. You turn your pained face to your stepdad and say,

“I can’t stop thinking about both of you. Is it love? It’s hard to understand. I’ve never experienced anything like this. Tommy, you’re fucking perfect and I made you suffer and I hate what I did to your life.”

You burst into sobs and your stepdad grabs you by the arms and manhandles you to get on his lap. Joel gets up and sits on the bed.

Tommy’s holding you close, your cheek pressed to his naked chest, peeking out the tank top, that you’re soaking with your tears.

He’s rubbing your shoulder with his hand and softly says,

“I'm not perfect. I’m a piece of shit. I should’ve never done what I did to you. We shouldn’t have. And it’s my fault for getting you into this mess.”

You throw your hands around his neck and start crying harder, mumbling through sobs and whimpers,

“No, please— don’t say that you regret it— regret us—don’t leave me like everyone else, please, daddy.”

“I won’t, babygirl. I’m sorry for… for everything. I love you. I’ll be there for you. Always.”

His arms tighten around you and he kisses everywhere he can reach — your forehead,

your temple, your nose until you tilt your face up and he finds your lips. He’s gentle with you, and you kiss him back, smearing your tears over his face but none of you cares. You’re caressing each other, drowning in the comfort of the embrace and the kiss.

When you part from him you press your nose into the crease of his neck and breathe in his scent, nestling into his big body. While sobs still crawl up your throat from time to time, Tommy wipes the wetness off your face and covers your naked body with a bedspread.

For a few minutes it’s quiet in the room, and when you calm down, you turn your red eyes to Joel, surprised that he hadn’t said anything assholish yet.

You find him watching you with curiosity and now you’re sure. He’s upset too.

A strange feeling envelops you. You want to hug him, feel the warmth of his body and share yours with him. But it’s not your relationship, not the way you connect. So you narrow your eyes and croak,

“Do you know how creepy you look when you’re staring like this, perv?”

You give him a little smile and notice a corner of his mouth slightly rising too.

“You surprised me, angel. Jus’ one month without a cock and you go completely nuts. Crying and shit. Throwing ‘L-words’ around.”

Now you’re both smiling at each other.

“Fuck off.”

“Ok, she’s back,” he says and slaps your ass over the fabric. “Ya know, your tears are golden, angel. Any man will do whatever you want if you cry like that.”

“It was genuine, asshole,” you snap back but there’s no bite to it. You feel lighter, all the pent up frustration and pain left your body and were wiped away by your stepdad’s warm embrace and Joel’s quiet support.

The only emotion that’s still tormenting you is desire. You squirm in Tommy’s lap and the bedspread falls off your shoulder revealing your naked breasts.

“Do you want us to leave, sweetheart?” Tommy asks and his breath caresses your tits.

“No, no, please, I want— .”

“What do you want?”

“I want you. I want you both.”

You look at your stepdad and notice him and Joel exchange glances.

“I think I owe you something, baby,” Joel gruffs and you turn to him and the shine in his beard reminds you of his lips on your pussy. The thought sets your core ablaze and you turn back to Tommy.

“Daddy?” you purr and the man nods.

“But no playing around this time, Joel,” Tommy warns his brother with a serious tone.

‘Course. Hop on my face, cry baby, I ain’t kneeling again.”

He lies down next to Tommy, shoulder to shoulder, and you almost squeal with excitement, throwing the cover off. Tommy leans back on the bed and you tell Joel to scoot lower.

“Wanna play with daddy’s cock.”

“Jesus, angel, is there anything you can do without daddy’s cock?”

You don’t reply and plant your knees on either side of Joel’s head.

A rush of dominance goes through your body when you see your step uncle in this position.

“Finally I’m gonna shut you up,” you smirk and lower your hips slowly, eager for your pussy to meet his smug grin.

Yet Joel is not the one to give up control easily and his hands grab your thighs and he pulls you onto his face. Having teased you before, now he doesn’t play at all and starts passionately making out with your sopping cunt, drawing gasps and moans out of your mouth. With his mouth open wide he stimulates you with a perfect suction while his tongue swirls your throbbing clit around.

You are reduced to a whimpering mess in a matter of seconds and you go so high and so fast that you need to ground yourself.

“Daddy,” you call.

“I’m here, sweetheart.”

Tommy unzips his jeans, trying not to fall off the bed, and takes out his cock.

It’s throbbing, the head glistening with smeared pre cum, and you spit on your hand and wrap your fingers around it. You give his manhood a few pumps, and Tommy moans, but Joel gets your full attention, when his tongue prods your clenching hole and then pushes inside you as deep as it’ll go. He starts fucking you with it and you ride his face, rhythmically bumping your clit against his prominent nose.

“Daddy, I can’t,” you whine, failing to concentrate on two acts at once.

“Don’t worry, I got you,” Tommy mumbles and his hand wraps around yours and he starts moving them together up and down his stiff shaft. His head is resting against the headboard but his half-lidded eyes are sliding between your pussy, crying into Joel’s mouth, and the unity of your hands, pleasuring his cock.

Your other hand is clenching your step uncle’s hair and your tits bounce as you increase the pace of riding his face.

You almost there when Tommy pulls your hand off his cock, sits up and mumbles, kissing your palm and panting,

“Oughta stop— too good— wanna come in your pussy.”

“Delicious little cunt,” Joel growls and starts rubbing your clit with the flat of his tongue, up and down, up and down, and you cry out his name, as euphoria bursts in your core and spreads like wildfire all over your body. You’re sobbing with pleasure, trembling over your step uncle's face, dripping juices onto his lips and he drinks them, slurping and groaning.

When the climax subsides you move off Joel’s face and Tommy takes you in his arms. The men are still fully clothed, except for their exposed cocks. You look down Joel's body and realize that he has been stroking his huge hard manhood while eating you out and your core reignites.

Tommy searches for your eyes.

“Do you feel better, sweetie?”

You nod with a tired smile and in a moment your lips crash against his and you kiss while his hands are hungrily roaming your sweat-covered body, your fingers running through his curls.

Not parting from your lips, Tommy brings his hand to your pussy and your legs fly apart. You shift in his embrace, now your back flush against his chest, lips still glued to his, and you moan when he slowly inserts two fingers into your hole, avoiding your oversensitive clit.

You sense a movement and open your eyes to see your step uncle get up.

“Mmm, Joel stretched you well with his tongue,” Tommy murmurs against your mouth. “Your pussy probably can take two cocks now.”

You pull away and stare at him.

“Two cocks, daddy? Do you mean..?”

“Two fat dicks, angel.”

Your head darts to Joel while Tommy’s fingers are still massaging you from the inside and the older brother laughs, lighting a cigarette, standing next to the bed,

“We gonna stuff your needy cunt so full, your belly’ll look like ya 4 months pregnant.”

He takes a drag while his free hand is wrapped around his huge hard cock.

Their words are ringing in your ears- ‘two cocks, your pussy.”

Your head snaps back to Tommy as you plead, “Please-please-daddy-yes-I want it. My pussy can take it, please, please.”

Your brows are pulled together and big needy eyes are glossy with desire. Tommy smiles at you with adoration in his warm dark gaze.

“We can try, sweetheart.”

“Fuck, angel. Your cock hunger sometimes surprises even me. And I know what a giant slut you’re.”

You don’t tear your eyes off Tommy as he coos at you while his fingers are playing with your soaked cunt,

“We still should prepare you. You know we are big. Especially now.”

“Now?”

“Look at you, my beautiful girl. Our cocks are throbbing hard just because of you.”

He leans lower and his lips brush your ear.

“I barely hold myself from taking you right now.” His fingers are moving inside you, slowly at first but gradually increasing the speed.

“My cock demands your little pussy. I’m so close to just sticking it deep in your sweet cunt and using you, taking what I need from you.”

“Fuck, daddy,” you whisper, closing your eyes and spreading your thighs wider, offering yourself to his hand.

You feel him add two more fingers, four inside you now, and the stretch makes you whine but the dull pain adds to the pleasure.

“Yeah, good girl,” Tommy praises you and kisses your cheek, his hand still working tirelessly, preparing your hole for them and bringing you closer to another climax.

You turn your head and see Joel smoking and watching you getting fingered.

His obsidian eyes lock with yours and he winks at you.

“Lemme help you, brother. ‘m afraid to split her poor pussy in half with my dick.”

He bends down and you gasp when you see his meaty hand move to the place where Tommy’s fingers are already stretching you to the limit.

“Joel,” your scared mewl mixes with the squelching noises of your sopping cunt.

“He’s gonna be gentle,” Tommy commands his older brother, and Joel humms absentmindedly as his thick middle finger prods your entrance over Tommy’s digits.

“C’mon, angel, breathe for me. Yeah, good slut, relax your hungry cunt.”

You do as he says and soon you watch his finger disappear inside you, joining Tommy’s digits. With an open mouth you watch two brothers fuck your stretched hole. You grip their wrists, not to stop but to encourage them to keep going.

Tommy's voice is strained with lust when he groans,

“Shit, honey. Listen to her. She’s crying for more. My fingers are drenched.”

His words send you spiraling into the depth of arousal and when the heel of Joel’s hand hits your clit, you cry out. Your body is shaking, your nails scratching their wrists, your face twisting with euphoria.

“Yeah, jus’ like that, little slut. Happy pussy, happy dicks, yeah?”

You barely hear Joel, after two orgasms your brain is mush. Through the fog in your head you hear Tommy’s voice,

“You sure you still want it? Honey, yes or no?”

You nod because of course you do. The way they make you feel when you fuck is the best thing you’ve experienced in your life, the brightest, the richest pleasure. You feel needed, desired, like they will never leave you. Never will be able to exist without you.

“You need to say it, baby, c’mon,” Tommy coos, “Need to hear it.”

“Yes. Please, fuck me both. Fuck my tight pussy.”

“Ain’t so tight anymore, angel,” Joel laughs, “but it’ll snap back after we done with her.”

He gives you a reassuring slap on the thigh and you smile, too spent to talk.

The men get undressed and then manhandle you into straddling Tommy. You kiss him as soon as you’re close, moaning into his mouth as if tasting him is your basic need, one thing you can’t live without. You both seem to get lost in it until you hear Joel’s grumble.

“Quit it, lovebirds. Let’s get to fuckin’.” He’s next to the bed and you turn your head, ogling his gorgeous cock.

“Soon my dick and your sweet cunt will meet, angel. Let’s make their first time special, yeah?”

He tilts your head up with his fingers, bends down and kisses you passionately. You missed his taste, mixed with yours now, missed his lips, his scent, enveloping you. Your pussy aches for him as much as for Tommy and you might hate to admit it but your heart craves him too. His fire is as scolding as it is addictive and you want him to destroy you, in whatever way he wishes.

You wrap your arms around his thick neck and kiss him, really kiss him, like you’re surrendering yourself to him.

Suddenly he lifts you with his strong arms, throws your legs around his waist and starts devouring your mouth like an offering.

You feel his hot cock pulsating between your bodies and you mumble against his lips,

“Fuck me, Joel. Ruin me.”

With a growl he helps you to sit back on Tommy’s thighs.

Your stepdad’s eyes dart between yours as he cups your cheek, “ya making me jealous, sweetheart,” with a smirk he adds, “I love it.”

He’s not lying, judging by the way his hard cock is smearing precum over your belly, and you smile, taking it in your hand and lifting your hips.

Joel encourages you, his heavy hand on your shoulder,

“Yeah, like that, baby.”

Eyes locked with Tommy’s you sink on his shaft in one go and you both moan, joined at last, relishing this sensation.

“Fuck, you’re wet, babygirl. So warm.” You press your tits to his chest, nuzzling his neck and start moving on his length, up and down, slowly and steadily. His hands grab your ass and he kneads and spreads your asscheeks while his low moaning in your ear makes your head spin.

“Ahhh—That’s my good girl—sweet pussy—riding me so well—missed it—hnggg.”

Then he looks up at his brother and grunts,

“Fuck, let’s do it, Joel, gonna come soon.”

“Daddy was celibate just like you, angel. Savin’ his dick for his dear stepdaughter,” Joel chuckles, stepping on the bed and getting on his knees behind you with a grunt. “Miracle that he didn’t bust a nut yet.”

“Fuck off,” Tommy groans and adds, “hope we won’t break the bed,” he smiles at you but you couldn’t care less about it.

“Daddy, what should I do now?”

Instead of Tommy, Joel replies, “Lie forward and enjoy, baby. Your daddies gonna do all the work.”

Tommy nods with a reassuring smile and you lean on his chest, your eyes locked.

Tommy’s cock twitches inside you when you feel Joel’s hands grip your hips and his fat tip prod your already full pussy.

“Be careful, Joel,” Tommy says as his hand rubs your cheek and he stares into your widened eyes.

He moves his thumb to your lips and says, “Suck, my love.”

You feel butterflies in your belly, hearing the pet name, and take his thick finger between your lips and start sucking. It instantly calms you down.

At this moment Joel pushes his tip fully in and you whine around your stepdad's thumb.

“Shhh, the head’s the meatiest part, angel. Now it’ll slide in like a knife through butter.”

Surprisingly enough he’s not lying. The burning you felt before subsides and with his fingers digging into your hips, Joel parts your walls, inserting his whole cock into your slicked up pussy and bottoms out with a roar.

“Fuck me,” he growls and laughs, “My little niece has a perfect hole.”

He slaps your ass lightly and your pussy clamps around their fat cocks, making both of them groan.

“Oh my god, I’m so full,” your voice is shaky, endorphins already coursing through your body.

“Yes, sweetheart, you did it. Shit, it’s so tight inside you now. It feels amazing.” Tommy’s head falls back against the headboard as his eyes flutter shut.

You almost giggle at how great it feels, then take a deep breath and whine,

“Fuck me, please.”

“Damn, you don’t have to ask twice, baby,” Joel gruffs and pulls his cock out almost to the tip before rolling his hips back into you.

The sensation almost sends you over the precipice. You squeeze your eyes shut, your nails scratching Tommy’s chest, and he hisses and thrusts his hips up into you. You gasp when they both start moving and in a few moments the brothers find a perfect rhythm of fucking your stretched hole, their stiff cocks, sliding in and out of your channel, are drawing moans and whimpers out of your open lips.

While Joel is concentrating on balancing his weight on his knees and stuffing your hole, Tommy makes sure to kiss and lick every spot he can reach. His tongue swirls around your nipples, hands grab your flesh, teeth nip your skin. He paints your neck with hickeys, gently kissing the pain away, until his lips reach yours and he kisses you, while the two cocks are fucking you.

Joel interrupts your kiss when his hand wraps around your throat and he pulls you closer to him. Your back arches and you look up at his face, hovering over yours, as he growls,

“Here’s my sweet niece— our pretty fuck doll.”

He begins snapping his hips into you harder, faster sending his cock deeper and Tommy follows his suit, thrusting his member up into your pussy with the same rhythm.

“I told him ya a slut—ahhh, fuck— and look at ya,” he smirks, ruining your pussy, holding your neck tightly, “his good girl’s bouncing on two big dicks, pleading to be fucked like a whore she is.”

“Dreams do come true,” you mumble back with a hazy smile.

Suddenly Tommy’s fingers swirl around your clit and the sensation together with the filthy words, spilling out of Joel’s mouth, pushes you over the edge and you come, harder than ever, trembling between the men, squeezing their cocks with your pulsating pussy while tears of bliss stream down your cheeks.

With a groan Joel licks a tear off your face and pushes you on Tommy’s chest before immediately exploding into your core, spurting warm cum deep inside you.

While you’re still shaking with your orgasm, Tommy embraces your body tightly and begins coming too, pumping you full of his load. Both men are thrusting, the rhythm uneven and hectic, and you’re milking their cocks until their balls are empty. You feel bloated with the amount of cum they squirted into you and soon it starts leaking out around their cocks and sliding down your thighs.

Gradually your climax dissipates while the men are still inside you. The room gets filled with heavy breathing of the three of you. Joel’s manhood slides out of your pussy first and he tilts your head to him and plants a quick kiss on your lips.

“Keep ‘er plugged, brother,” Joel gruffs, getting up, plops in your chair and lights another cigarette. “Happily,” Tommy murmurs into your ear, before he starts peppering soft kisses along your neck. You giggle when his mustache is tickling you, and to make him stop, you press your lips to his and you make out while his softening manhood is still buried deep inside you, in the pool of their cum.

Joel doesn’t ruin this post-orgasmic moment between his younger brother and you, the room is quiet except for the sounds of lip smacking and him smoking. And you’re grateful to him.

When you finally part from each other, Tommy helps you to lie down next to him. The mess between your legs makes you whine and Tommy gets you some tissues and helps you to clean yourself.

Then you settle down next to him on the bed, your cheek on his shoulder and your leg thrown over his thigh.

Meanwhile Joel puts his jeans back on without zipping them up and rests in the chair.

Tommy and you don’t care about the clothes, both reveling in the afterglow. Your eyes are closing when suddenly Tommy asks,

“Do you have any plans for thanksgiving holidays?”

You blink a few times trying to understand the question and gather your thoughts.

“I…Mel invited me to spend them with her family… but I don’t know. Why?” You tilt your head up to look at him.

“I’m moving back to Austin. Gonna live with Joel for now until I find my own place. Maybe you can visit me there. Us.”

Your heart sings and stomach flutters with excitement when you hear his invitation.

“Sounds nice,” you murmur, barely keeping yourself from squealing. Then you look at Joel.

“Would you mind?”

His piercing eyes slide along your naked body, linger on your lips and then lock with yours.

“I wouldn’t. Always nice to have a good pussy in the house.”

You roll your eyes and Tommy shoots Joel a glare before talking to you again,

“What about Christmas?”

You try to hide a wide grin, biting your lower lip.

“You might meet someone by then, daddy. Get yourself a girlfriend,” you murmur, drawing hearts on his chest with your index finger.

“I won’t. I don’t need anyone else.”

He places his hand under your jaw and tilts your head up.

“You’re the only one I need, sweetheart.”

You’re searching for lies in his eyes or his words but don’t find any. Your throat tightens and tears sting your eyes but you blink them away and reach up to give him a kiss. You pour all your love into it, need and desire in every stroke of your lips and tongue.

A few minutes in heaven are interrupted by Joel’s gruff voice,

“Before you swallow each other whole, let’s go find a bar and get me a drink.”

You giggle against Tommy’s lips and turn to your step uncle.

“I know a good place.”

You try to get up but your legs are still weak from all the orgasms, your pussy sore from the double-cock-pounding, so you almost fall, but Tommy’s strong arms help you up.

The brothers smirk and exchange glances, visibly proud of what they’ve done to you, when you stagger to the wardrobe. You’re still leaking and the thought that their cum is going to seep out of your pussy for days, makes you smile.

“Wear something slutty for us, angel,” Joel orders, putting on his mesh top. Then you feel his bulge press to your naked ass as he whispers against your cheek, “And no panties. Wanna play with your messy cunt under the table.”

The vision painted by your mind sends a shiver through your body and your clit twitches.

“Ok, uncle,” you agree and he lightly slaps your ass.

“Good little slut.”

Already dressed, Tommy comes up to your two and you turn around to the men. Joel’s bulge pokes your hip and his sticky gaze slides up and down your body. Tommy places his hand on your asscheek and gives it a gentle squeeze, cooing at you with a warm smile,

“Our good girl.”

You bite your lip, batting your lashes at the men, and purr with a mischievous smile,

“We’re gonna have so much fun together.”

Thank you for reading!❤️ Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated! l'd love to hear your thoughts🌺💕

EPILOGUE || SERIES MASTERLIST |I Tommy’s Visit MASTERLIST

Tag list for the series:@milla-frenchy @iamasaddie @koshkaj-blog @survivingandenduring @nana90azevedo @mermaidgirl30 @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff @obscurexsorrows @tammythr @ratoonstown @anama-cara @pedge-page @huskyfox5 @ashleyfilm @neverwheremoonchild @stevie75 @untamedheart81 @puduvallee @theoraekenslover @eloquentdreamer @ashhlsstuff @evolnoomym @pinkiec6-rubi @guelyury

Tommy tag @huskyfox5

General tag list: @milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @iamasaddie @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @auteurdelabre @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @evolnoomym @keylimebeag @joelmillerisapunk

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

Part 15

Part 16

Part(s)….???? Idk how many just gonna go till it feels right.

Drabbles

event horizon noun ASTRONOMY a notional boundary around a black hole beyond which no light or other radiation can escape. a point of no return.

Uni felt different at eighteen, when everything was about moving out, drinking beer at frat parties, and kissing boys who didn’t grow up in the same town you did. It was an exciting time, the degree itself fading into the background of all sorts of new experiences, but now that you’re doing your masters, you plan on focusing on your your grades more than on partying.

You enrolled in a new university, farther away from home, with a better physics program, and although you’ve grown up considerably, you still feel that tingle of anxiety you did when you first walked to your dorm, fresh out of high school. This time you won’t have to share with another student, spending your saved money on a bit of privacy that is a single dorm room, but still, you wonder if you’ll make friends here, or if you’ll spend your night hauled up alone, watching trash TV and crying because you’re lonely.

The room is small, blank, but functional with a bathroom you share with another student and a small kitchenette, and immediately you dream of all the ways you could decorate it. You didn’t bring much, just a big suitcase and a few boxes your Dad dropped off earlier. You feel slightly guilty for leaving your parents behind, but the relief outweighs the guilt – you won’t have to come home every Sunday for dinner, visits will be scarce. You love you parents, but the distance is much needed.

You get to unpacking your clothes, reveling in the fact that you can listen to music without headphones in your very own space. You could do it in your underwear, or naked, you could sing and dance along, and nobody would be bothered by it. It’s going to be a tough two years, the program you chose more than challenging, but a childish sort of giddiness fills you – no roommate to be considerate of, no parents to visit and take care of every week. This time in your life is about you, and only you – your career, but also your well-being. You promise yourself to do what makes you happy, instead of looking out for everyone else all of the time, and you’ll start by ordering Thai food and watching the trashiest movie with the hottest actors you can find on the little flatscreen you brought with you.

***

Your first lecture is Computational Physics – the one you’re looking forward to the least. The reason you decided to study physics at all was the predictable logic behind each problem, but the more you studied, the more complex the problems got, until they were impossible to solve analytically. Now you get to solve fluid dynamic equations and simulate quantum systems on a Monday morning instead of having a peaceful cup of coffee and taking a walk around campus.

The lecture hall is big, and you pick a seat that is neither too far away to be able to read the professor’s notes, nor close enough to immediately be pinned as an over-eager teacher’s pet. In the end, you plop down next to a girl who’s sitting alone, something about her shaved head and countless earrings making you think she wouldn’t make fun of you even if you didn’t understand a single thing all lecture.

"Okay if I sit here?", you ask somewhat timidly, trying hard not to sound too much like an eleven year old Ron Weasley boarding the train to Hogwarts.

"Please," the girl answers, "I don’t know anybody here."

"Did you move here, too?"

"Yeah, I’m from New York."

"You look it," you say with a smile, eyes drifting over her clothes and jewelry.

"Thanks…I guess?", she answers, her grin revealing a charming gap between her front teeth. "I’m Alva."

You introduce yourself, thankful to have found someone you can stick to already. Throughout the lecture you find out that apart from being much cooler than everyone else in the room, Alva has a biting sense of humor, and a near endless knowledge of computational physics. You make a mental note to ask her to study together, her explanations much easier to understand than the professor’s.

The two of you spend your lunch break together, and you tell her a little bit about yourself, but way too soon it’s time to go already – you have Advanced Quantum Mechanics in a different lecture hall. This you find way more interesting, basic quantum mechanics was one of your favorite lectures during your bachelor’s degree. As Alva and you sit down, you find yourself hoping you’ll be able to help her out this time, or you’d feel like a leech for making her help you with Computational. She doesn’t seem bothered, though, and keeps babbling happily about a band she recently discovered.

"– Britpop, but they only put out two albums. I think they were like a student band or something? They’re wildly underrated, I’ll send you a song, their debut is called The Sun Is Often Out."

Your thoughts start to wander off a little, eyes drifting over the old-fashioned chalkboards, when the door at the front of the lecture hall opens, and a tall man walks in – a man you recognize.

"Holy shit," you whisper, interrupting Alva’s rant about the Longpigs, and she turns her head to look at what you’re staring at.

"Damn," she says with a grin, "if I wasn’t gay, I’d want a piece of that."

"No," you snort, "I know him. He’s my Dad’s friend."

Alva opens her mouth to say something, but at that moment, Joel Miller steps forward, checking to see if the microphone is working, and introduces himself to the hundreds of students in front of him. His voice is deep, and as warm as you remember it, but that’s where the accuracy of your memories ends – your childish brain failed to register the tanned forearms and rolled up sleeves, the carelessly styled curls, the perfect side-profile. He’s got grey streaks in his hair now, which should send you into a crisis about time passing and your own little life being finite, but instead it makes your stomach swirl with something dangerous. Joel Miller, the Joel Miller, who organized backyard barbecues with your father and bought your favorite vegan sausages when your Dad rolled his eyes at you, who made strawberry lemonade instead of lemon, because he knew you preferred it, who helped you with your physics homework when you were graduating high school and didn’t rat you out when he caught you smoking at seventeen – he’s handsome.

There’s still a familiarity about him, the way he moves and talks, although it’s unsettling to see him in such a different environment. You’re used to band-tee-Joel, beer bottle and tongs in his hands, a breezy smile on his face. He looks different here, in a white button-down, with a stern expression on his face, as he’s reading the names on his list to check attendance. When he calls Alva’s name and she raises her hand, his eyes flicker upwards, but he doesn’t look at you. Still, your stomach lurches. If you listen carefully, you can detect that southern twang in his voice you’re sure most people would miss, and it fills you with satisfaction to know you’re the one who knows him best in this room – you’re sure half the lecture hall must see how attractive he is.

When he reads out your name, there’s a surprised lilt to his tone, and your heart threatens to skip a beat.

"Here."

Your eyes meet, and although his expression doesn’t change, he holds your eyecontact for a second too long. Alva nudges your side and grins.

Your plans about outshining Alva and returning the favor of helping with a lecture are quickly buried by Joel Miller’s beautiful hands – thick fingers holding a piece of chalk almost tenderly, twirling it around when he isn’t writing on the chalkboard. You vaguely register him introducing the Dirac equation, but as interesting as you would normally find it, your thoughts are stuck between memories of barbecues and the realization that you will have to call the man who taught you to drive Professor Miller.

If Alva notices your wandering mind, she doesn’t comment on it, which you’re thankful for. You do notice her throwing you a couple of knowing glances, as you copy down what Joel is writing down, mixing up gamma, delta, and the Dirac spinor.

"Alright, so you all know how Schrödinger’s equation works great for quantum mechanics, but it doesn’t play nicely with Einstein’s relativity, right? That’s a problem because electrons move fast, sometimes close to the speed of light, so we need an equation that respects both quantum mechanics and special relativity. That’s where Dirac steps in."

He’s still got that warm way of explaining things your Dad never managed when you needed help in high school, like he enjoys clearing things up for people. He’s a born teacher, patient when you panicked in the car because you confused the clutch and the break, persistent when you wanted to throw your physics book against a wall. Look, kid, think of it this way: Push harder, it moves faster. Make it heavier, it’s harder to move. If you apply a force F to an object with mass m, it will accelerate a. That’s why your Dad’s car takes longer to stop than your bike. Even now, he manages to make a far more complex equation than Newton’s second law tangible.

"Dirac's equation is like the grown-up version of Schrödinger’s equation. It explains how particles with spin-half, like electrons, behave when they move at relativistic speeds. The gamma mu matrices make sure the equation works in four-dimensional spacetime, meaning three space dimensions plus time. The psi is a spinor, which is just a fancy way of saying that an electron isn’t just a simple wave function, it actually has spin built into its nature. Now, can anyone think of a situation where we would need to use this equation instead of the regular Schrödinger equation?"

Nobody raises their hand, most people still busy with writing down Joel’s complicated notes, and as if on cue, his eyes are on yours when you look up from your notebook. He raises an eyebrow, and you see the corner of his mouth twitch almost imperceptibly. Then, he calls your last name, a formal Miss dripping off his tongue as if he hasn’t called you kiddo for most of your life. It’s almost like he’s making a joke only the two of you are able to understand, and the thought thrills you to your bone. Two can play this game – you smile back.

"Sure, Professor Miller. You’d use it for studying high-energy particles, like electrons in particle accelerators, because it accounts for relativistic speeds. It’s also needed for situations where particles are created or destroyed, which Schrödinger’s equation doesn’t cover."

Again, his eyes linger on yours, and his slightly amused smile turns into a more genuine one at your answer. You let out a relieved sigh.

"Exactly," Joel answers, his attention on the rest of the class again, "Someone payed attention during Basic Quantum Mechanics. Now, here’s where it gets wild. When Dirac wrote this down, he realized it naturally predicts antiparticles, meaning for every electron, there should be a mirror-image particle with opposite charge, which we now call the positron. That was a huge deal because it wasn’t something people were expecting, it just fell out of the math."

For the rest of the class, Joel doesn’t continue that little game between the two of you, but whenever he asks a question, his gaze flickers over you, and your stomach gives an embarrassing little jump. Alva grins whenever this happens, but for most of the class she’s busy following Joel’s explanations.

"I want you to read up on today’s lecture," Joel says at the end of the lecture, and writes down a few page numbers on the chalkboard, "and solve the problems I mentioned earlier. Attendance isn’t mandatory, we’re all adults here, but I urge you to come if you’re interested in graduating in the next three years. Trust me, it’s easier to just do the work here than in your dorms. Now, enjoy the weather, see you Monday."

You and Alva pack up your things, and before she can ask you which class you have next, you pick up your backpack.

"I’m gonna say hi to him," you tell her, nodding in Joel’s direction, "my Dad and him go way back."

"Sure," Alva says, a cheeky smile on her face, "it’d be rude not to."

"Meet you outside?"

"I’ll be at the vending machine. Go get him," she jokes, and you snort.

Joel is packing up his course materials when you make your way down the steps and to his desk, but he looks up when he hears you coming towards him, and immediately his face splits into a smile. If you were anywhere else and ten years younger, he’d probably ruffle your hair.

"Good lecture," you say, "Dad didn’t tell me you’re teaching again."

Joel puts his piece of chalk into a tin box and nods.

"I don’t think he knows. You know how it is, we never get around to callin’ and I haven’t been home in a while."

So this is a new development, perhaps even Joel’s first semester back at university, too.

"What about the contracting? Don’t you miss the…pipes?"

He chuckles at your lack in basic contracting knowledge, his eyes not moving from yours.

"Ah, that was always Tommy, he just needed a little help. Company’s doin’ well now, though, so he’ll manage without me."

You think you remember Tommy – a man good-naturedly chasing you and the rest of the giggling neighborhood kids with a harden hose – but the memory is too vague to be sure it’s really him.

"You’ve grown up," Joel says, almost accusingly, and you shrug and smile. "Doin’ your master’s already. How come you’re familiar with Dirac?"

His accent is much thicker now that it’s only the two of you, and you notice a hint of pride when he asks about your correct answer to his question during the lecture. The satisfied feeling it gives you is still the same as when he high-fived you after your drivers test, or when he patted your back after you solved a problem for school without his help.

"Summer reading," you admit, trying hard not to sound like a nerd, "Basic Quantum Mechanics was my favorite lecture as an undergrad."

Joel smiles at you, and puts his notes into his leather bag. He slings it across his shoulder, and nods towards the door.

"How would you like to grab a coffee and tell me all about what’s been goin’ on with you and your old man?"

Your eyes flicker briefly over his hand, gripping the strap of his bag, and you raise an eyebrow.

"What’s the policy for staff having coffee with their students, Professor?"

Joel holds your gaze, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"I’m actually not sure, Miss, I’ve never had to check before."

He’s playing along, and it feels dangerously blurry – yes, he’s your Dad’s old friend, your childhood neighbor, but it feels like more than just joking around.

"Does that mean I’m your first, then?", you ask, voice sweet and close to flirting now. The smile freezes on Joel’s face, and his gaze becomes almost calculating.

"Am I yours?" he asks you softly, and the double-meaning behind his question isn’t lost on you. You feel a thrilling pang in your stomach – Joel Miller is flirting with you.

***

You do end up getting coffee after you tell Alva you’ll meet her later, Joel reassuring you it won’t get him into trouble, and you’re fascinated to see he still drinks it black. What fascinates you even more is that you remember how he takes his coffee, and you wonder why your brain filed this fact away as important, not to be forgotten.

"So, when did you graduate? Sorry I missed it."

There’s honest regret in his voice, which surprises you. Joel was always a warm person, but you figured he cared for you as much as he would have for any kid living across the street.

"Last June," you tell him, dropping a sugar cube into your cappuccino. "I spent the summer working, and now I’m here."

"How d’you like it so far?"

You give a nervous chuckle, torn between the honest truth and pleasant small talk. You opt for the former – this is Joel, after all, not some stranger.

"To be honest with you, I oscillate between enjoying my freedom away from Mom and Dad, and being scared shitless by starting over somewhere new," you admit, looking at your coffee. You haven’t told people about your fear, and it feels good to finally admit it – the grip your parents have had on you makes your newfound freedom almost uncomfortable.

"What d’you mean, startin’ over?", Joel asks, his voice strikingly gentle. You sigh, and shrug.

"I know the distance is good for me, but it was comfortable, just doing what my parents expected of me. I had good grades, nice friends, and just the right amount of drunken nights for them not to worry about my social life too much," you explain, "and now it’s like…there’s so much room to be someone else, cause they won’t see it anyway."

You look up, embarrassed to have spilt your guts like this, but Joel looks thoughtful, his thumb moving along the handle of his coffee cup.

"Sorry," you mutter, "I know they’re your friends, but they can be…"

"Overbearing?"

You smile at him gratefully and he smiles back.

"Look, I know your parents pretty well. They love you to bits, but as an adult I imagine it must be stiflin’.“

"Yeah," you sigh, grateful for his understanding, "I feel like I don’t know who I am when I’m not…their kid."

Joel nods, and sips his coffee, apparently pondering what you said.

"I promised myself I would only do what makes me happy while I’m here," you tell him sheepishly, as if it’s a secret, and Joel laughs.

"Well, I’m not expectin’ you to hand in any homework, then."

You grin, too, and shake your head. It’s surreal, Joel being your professor, and you wearing your heart on your sleeve for him.

"Don’t worry, Professor Miller, I’m not dropping your class."

"You’d better not, it’d really hurt my feelings," Joel says, eyes trained on yours. Again, that blurriness set in motion by the change of his role in your life: neighbor to professor to – what?

"What about you, though? This your first semester here?"

"Second," he tells you, "but I still don’t feel at home. Once a Texan, always a Texan, I guess."

You cock your head and watch him drain the last of his coffee, the cup tiny in his hands.

"What?" he asks you, curiosity evident in his voice.

"You look so different," you say, and Joel scoffs.

"Well, that’s real nice. Know I’m not thirty anymore, but geez–"

"No," you say with a grin, "it’s not that. I don’t know, I’ve just never seen you teach before. Or dressed this nice – I remember you mowing the lawn in a Fleetwood Mac shirt, not checking attendance in a button down."

Joel’s cheeks go slightly pink, and he scoffs again.

"Well, I can’t show up here in a band tee, can I? Gotta dress the part," he mutters.

"I get it. You suit it," you tell him, if only to see that blush appear on his face again. He looks up at you, holding your gaze for a couple of seconds, then he shakes his head.

"What were the odds of us meetin’ like this, huh? I gotta call your father and tell him."

Something about that bothers you, you’d prefer for your parents not to know. You like sitting here with Joel, reminiscing the old times, without anybody getting a peek in.

"Or not," he says gently, seeing the expression on your face.

"Sorry," you say, "course you can tell him."

"You apologize a lot," he tells you, and you fight the urge to say sorry once again. "It’s okay, I’m not tellin’ anyone, kid. ’S just you n me."

That pang in your stomach again, and you nod.

"Alright," you answer, "just us."

You get a refill for the two of you, and a blueberry muffin to split, which feels strangely intimate, but Joel pats his stomach and jokes about keeping an eye on his figure, so you grin, and ask the barista to cut it in half. Joel asks you about your friends, and you tell him about Alva.

"Oh yes," he says and swallows a bite of the muffin, "that punky lookin’ kid who sits next to you?"

"Yeah, she’s nice. Haven’t really met anyone else."

"Geez, I’m not keepin’ you from findin’ frat boys to hook up with, am I?"

You laugh, the idea of sitting here with a twenty-something year old kid named Cole or Josh instead of him so absurd, you can’t help it.

"No," you tell him, "I’m honestly enjoying the fact that I don’t have to have someone else in my dorm anymore."

"Well, that’s a relief to hear," Joel says, "they’re all dipshits."

You remember him telling you something similar about the boys in high school, and it makes you smile. He’s still got that protective streak, then.

"To tell you the truth, I’m glad you’re here," you say quietly, "if I’m not making any friends, I can come crying to you."

Joel watches you for a couple of seconds, not laughing as you intended, but taking your words seriously.

"Course you’ll make friends. Give it a couple of weeks, and you’ll have forgotten all about physics cause you’ll be skippin’ classes left and right to hang out with people."

You don’t tell him, but you think it’s very unlikely you’ll skip any of his classes. Still, you appreciate his words and how confident he seems to be in your ability to open up to people.

"Well, will you give me the answers to your exams if I skip your class?"

"No way," he says with a cheeky smile, the crinkles around his eyes prominent. "I don’t do preferential treatment. You wanna split another blueberry muffin?"

You grin.

"Thought you were watching your waistline."

"I am, that’s why I’m only eating halves."

***

Your afternoon with Joel leaves you on a high for the rest of the day, feeling much less lonely now that you’ve had a conversation beyond the usual so how many siblings do you have? and where did you do your undergrad?

You start spending your lunch breaks with Alva and some friends she made in another lecture, all of whom are very nice. In the evenings you all go to see a movie or have dinner together in any of your dorm rooms, and although you walk around campus holding out one eye for Joel, you don’t see him for the rest of the week. There is always a nudge of disappointment in your stomach, when you glance in the direction of his office, and the door is closed, but you’re so busy, you don’t dwell on it too much. The days pass in a blur of new lectures, swapping music with Alva, and evenings spent as a group of six, and suddenly it’s Sunday again. You aren’t too sad the weekend is already over, and you know exactly why you’re looking forward to Monday, but you don’t allow yourself to think about Joel any more than you can help.

In the afternoon, while you’re doing Joel’s assignment for the next class, your mother calls, and you answer the phone with a mixture of feelings.

Hi, my darling, how are you doing?

"Hi, Mom. I’m good, just doing my work for tomorrow. How are you?"

Good, good. How was your first week? Did you meet anyone nice?

Hah, if she only knew. It feels deceptive, not telling her about Joel, but you like that for now, he’s just yours.

"Yes, this girl called Alva. We and some guys hang out a lot, there’s a cinema near by, but the lectures are pretty hard, so we only have the evenings off."

Well, I’m glad you found some nice people! Dad says hi, he’s making dinner. Anyway, baby, we miss you terribly. Do you know when you’ll be coming home?

"I just got here, Mom."

You sigh so quietly your mother can’t hear it, guilt already nagging at your heart. Sunday is the day you would usually be coming home for dinner, and you know it’s no coincidence your parents called you now.

Of course, you’re right. It’s just not easy for your Dad and me, you know? You’ve never been this far from home, and you’re our baby.

Yeah, you think, your adult baby. You sigh again.

"I don’t know if I’ll come this month, I’m still sort of settling in. But I’ll let you know if there’s a free weekend next month, alright?"

Sure, that sounds great. Will you send us some pictures of your friends, and your room?

"Sure," you say, but it bugs you that you’re giving in. Already, you’re breaking the promise you made yourself, and letting your parents further into your life here than you’re comfortable with.

"Mom, I gotta go, I’ve still got some problems to solve and I’m meeting Alva for dinner soon."

Okay, darling, enjoy your night! And make yourself heard. I love you!

"Love you, too! Talk soon."

Your kind, clingy mother, whose greatest pain is not knowing if you’re safe. In a way you miss her, and you feel guilty for being annoyed. Still, you know you have to gently nudge her away from you, or she’ll suffocate you one day. It makes you angry with yourself, because you know your Mom would have liked nothing more than to hear all about your week, but as soon as she asked you a question, you felt like your seventeen year old self again, getting yelled at because you stayed up past your curfew, and your parents didn’t know where you were.

Tears of frustration spring to your eyes – the mix of feelings too much for you to handle. You wipe them away with the back of your hand, breathe in shakily, and try to focus on your assignment again, but now you’re riled up, and the tears won’t stop.

It’s hard for you to deal with disappointing your parents, forcing them away when they would like nothing more than to know everything that’s going on in your life. So, instead of preparing for Joel’s lecture, you cry on your bed, feeling lonely and angry with yourself for hurting them. You know your reaction is disproportionate, but everything you kept buried while you lived close to your parents comes bubbling out of you.

You call Alva, tell her you have cramps because of your period and just want to stay in bed. She’s understanding, asks you if there’s anything she can do, even offers to bring you takeout or a hot water bottle, which makes you feel all the worse for lying to her. You decline her offer, tell her you’ll meet her Monday morning. In the evening, you regret not letting her bring over a real meal, eating cold pasta in your underwear, tears still running down your face and making your head pound.

***

On Monday, you feel slightly better, your headache is gone and your face isn’t as puffy as you expected it to be. Still, you’re in a solitary mood, and are glad to find Alva is able to keep up an entire conversation virtually by herself – you just grunt from time to time, or give noncommittal movements of your head in vague agreement. You hope if she notices your bad mood, she just thinks it has to do with your period.

Computational Physics is hell – you dislike it on the best of days, but guilt ridden and tired, you’re barely able to pay attention at all, and the professor’s handwriting is so bad, you end up copying down Alva’s notes instead. She’s kind about it, slides over her notebook at an angle that makes it easy to read, and you make a mental note to thank her for being so kind to you while you’re offering nothing but a scowling expression all day. Maybe you’ll cook for her, or make a mixtape of your favorite songs, just to show her you’re interested in being actual good friends.

Lunch passes easily, as always you sit with Alva and the guys, and there’s enough people for you to stare at your mashed potatoes and repeatedly stab them with your fork instead of eating them. They taste like flour mixed up with water, and you dream up your father’s Sunday dinner instead, but it does little to help with the taste.

"So, you lookin’ forward to flirting with Miller in front of the whole lecture hall again?" Alva asks you, as you’re making your way to said room. You glare at her, but can’t help the corners of your mouth twitching.

"Wasn’t flirting with him," you answer, kicking a pebble, "I grew up across the street from him, I’ve known him practically my whole life."

"Whatever you say, grumpy," Alva teases, nudging your shoulder with hers. You’re overcome with a rush of gratitude for the way she treats you, persistently kind and humorous. You chuckle, your mood lifting slightly.

"He’s probably been waiting for you to turn legal," she continues, and you groan.

"Gross, Alva, he’s not a creep."

"I’m just saying, if your little connection gets you the answers to his tests, you could sell them and become rich."

"I already asked him, he said no," you say darkly, thinking of the nights you’ll have to spend studying to pass his exam. This makes Alva laugh her brilliant laugh, and you can’t help but smile, too.

"Damn," she grins, "I’d try if he wasn’t a guy."

You snort.

"You try with Professor Carter, I need the answers to Computational," you suggest, wiggling your eyebrows suggestively.

"You’re joking, but I bet once you get her out of her frumpy cardigans, she’s a real–"

"Okay, stop," you grown, the image of Professor Carter taking off her cardigans worse than her keeping them on – if possible. Alva giggles.

"I’ll help you with Computational," she says, "if you help me with Quantum Mechanics."

"You’re good at both," you argue, and Alva shrugs.

"Not like you, though. I spent like four hours doing Miller’s assignment last night."

You want to tell her you didn’t do it at all, but before you can open your mouth, she spots a friend in the crowd, grabs your arm and drags you over to him.

The three of you sit down together, closer to the front than the week before, which gives you a direct line of sight to Joel’s desk. When he walks in, your stomach jumps – he’s wearing a tie today, a dark burgundy or blue, you aren’t sure from this distance, flecked with specks of white. Again, his hair is styled in that carelessly disheveled look you like so much, and the image of him putting gel in it makes you smile. He gets out his materials for the lecture, and looks up, his eyes finding yours – you smile and he gives a small nod. Again you’re struck by how different he acts in front of the class, how serious he seems. You think of his laid back manner when you had coffee, and struggle to make the images align. Joel clears his throat, and the chatter around you stops.

"Quiet, please, everyone. Thank you. So, last week, we found out that Dirac’s equation predicts the existence of antiparticles. But instead of just accepting that, let’s think deeper—mathematically, what feature of the equation forces this conclusion?"

Joel jumps right into the lecture, and just like last week, nobody raises their hands – you curse the people around you for their lethargy, because sure enough, Joel’s eyes land on you. Before you can shake your head to signal to him not to ask you, he calls your name.

"If I remember correctly, you were already familiar with Dirac’s equation last week. What would you say, what does the existence of negative-energy solutions tell us, and why couldn’t we just ignore them?"

You wish you could answer him, know he asked you because he was sure you’d know the answer, perhaps hoped your enthusiasm for the subject would get the rest of the students to participate more, but you didn’t do the assignment, and you’ve already half forgotten his question. You swallow.

"Um…I…I’m not sure, Sir," you say, watching the way his brows furrow, and looking down at your notes. Alva shoots you a curious look, and when she sees your expression, she raises her hand. You’re thankful to have Joel’s attention diverted, feeling like a fool in front of hundreds of students you’re trying to make friends with.

"Dirac’s equation gives positive and negative energy solutions, and at first, the negative ones didn’t make sense. Dirac suggested they represent antiparticles, like the positron, which he predicted. The idea was that electrons could, like, jump into these negative-energy states, creating a hole that looks like a positron, which was later confirmed experimentally," Alva explains instead of you.

"You're close, but electrons don’t actually 'jump into' negative-energy states. Instead, Dirac proposed that these states are already filled, forming what he called the Dirac Sea. A positron isn’t an electron jumping down, it’s actually a 'hole' left when a negative-energy electron gets excited to a positive-energy state. That distinction is important because it explains why positrons have the opposite charge. Good answer, though, thank you Ms. Bennet."

Joel’s eyes flicker over to you again, but you show no reaction, and he continues with his lecture without asking you another question. Alva glances at you inquiringly, and you sigh.

"I wanted to do the assignment yesterday, but my cramps were really bad," you explain quietly, and she nods sympathetically.

"Call me next time, I’ll send you my answers," she whispers, and you smile gratefully. It seems you really hit the jackpot in friendship when you sat down next to Alva.

***

After Joel’s lecture, you and Alva make your way over to the vending machine, because it has the sour patches she likes, and in her own words she’ll combust if she doesn’t eat some right fucking now.

"Shit," she curses, "they’re stuck."

"Let me," a voice comes from a behind you, and when you turn around, Joel is smiling at the two of you. "Took me a while to figure this thing out, too."

Alva steps aside, and Joel bangs his palm against the side of machine. You jump, but the sour patches make their tumbling way down to the dispenser.

"Great! Thanks, Professor Miller," Alva says, ripping the bag open and offering it to the two of you. To your surprise, Joel takes her up on it, and Alva grins at you.

"You were quiet during today’s lecture," Joel says tentatively, when he’s swallowed his sour patch "everything alright?"

You glance at your shoes.

"Um, yeah. I wasn’t feeling well yesterday, and I left your assignment for last, so…I didn’t do it."

Joel’s expression grows worried, and Alva glances between the two of you.

"Hey, I’m meeting Max for coffee," she tells you, "see you later?"

"Yeah," you answer, grateful she’s granting you this time alone with Joel, "see you, Alva."

When she’s gone, Joel is still looking at you with that worried look on his face, and you sigh.

"Sorry about the assignment," you say, "won’t happen again."

"I’m not worried about the assignment," Joel says earnestly, but then he turns his head, and you know he doesn’t want someone listening in. Sure, you can be seen chatting in the university cafe, but this conversation is rapidly blurring the lines between scholarly and – something else.

"I…have some materials in my office that might make it easier for you to catch up with the lectures again," Joel tells you, and you understand the underlying meaning. Let’s talk in my office.

"Thank you," you say, relieved, and Joel nods, eyes still glued to yours, brows still furrowed. You walk to his office making smalltalk about the lecture, which to anyone listening in would seem like a normal conversation between a professor and an interested student.

Joel opens the door to his office for you, and lets you step in first. It’s small, cramped bookshelves on the walls and a sturdy desk in the middle that is littered with notes, pencils, books, and a couple of old coffee mugs. You notice he put part of his books sideways onto the shelves, which you find weirdly endearing. This is the Joel you know – clutter and warmth.

He closes the door behind you, and you turn around to watch him drop his bag and walk over to the kettle in the corner of the room.

"Coffee?"

"Please," you sigh, "if you don’t have anything stronger."

He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t answer, just turns on the already filled kettle, and gets two clean cups for the two of you.

"I only have drip coffee," he tells you, "I don’t drink that crap the machines brew up."

"That’s fine, I enjoy the medieval feel of it."

"Watch it," he answers, a smile tugging on his lips, "don’t insult my coffee filter in front of me."

You grin, and walk over to his bookshelf to have a look.

"So, what’s going on?" he asks you while pouring the boiling hot water over the coffee grounds. Again, the Joel you remember – empathetic, but unusually direct. You sigh, turn around and shrug.

"Mom and Dad called yesterday, and I could tell they missed me, but I just…I cut them off after two minutes."

Joel places the cups on his desk, and leans against it. His sleeves are rolled up again, and when he crosses his arms, you feel that familiar pang in your stomach.

"And now I…I don’t know, I feel so guilty, Joel. They’re not even being dicks about it, but I just know they’d prefer for me to check in with them more…and the worst thing is, I know it’s not a big deal. They’ll get over it, they’ve got a good life without me constantly in it, so I don’t know why my stupid brain can’t just let this go, you know? One I miss you, darling, and I’m reduced to this pathetic mess, instead of just, I don’t know, getting my shit together."

You shake your head and clench your teeth, once again embarrassed to come crying to Joel about your parental issues, but he’s the only one you can tell. Sure, Alva would probably listen, but you don’t feel like explaining your family to a near stranger. Joel just gets it. Joel knows you.

He’s looking at you, arms still crossed, and for a second you worry he might not want to hear about your little breakdown, but then he sighs.

"You have your shit together all of the fuckin’ time, kid, I think that might be the problem," he tells you quietly. "You’ve always been so hard on yourself."

He’s right, once again he sees what you struggle to show the world, and his words make tears spring to your eyes. You will your eyeballs to suck them back in, but of course, Joel sees.

"Hey now," he says, taking a tentative step towards you. One tear drops from the end of your lashes and down your cheek, and the dam is broken again – they come spilling in floods. Joel crosses the room in a second, and there is a slight moment of hesitation between the two of you, before you bury your face in his chest, and let your restraint fall. You cry quietly, feel him wrap his arms around you, as he rocks you back and forth.

"You’re alright," he tells you, "Shhh, it’s okay, you’re alright."

"S-s-sorry about the assignment," you manage, and Joel’s hand starts stroking your back.

"Jesus, kid, stop worryin’ about the fucking assignment," he tells you, voice low and worried. "You don’t gotta be so strict with yourself. You’re doin’ just fine."

He smells so much like home, you think you might never stop crying.

"I don’t know what’s wrong with me," you hiccup, "One week here and I’m a mess already."

You feel Joel rest his chin on your head, and his arms tighten around you.

"There’s nothin’ wrong with you, you hear me? You hold yourself to high standards. Creates pressure, kid."

As always, he’s right of course – you want to excel academically, you don’t want to hurt your parents, you want to stay true to yourself and do what makes you happy, you want to make friends without compromising your grades. It’s impossible.

You breathe in shakily, your eyes closed, face buried in Joel’s chest, and for a second he is all that exists – just Joel, all around you, pulling you to the earth. Slowly, your breathing calms, Joel still rocking you soothingly, holding you close.

"There we go," he mutters, when your chest stops shaking, "that’s good."

When you pull away from him, he puts his hands on your shoulders to really look at you, and although you’re embarrassed by your outburst, you’re glad he doesn’t shy away from you.

"I want you to start being a little more lenient with yourself, alright? You don’t need to worry about an assignment on top of everything."

His hands are rubbing your shoulders, his eyes are kind and warm.

"Maybe not about yours, but I have like five other lectures –"

"Okay, so try to stop worrying about my assignments, just mine. Won’t bite your head off if you don’t do them, and I’ll only ask you questions when you raise your hand, alright? In fact, for the rest of the term, I want you to hand them in late."

Despite yourself, your lips pull up in a small smile.

"That’s silly, Joel," you say softly, but he shakes his head.

"It’s not silly, it’s practice to get you out of your comfort zone."

You consider his words for a moment. You do keep a pretty tight reign on yourself, and just the thought of doing every assignment late makes your skin crawl with anxiety. But when will you get another chance to step out of your comfort zone as safely as now, with Joel? He’s offering you a way to try it without actually risking your grades. And who knows, perhaps it actually will take a little bit of pressure off of you.

"Okay," you answer, staring up at Joel with puffy cheeks and teary eyes. "Alright."

He smiles at you, but he still looks worried and you wish he’d pull you close to him again. It’s such a relief to have this sort of human contact with someone who really knows you.

"Feel better?"

You sigh, and nod.

"It’s just a lot, you know, uni and my parents, and every social interaction feels like such a chore, cause I don’t know people yet. I feel like I’m not even relaxed when I’m asleep."

Joel hesitates for a moment, before he speaks, but when he does, he sounds determined.

"Come over tonight, I’ll make us somethin’ to eat, and you don’t have to worry about talkin’ to anyone. We’ll watch whatever you’d like. You still enjoy those crappy horror movies?"

You smile at the shared memory – Joel letting you use his living room to watch slashers your parents didn’t want you to see. One summer, when the heat was so stifling you barely went outside, you practically lived at his place, and when you’d seen all the DVDs he owned, he got you more from the video store.

"I do," you say quietly, the fact that Joel remembers more important to you than his proposal to spend the evening together. You feel significantly less alone, all of a sudden.

"Alright, then. Be over at seven,“ Joel tells you, and you nod, wiping your wet face with the back of your hand.

"Thank you, Joel," you say, and hug him again, because you don’t know how to tell him in words what you’re feeling, and his big, warm body against yours feels more than soothing.

"Course, kid. Just don’t tell Alva, or they’ll fire me."

You smile, your arms still wrapped around his neck, as he holds you.

"But I don’t wanna get you in trouble, what if–"

"No," Joel interrupts you, "no what ifs. No worryin’. I forbid it."

And you accept it, leave it to Joel, because he tells you to – because you don’t have any room in your head for more worries, and because you trust Joel not to do anything reckless. You trust him, period.

***

You text Alva you’re having dinner alone, that your cramps are still acting up, and you do feel slightly bad for lying, but you would never risk Joel’s job. The idea of having dinner with him at his place should make you nervous after your change in feelings about him, but you’re just looking forward to having a meal with someone who knows you, and lets you be yourself.

Joel asked you to be there at seven, so you spend the rest of the afternoon in your dorm room, wondering if you should change your outfit or if it would seem desperate – in the end, you keep the jeans but change into a blouse instead of a sweater. The part of you that stares at Joel’s forearms during class now wants to look pretty for him, so that he’ll ask you over again. You know you’re being ridiculous, but it doesn’t stop you from putting on your nicest perfume.

You’re ten minutes early, so you sit in your little second hand car and try not to panic. You know Joel is merely trying to be a good…friend? Ex-neighbor, Dad’s best friend turned professor? There’s no real etiquette to cling to in this situation, for either of you, and although you’re positive Joel doesn’t have any ulterior motives with you despite his flirting, you know he could lose his job if someone finds out you went to his house. Even if you just watch slashers together the way you did ten years ago. It makes you anxious to know he’d risk something clearly important to him for just that – he moved to a different state, quit his old job, started over completely, and is now willing to endanger that new life just because you’re stressed. At the same time it seems ridiculous anyone could forbid the two of you to spend time together after having known each other your entire life. The thought is absurd, and still, you need to be careful.

You get out of the car before you start to hyperventilate, and ring Joel’s doorbell – it feels strange for him to live in a new house. He opens the door with a smile, and absurd relief floods your veins when you realize he’s wearing an old Led Zeppelin shirt and a pair of worn jeans. This is your Joel.

"I come bearing gifts," you announce, stepping into the house.

“Christ, where did you get this?”, Joel asks, taking the six pack of beer from you, so you can take off your jacket. “I didn’t know they sold Shiner Bock outside of Texas, I’ve been survivin’ on Bud”.

“Brought it with me,” you explain, “figured it’d help if I got homesick, you know, in multiple ways.”

You grin, and Joel shakes his head good-naturedly.

“Old enough to drink, well I’ll be damned. I remember when you begged your Dad to let you have a coke and he asked me if I thought the caffeine would stunt your growth.”

“Did it?”

“It might’ve,” Joel says with a chuckle, “but he didn’t let you have it.”

“Well, he isn’t here now, so let’s put those in the fridge.”

“No," Joel mutters, “no, he ain’t.”

While Joel puts the beer away, you take a look around his living room – despite your reservations about the new house, it reminds you of his old place. It’s got the same masculine and warm feel to it, dark wood, books all over the place, no bells and whistles. Joel is a practical man, and it’s charmingly etched into every part of his life – except for his new work-look. The room isn’t as cluttered as you remember Joel’s old house back in Texas, but you assume he hasn’t had time to accumulate clutter yet. No old newspapers are lying around, no birthday cards stacking up. You wonder if he’s lonely here, teaching all by himself, hundreds of miles away from the place he last grew roots in.

“Do you miss home?” you ask him, when he comes back from the kitchen with two bottles of beer in his hands. He looks at ease, much more himself than back at university. His jeans are faded, his shirt a little too big on his already broad frame, and his hair is clean and curly the way you like it – no gel twisting it into all sorts of un-Joel-like styles. Warmth floods your chest at the sight of him taking a swig of his beer. His crowfeet are a little more pronounced, and his hair has more grey strands than it did back home, but he’s still got that distinctly warm, no-nonsense feel to him.

“Sometimes,” he answers, offering you the second bottle. Your hand brushes his when you take it from him. “But I’m pretty busy here, you know, got a whole lotta lectures to plan, papers to grade and that sort of stuff.”

You nod, and sip at your beer.

“Have you…you know, met people? Made friends here?”

Joel plops down on the couch, and smiles up at you.

“You worried about my social life?”

You shrug, and smile almost timidly.

“You know me, kid, I like bein’ by myself.”

That’s true, for as long as you’ve known Joel, he’s been alone. You know he has nieces and nephews who adore him, and your Dad mentioned a woman once, but it must have been at least twenty years since they were together. You wonder why Joel doesn’t seem to want that sort of a domestic life, surely many women would be happy to let him put a ring on them.

You walk over to the window, and watch a blackbird tug at a writhing worm.

“Have you met someone at uni you wanna be by yourself with?” you ask with a small grin, turning back to find Joel already watching you. “I heard Professor Carter’s still single.”

“She’s very intelligent,” Joel says earnestly. You give him credit for not laughing about his colleague, and suddenly you feel bad for calling her frumpy with Alva. “But I think I’ll leave her to her simulations. Why am I bein’ interrogated?”

“Sorry,” you mumble, and glance out of the window again, “just making conversation.”

“Your turn, then,” Joel answers, and takes another swig of beer. “Any frat boys catch your eye? Or frat girls?”

You glance at him, a smile on your lips, and raise your eyebrows.

“Hey, I don’t discriminate. I thought, maybe Alva…”

“No,” you answer, feeling fond of him for considering the possibility. “Alva’s a friend. The guys are…well, they’re frat boys.”

 Your voice carries enough disgust for Joel to laugh.

“Right,” he says, and his eyes are warm when they meet yours again. “Just us two loners, then."

“Cheers,” you say with a smile.

“Cheers.”

***

Joel’s cooking is a mystery to you – he loves to eat, and when he does cook, it’s always delicious, but he only ever makes one of five dishes. Again, that practicality shining through. Why try something new if you’ve perfected your routine? He made pasta for you, wasn’t sure if you’re still vegetarian and makin’ your Dad’s hair fall out, and you smile into the neck of your beer bottle, when you watch him drizzle dressing onto a carefully arranged side-salad. Throughout dinner, you tell him how much you love it at least five times, because you can tell he put effort into the meal. You know it’s not technically a date, but having a dinner he made just for you, in his home – it feels like one.

You steer the conversation away from heavy topics like your parents. Although Joel offered you this evening to make you feel better, you want to spend it with him rather than in your head, so you ask him about books and music, about his lectures, about Tommy and the kids. You like watching how his face lights up whenever he talks about something he particularly loves. Joel is a quiet man, but you found out years ago it isn’t shyness, but a disinterest in most mundane topics – he doesn’t like gossip or superficial small talk. When he tells you Tommy made him godfather of all of his children, the pride is evident in his voice, and you don’t have to fake your enthusiasm, although it amuses you, too – Tommy loving his big brother enough not to consider anyone else.

"She calls me uncle Joe," he tells you with a chuckle, "Can’t pronounce her Ls yet, but I’ve considered legally changing my name."

When you’re done eating, you help him clear the table, but when you reach for the sponge to do the dishes, Joel shakes his head.

"Let me do that later, kid. You wanna watch a movie?"

So the two of you plop down on the couch with a bag of M&Ms and another round of beer, and Joel hands you the remote.

"Go wild," he says, chuckling when you excitedly turn on he TV to open Netflix.

"Wow, a streaming service? I thought you’d just hoard DVDs for the rest of your life."

Joel huffs, and instead of answering, he leans forward, and reaches for something under his couch table. When he turns his head, he’s got glasses on his face, thick-rimmed and black, and so startlingly sexy, you almost drop the remote.

"You…you’ve got glasses?"

"Yeah," he answers, his eyes meeting yours, and you swallow. "When your eyesight deteriorates, that’s when you know you’re gettin’ old."

You hum but don’t answer, just hold his gaze for a second and look back to the screen. You try to ignore the familiar pang in your stomach at the sight of Joel in his new glasses, and skip through movie after movie, mumbling seen it, seen it, that one sucks, seen it, until Joel reaches over and snatches the remote from you.

"Hey–"

"I can’t read anything if you skip through them that quickly."

"You’re not supposed to read, you’re supposed to go with the vibe of the cover."

He glances at you with furrowed brows.

"Okay, sorry, didn’t know you’re a filmbro," you grumble, but it’s almost entirely fake – you couldn’t be annoyed with him, not when he pushes his glasses up his nose, and carefully considers which button to press on the remote.

"I don’t know what that means," he answers, and starts reading the description of a romantic comedy about Christmas.

"I’m not watching that."

"You don’t even know what it’s about."

"It’s September, Joel."

He huffs again, but finally reaches the horror movies. Surprisingly, it doesn’t take the two of you long to pick one, and the thought of two hours of brainless, scary entertainment on a couch with Joel makes you practically melt into his couch.

You can feel Joel’s eyes on you during the opening credits, so you glance over and he smiles.

"Comfy?" he asks, his voice hoarse from relaxation.

"Yeah," you answer, and smile when hands you a blanket. He’s not exactly close to you, but it still feels a little intimate when you spread the blanket out and offer him the other end. He moves over a little, so that the blanket covers his legs, and when you concentrate you can feel his body heat next to you, so you try hard not to – and instead get lost in the movie.

It’s not particularly good, but the story does get under your skin a little, and when there’s an unexpected shriek, you violently jump and instinctively move closer to Joel. He chuckles, but doesn’t give any reaction to your arm suddenly pressing against his. He doesn’t move away, either, so you don’t, fear suddenly not being the only thing bubbling up in your stomach.

"Jesus," you mumble, the creeping music making you anticipate another jumpscare. You’re right, it does come, but prepared though you are, you still wince, and turn away from the screen slightly. Out of sight, out of mind. Joel turns around, too, and when he sees your widened eyes, he grins.

"How’s that Christmas movie lookin’ now?"

"I’m not scared," you say, and there is some truth to it, "I’m just not good with jumpscares."

When the next one comes, you can’t help it, you clutch his arm next to you, your nails digging into his firm muscle, and Joel glances at you again.

"Sorry," you say quickly, letting go of his forearm now marked with five tiny crescent shapes. "Jesus, Joel, sorry."

"It’s fine," he says, and the amusement is evident in his voice, "you sure you’re into this? There might be some cartoons–"

He stops talking when you glare at him, but his mouth is twitching under his beard. You’re determined to watch the entire movie, and you try not to let any reaction show, wanting to prove Joel wrong.

There is one particularly scary scene – it’s not necessarily violent, but the music and shaky camera movements make your pulse race, and you turn your head slightly, so as to look at something else. Joel glances at you again, but he doesn’t laugh this time, just puts a heavy hand on your shoulder. It’s grounding, the warmth of it, how his thumb digs into your muscle and his fingers spread out over your back and neck.

"You don’t gotta force yourself to watch this, kid," Joel says gently, all teasing humor gone.

"No," you say stubbornly, but move even closer to him. His touch is a welcome distraction from the movie, and although you know it’s stupid and reckless, you lean into him, and Joel puts his arm around you. It’s closer than you’ve been to him except for hugging, and your heartbeat starts to quicken for all the wrong, non-horror reasons. When you flinch, Joel tugs you against his side, and it feels natural to hide your face in his shoulder.

He was never touchy with you, or anyone for that matter, so something must have changed. You wonder if he’s trying to comfort you, or if you might not be the only one who can feel that strange pull between the two of you.

When the movie ends, Joel regrettably removes his arm from around your shoulders to switch off the TV, and although you’re slightly disappointed, you scold yourself for expecting something else.

"Not bad," Joel says with a small smile, and pushes his glasses up his nose. "Very brave."

You scoff, but feel the corners of your mouth twitching, too.

"I used to be less of a wimp, but I guess you soften with age."

"You’re twenty-three," Joel argues, "that’s young."

Yeah, too young. Too young to lean over and kiss him, or climb into his lap, or expect anything other than paternal care when he’s got his arm around you. You look at your lap, all of a sudden feeling stupid and silly for having dreamed up an absurd fantasy about the man in front of you.

"Hey," Joel says gently, "what’s wrong?"

"Nothing," you say quickly, "nothing, I had a really great evening. Thanks, Joel."

You can tell you’ve confused him, but he nods, doesn’t question your sudden change of mood, and stands when you get up from the couch.

"Anytime, kid. You call me if you’re havin’ a bad time, alright? My door’s always open."

He’s so kind, so recklessly, stupidly, lovingly kind, and all of it is directed at you. You curse yourself for it, but again you feel that familiar burn in your eyes. Joel reaches out and easily pulls you towards his big body, hugging you the way he did in his office just this afternoon. He doesn’t ask you what brought on your tears, just lets you cry into his Led Zeppelin shirt that smells so much like home, like a childhood you won’t get back to. You remember whiffs of that smell when you were watching movies on his couch while he was at work, too pissed off at your parents to spend the summer at home. This scent was there when you attended a neighborhood barbecue after fighting with your father and Joel grilled some vegan sausages for you without comment or question. He’s always looked out for you like this, quietly, without demanding an explanation, just a solid, comforting presence in your life.

Your tears stop after a couple of minutes, and you take a step away from Joel, wiping your face. He looks so worried again, brows all furrowed and arms hanging limply at his side. Didn’t he flirt with you, though? Didn’t he prepare dinner for you the way a date would, ask you about your dating life, ask you to coffee? You don’t think you would be able to handle another evening like this one not knowing what Joel really thinks, so in a moment of hazy recklessness, you lean up.

His eyes meet yours, all warm and strangely unguarded, but before your lips brush his, a hand on your shoulder stops you. Without saying something, you move away from him, and nod to yourself, his reaction all the information you needed.

"Sorry," you say very quietly, not managing much else now that you’ve humiliated yourself in front of the only person you really know in a six hundred mile radius. Joel runs a hand through his soft hair, and inhales deeply.

"No," he says, his voice a little strained, "no, don’t be. I just…Jesus, kid."

He rubs his palm over his beard in such a familiar way, your chest aches a little. It’s ridiculous how much you want to touch his face, to feel him again, skin on skin. So you don’t turn and run the way your embarrassed heart is telling you to, just watch him collect his thoughts, standing in front of him like a wet and beaten dog.

"Look," he begins, "I won’t say I’m not flattered, but that’s…it’s a bad fuckin’ idea. It’s…it’s chaos, and on top of that most people would argue it’s wrong."

You swallow. You know all of this, have turned it over in your head ever since you stared at Joel’s rolled up sleeves for two hours on that first Monday, but hearing him say it makes your stomach churn.

"Yeah," you mutter, and trace Joel’s shadow with the very tip of your foot, "yeah, of course. Sorry I put you in that position, wasn’t right."

Your face still feels puffy, and you know you’re probably all red and pathetic looking, begging Joel for scraps of his attention, but all of a sudden, he lifts his hand up to your face, and cups it in his broad palm. His thumb strokes your cheek, and when you meet his eye, the expression on his face is tender.

"It’s alright," he tells you softly, "I can see you worryin’ at the speed of light in that pretty head of yours."

Something in your chest flutters at his words, at the rough and warm cadence of his voice. He reads you so easily, one turn of your head and he knows you’re lost to your thoughts.

"I shouldn’t have let myself toy with this idea," he continues, and your stomach flips. "I should’ve realized you’d pick up on it. It’s on me, alright? It’s on me not to start anythin’."

You can hear the implication – I’m the adult here. It’s not what you want to hear, but just the mention of Joel toying with this idea, as he put it, is enough to lift your spirits. So you weren’t crazy.

"I’m an adult," you say weakly, never having felt more like a child. Joel nods.

"You are, but I’m still in a position of power here. Be wrong, to abuse that."

His thumb is still moving over your cheek slowly, making it hard to think straight.

"So dinner and a movie doesn’t abuse it?"

You don’t want to argue, you don’t know why you keep disagreeing with him, and the way his face falls, you wish you hadn’t said it.

"No, it…it does, you’re right. Jesus, of course it does. I don’t blame ya for bein’ ang-"

"I’m not angry," you say softly, and tentatively turn your head in Joel’s hand. You press a kiss to his palm, his warm skin pressed right against your mouth. "I’m not your student, Joel. I mean, of course I am, but I know you. It’s different."

Joel’s eyes are glued to your face, and he looks so conflicted you wish he’d just throw you out of his house, if only to solve his dilemma.

"It’s still wrong," Joel mutters, his eyes glued to your lips since they brushed his skin "even if you take away the fact that I’m your fuckin’ professor. Your Dad…"

"My Dad is half a continent away and finds a way to be unhappy with whatever choices I make, so I might as well make the ones I want to."

The very first day, before you even met Joel, you decided to do what makes you happy while in university, and although this certainly wasn’t what you had in mind, you know it’s what you want. The only thing you want, in fact.

Joel sighs, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Joel, I’m not trying to…look, if I’m wrong about this, just tell me, but I feel…I just wanna be close to you all of the fucking time," you say quietly, "and it’s okay if you don’t, really. I just…I want you to know it’s not nothing to me."

Saying I don’t just want to hook up with you would feel too straight forward or crass, but you think Joel gets the gist of what you’re trying to say, and he closes his eyes briefly. You study his face behind his glasses, the wrinkles and freckles from years in the sun. You do feel anxious about his answer, but whatever it is, you’re glad you told him. It’s out in the world now, the way you feel when he holds you, and he can do with it what he pleases – you’ve handed him the reigns.

"I…I know what you mean. Me too," he says very quietly after a beat, his eyes open and looking directly into yours again.

A triumphant pang of affection pulses through you, and you put your hand over Joel’s, which is still resting on your cheek. He looks conflicted, but his other hand holds your waist now, and tugs your smaller body closer to his again. He’s solid as a brick wall in front of you, and you figure you’re allowed to touch, so you rest your hand on his shoulder.

"What am I gonna do with you?" Joel mutters, and strokes your lower lip with his thumb. If you had more guts, you’d let it slip into your mouth, but you’re still afraid he’ll pull back if you make a wrong move, so you just let him caress your mouth tenderly.

"Whatever you’d like," you answer just as quietly, and you know it sounds sexual, but you mean it in every way – if Joel wants to be nothing but your professor, you’d take it, and if he wants to keep you here in his house indefinitely, you’d let him. Joel keeps looking at you, taking you in as if he’s considering whether the risks outweigh whatever magnetic or gravitational pull the two of you have between you.

"Stay," he say after a while, and although his face looks slightly regretful, his voice is determined, "just…sleep here tonight. I like havin’ you here."

You want him to kiss you, to pull you onto his lap on the couch, to take you upstairs right now, but Joel seems to be restraining himself, so you just nod.

"Me too," you whisper, echoing his words back to him, and for just a second, his thumb digs into your lip a little harder, but then he pulls away.

"Testin’ my goddamn restraint," he mutters, and takes a step away from you. "I’ll get you something to sleep in."

***

Joel gets you one of his band tees you love so dearly, and just the idea of being enveloped by something that smells like him all night makes it a little easier when Joel tells you he’ll take the couch instead of inviting you to sleep with him in his bed.

"No," you say softly, "it’s fine, you just sleep in your bed, Joel. I’ll take the couch."

He looks critical, so you offer him a soft smile.

"I don’t know if your back could take it," you tease, and he seems torn up between laughing and frowning. In the end, he just shakes his head, mutters something that sounds a lot like bad fuckin’ idea, and gets you a blanket and pillow.

He brings you a clean toothbrush and towel, let’s you use his bathroom (you look at the shower the entire time you’re brushing your teeth, trying hard not to think about what Joel looks like using it in the mornings), and when you’re done changing, you unlock the door again.

He’s there, sitting on the edge of his bed, his eyes trailing over your form in his much too big shirt. It’s long as a dress on you, coming down to your naked thighs. Joel visibly swallows and gets up from the bed.

"You got everythin’ you need?"

"Yes. Thank you, Joel."

There’s a beat of silence and you almost think Joel’s about to cross the room, but he just runs his palm over his beard the way he always does, and nods.

"Alright. Just shout if there’s…well, you know. I’ll be here."

"I will."

"Alright. Okay…goodnight, kid."

"Night," you almost whisper, voice soft, and right before you reach the door, Joel clears his throat.

"I…you were right about dinner and the movie. I wasn’t just tryin’ to be friendly," he says quietly, and your stomach swirls. Before you can walk over to Joel and do something about it, he sighs.

"Sleep tight, sweetheart."

Sweetheart.

***

You wake to the sound of something dripping, and when your eyes flutter open, you can see Joel’s back from the kitchen. He’s wearing his work outfit again, a white button down and dark pants, sleeves rolled up. It smells like coffee, and with a smile you realize he must be brewing his beloved coffee – no machine, just a filter. He looks broad, even from your spot on the couch, and you enjoy peeking in on him. You study his movements, the way he reaches for a cup, how his fingers absentmindedly drum on the kitchen counter while he waits.

When he turns around, his eyes find yours, and he smiles.

"Mornin’. Did I wake ya?"

"’S fine," you yawn, pulling the blanket up to your chin, not yet ready to get up. "I have classes at ten anyway."

"’S eight," Joel tells you, "Coffee?"

"Yes please," you answer, and stretch your limbs under the blanket.

Joel brings you a cup, complete with a little bit of milk and sugar, and you move your feet so he can sit down on the couch.

"Sleep well?"

You sip your coffee, let it burn your tongue and close your eyes at the taste. When you open them, Joel’s gaze lingers on your face.

"Yeah," you answer, "thank you for…you know."

He nods, takes a sip of his coffee, and looks at his lap. He looks like he wants to say something, but he’s very quiet, and you feel anxiety bubbling up in your stomach.

"Joel, do you want me to leave? It’s fine if you do," you ask him softly, not wanting to make things awkward for him. It would be rational of him to ask you to leave, the smart and ethical thing to do.

"No," he answers quietly, still not looking at you, "I want you to stay."

Stay? On a Tuesday morning, after you almost kissed him and he told you he couldn’t do that, after you spent the night on his couch? When you have classes in two hours, haven’t showered yet, are half naked and wearing his clothes, on his couch under his blanket? When you’ve got friends wondering where you are and probably ten unanswered messages from Alva?

"Alright," you say, agreeing as easy as breathing.

Finally, he looks up, and his expression is so conflicted you reach out for him. Your hand finds his and you squeeze it. He keeps looking at you, his hand limp in your grasp, as if any movement of his muscles would incriminate him.

"You shouldn’t," he tells you earnestly. "Stay, I mean. You shouldn’t stay."

"I know."

You don’t let go of his hand. He doesn’t move his away.

"It’s a really, really bad idea," he adds, and you’re not sure who he is trying to talk out of whatever this is. "It’s risky. Could blow up both our lives."

"Yeah," you say, and watch him sip his coffee, "okay."

Then, a tentative flex of his fingers against yours, and finally, he’s squeezing your hand just as tightly, and before you can process what that means, Joel is leaning over you, dangerously close. Your breathing quickens, you register how soft his hair looks, how strong his hand is. He leans in further and you sit up a little, still cocooned in his blanket. His face is close to yours, his eyes fiery with something you can’t pinpoint, and you sigh, when he closes the gap between you.

He tastes of coffee and toothpaste, and you wish you’d gotten the chance to shower, but the thought disappears almost immediately when you hear Joel groan. His kisses you languidly, deeply, and your fingers come up to his beautiful arm, barely wrapping around half of his biceps. He cradles the side of your face, pulls you closer, makes your stomach clench with need. It feels inevitable, the way he touches you, like you only exist in a physical form to be touched by him.

His free hand peels the blanket off your body, lets it slide to the floor without ever stopping his the kiss, and you moan softly, when his hand touches your waist. The sound makes him break away, stare down at you, pupils blown wide.

"Fuck, you look good in my clothes," he mutters, nudging your jaw with his nose, and pressing a kiss there. "You should really, really go home."

Your head falls back slightly to give him better access to your neck, and he brushes his lips over your pulse point. Your heart skips a beat.

"I – I know," you breathe, fingers digging into his arm. His beard scratches your skin deliciously, and it takes everything in you not to whimper or beg. Joel’s hand slips under your shirt – his shirt – and instead of finding your waist again, he digs his thumb into your hip, stroking the fabric of your cotton panties. The fire in your stomach burns brighter, and you almost buck up into him. Joel Miller, the Joel Miller who until recently had a key to your childhood home, who lent it to you whenever you forgot yours inside – he’s sucking bruises into your skin, and toying with your panties. It’s dizzying, his familiar voice when he hums in satisfaction, even rougher than usually.

His fingers trace the waistband of your panties towards the front, until they find a small, silky bow, and Joel groans. He doesn’t take your underwear off, doesn’t even touch you where you need him the most, just keeps playing with the little bow, until your hips twitch without your permission. A little lower, and he would be able to feel how wet you are, how wet you have been all night. You didn’t do anything about it, not while you were a guest in his house. It would have felt wrong. You can’t imagine anything feeling more right than Joel’s mouth and hands on you, though.

"Jesus," Joel curses, "I should stop bef–"

"No," you whine, all dignity turned to hot air by Joel’s fingers, "please, Joel, please don’t stop."

He curses again, and moves his big body so that he’s not just hovering above you, but actually on top of you, your thighs falling open for him easily. At the movement, his shirt hikes up your thighs, and you know you’re basically on display for him, your soaked underwear leaving little to the imagination. He’s still fully clothed, his perfect button down all wrinkled now.

"Look at you," Joel breathes, lightheaded with desire, "this all for me?"

So he saw, when you moved to accommodate his broad form, saw how soaked you are, knows you ruined your panties just because he kissed you.

"Yes," you breathe, "yes, please–"

Before you can beg further, his finger presses down on your clit, and he watches your face contort in pleasure, as it shoots up your spine. You whimper, staring into his eyes, and he stares right back, as you start to grind your hips against his palm.

Your head feels blissfully empty, all worries about this relationship, uni, your parents, gone from you with a simple, practiced movement of his hand. The whimpers keep falling from your lips, and Joel curses.

"So beautiful," he mutters, "tell me what you need, angel."

It’s not a question, it’s an order.

"I – fuck, I need you i–inside," you groan, and Joel’s lips find yours again.

"Yeah? Need me to fuck you good, even though they’ll throw us both out?"

It shouldn’t turn you on. You’re jeopardizing both your own and Joel’s career, and he’s turning it into dirty talk. Still, your pussy doesn’t lie, and the way it throbs for him, aching to get him inside, makes all doubts disappear from your mind.

"Yes," you answer, unable to say much more as Joel keeps drawing tight circles into your clit.

Your hands drift from his arms towards his front, and Joel curses, when you paw at his belt buckle. It takes you a second, but then it’s open, the sound of the metal exciting you – it sounds like a promise.

Joel finally tugs your panties down, and for a second you’re self–conscious about not being clean shaven, but the second he sees you bare and glistening for him, his fingers dip into your folds, gathering your wetness with no hesitation.

"Fuck me," he groans, bringing his hand up to his face and tasting you, holding eye–contact the entire time, "prettiest pussy I’ve seen in my life."

You twitch under him, dragging your gaze away from his eyes and to his fingers. A moan escapes you, your hands have gone slack on his waistband, and Joel smiles down at you. Then, he does the same motion again, drags the tips of his thick fingers through your sticky arousal, but instead of sucking them clean himself, he holds them up to your mouth. His eyes burn, when you wrap your lips around them without a moments hesitation, and he feeds you your own slick.

"Taste so sweet, huh?"

You don’t answer, just swirl your tongue around his fingers, and suck on them. Joel watches your mouth intently, lets you take your time.

"Good girl," he praises you, and you clench around nothing, "so fuckin’ needy for me."

He drags his fingers from your mouth, and finally pushes into you, the stretch much tighter than with two of your own. Your head falls backwards, and Joel curls his fingers.

"No, baby, look down here," he orders, and immediately you lift your head again, and watch him pump two thick digits in and out of you. It’s dizzying to think it’s the same hand that waved to you from over his fence for years and years. You feel a coil building in your stomach, and you moan.

"Fuck, Joel," you moan, his name leaving a delicious aftertaste in your mouth. His beautiful forearm flexes with every movement, your slick is dripping down his fingers, and those damn sleeves are still perfectly rolled up.

With a few more curls of his fingers, you gush around him, barely having time to warn him, and he praises you, calls you his good girl, drags his fingers against that spongey spot inside of you until you see stars.

When he slips his fingers out of you and holds them up to your face again, you clean them up with your mouth as Joel watches with bright eyes. To think that he’s the same man who taught you Dirac not twenty-four hours ago – already, you want him inside again. When you’re done, he fumbles with his own clothes, and you watch him this time instead of helping.

"You look so good like this," you mumble, eyes raking over his broad form, "Professor."

His eyes snap up to yours, and you grin.

"Fuckin’ Christ, kid," he mutters, popping open the buttons on his shirt, "you can’t say shit like that."

"You don’t like it? You know, I watched you during your lectures and dreamed about…well, about this."

His expression is unreadable, but if you’re not mistaken, his hands move even faster now, and then he shrugs out of his shirt. You almost moan at the sight of his naked torso, so broad and solid.

"You need to pay attention in class," Joel answers, as he opens his pants. Your breathing grows a little shallow when he reveals his boxers underneath, his bulge huge.

"Can’t," you mumble, "not with you looking like this."

He chuckles at that, at the honesty and need in your answer.

"Don’t worry," he says softly, "I’ll fuck it outta you. Won’t be needing’ me in class, not if I’m still leakin’ out of you."

Your lips part, your pussy clenches – a smile tugs on the corners of Joel’s mouth at your reaction. He drags down his boxer shorts, and your eyes snap towards his cock, so thick and dripping in precum. You whimper, you can’t help it, and Joel’s smile widens.

"We’ll make it fit, baby," he says, reading your mind, and then bends down and kisses you again. You try to tug your shirt upwards, but Joel’s hands find your wrists and he holds them tight.

"No, want to fuck you in it," he breathes against your lips, and you press your hips upwards until he groans. He pumps his fist over his cock a couple of times, and aligns it with your entrance.

"Deep breath, baby," he mutters, and you obey, staring up at him as he starts pressing into you. It’s tight, much tighter than his two fingers, and your eyes glass over with pain, but Joel goes slow. His hand strokes your tummy, helps you relax, while he pushes on consistently. You feel like he’s punching the air from your lungs, eyes wide with the stretch of him, as he nips at your jaw and neck to distract you.

"Know it’s a lot, but you can take it, angel."

"Y-yes," you moan, and screw your eyes shut, "please don’t stop, Joel."

 Joel’s breathing is ragged with restraint, and suddenly his hips snap forwards – and he’s fully buried inside of your tight body, nestled right against your cervix.

"Back to Joel, are we?" he teases, and gives you a couple of seconds to get used to him. You whimper and claw at his arm.

"I – ah – I’ll call you Professor Miller ’f you want," you slur, as he starts dragging his cock out of you again. You tremble under him, the feeling almost more intense than when he pushed inside of you.

"Yeah? That get you off? Or – fuck–  is it the fact that I’m friends with your parents?"

It really, really should be a turn off, to be talking about your parents right now, but the way Joel says it, the way he points out just how debauched it is what you’re doing – you can’t help but moan. You blush, too, can feel the heat in your face, but you’re tired of being ashamed of wanting him the way you do.

"Both," you answer, and this time Joel groans, his hips snapping into you at a rougher pace. The head of his cock hits your spot every time, and you let out little sounds of pleasure with every drag of his cock, unable to form a coherent sentence. Joel’s hand finds your clit again, rubbing circles as his other one pressing down on your stomach.

"Feel that?" he asks you, and you do, you feel him all up in your guts, "you take it so well baby, take all ’f me."

"Yes," you answer, eyes glassy with pleasure, "want all of you, Joel."

He bites your shoulder, keeps rutting into you, and soon you feel another orgasm building.

"Close – ah – so close," you whimper, and Joel speeds up his thrusts just slightly. You clench around him, right on the edge.

"Come for me, angel, give it to me."

You do, your hips bucking, back arching.

"Ah – fuck, Joel, Prof–"

"Say it," Joel orders, fucking you through the waves of pleasure.

"Professor."

He comes, too, twitching deep inside of you and spilling rope after rope of come. It feels right, like you’re his. His groan is rough, his thrusts sloppy, and you feel your pussy spasm around him in a third, weaker orgasm, or maybe it’s just aftershocks from your second. You’re limp underneath him, letting him use your body how he needs to.

"Fuck," he curses, "did so good for me."

He slips out of you, and you can feel his spend drip out of you. You’re weak, soft like jelly, sweaty and entirely satisfied.

"Jesus," you breathe, when he falls down next to you, his couch mercifully being big enough.

"Yeah," he answers, "Jesus."

***

Turns out, Joel Miller is a dirty talking bastard during sex, and a big softie afterwards. He makes you tea, strokes your hair while you sip it, then carries you up to his shower and gently washes your body his his sponge. Throughout, he’s quiet, and you wonder if it was too much, the mention of him being your professor, of your parents, but you’re too afraid to ask. He brushes your forehead with his lips when he dries you off, and pulls another of his shirts over you head. Your panties are entirely ruined, it’s all you’re wearing.

When you’re clean again, and relaxed, Joel pulls you onto his bed, wrapping you up in his arms.

"Did you…was that too much?" he asks you softly fingertips tracing over your thigh lazily.

"It was just right," you answer quietly, and he hums.

"You didn’t feel like you…I mean when you called me Professor, you wanted to do that, right?"

You look up at him, and press a soft kiss against his jaw.

"Of course, Joel. Wanted everything we did, I promise."

He nods, but you can tell there’s still something bothering him.

"You know that’s not what you are to me, though, right?" Your voice is soft. "You’re just Joel."

He brushes the top of your head with his lips.

"I mean it," you press on when he doesn’t answer, "it’s like a costume, Joel. I know it’s your job, but it’s…I don’t think of you as like, an authority figure or something. I just thought you looked hot in that slutty shirt."

"Slutty–?" he sputters and you laugh.

"Sure, you know, with your sleeves rolled up, and that first button popped open."

"’S not slutty."

"You showed your forearms. Half the lecture hall felt like a victorian man seeing ankles for the first time."

Joel makes an exasperated sound, half amused and half offended.

"I mean it," you say again after beat, humor gone from your tone, "and it’s not just sex to me. You know that."

"Yeah," Joel answers slowly. "’S more to me, too."

It’s a hell of an admission.

"What are we gonna do?", you ask quietly, and Joel sighs.

"You’re gonna go to class," he says, voice dark, "and I’ll try very, very hard not to call your father and tell him I’m fallin’ for his daughter."

You bury your face in his chest. With anyone else, it would be too much, too fast, too intense. But this is Joel. It’s not fast if you’ve known him your whole life, is it? You kiss his chest, and he seems to understand.

"We’ll figure it out," Joel says quietly, pressing a kiss to your hair.

For a second you do want your parents to know, want them to see that someone does treat you like an adult, want to look them in the eye and say I’m with Joel now and there’s nothing you can do about it. I have my own life now and it includes this kind man. It’s childish, you know it is. You lean up, catch Joel’s mouth in a kiss.

“Please go home,” you tell Maria once everything has been cleared away and she nods gratefully, hanging her apron up by the door and heading outside to meet Tomás. You wave them both away knowing that you’re more than capable of providing what the house, and your guest needs, moving forwards.

You don’t retire for another three hours.

Instead, you sit at Joel's desk in the parlour with a single lamp burning low beside you, ostensibly reviewing all the papers, but in truth doing nothing more than staring at the brass fittings of the inkwell and replaying every word of James’s surgical interrogation in your head.

The intimacies. The barn. The night before the arrest. The third option.

We resolve the matter at its source.

When you finally climb into bed, you lie there, staring at the ceiling, and think about the precise, infinitely complicated question of whether you wish to be consummated under the auspices of a bond posted by an attorney.

You don’t know the answer.

You know that you love Joel with an intensity that makes your hands shake when you think about him too long. You know that the memory of his hands and mouth mapping the curves of your body before his arrest is a sense memory so vivid and so frequently revisited that you sometimes have to pause and draw breath because the heat of it suddenly overwhelms you. You know that had it not been for Samuel’s illness, and then your own, the question would no long be relevant, because the consummation would have long since been sealed.

You know that you want your husband in a way that completely shocks the spinster you once were, and that this want has only grown more urgent and more specific since the iron door of the Sheriff's office slammed shut behind him.

But to do it like this, with a lawyer's pencil hovering somewhere in the background and a bond filed in a Sheriff's office all so that you can swear on a Bible that your marriage is real as proof at a circuit trial…

It makes something deep inside your chest curl up tight, like a fist.

You don’t want the pressure, or the expectation. You want it to happen in a natural way – two people choosing, deciding – not because one might hang, or face a lifetime in prison, if it doesn’t.

You’re still thinking about it when the dawn light begins to creep through the curtains. Dragging yourself from your bed, you wash quickly then dress smartly in grey cotton with black piping at the cuffs and collar, your hair pinned in a tight coil at the nape of your neck. You look at yourself in the mirror for a long moment and decide you look exactly as you wish to look.

You look like a woman conducting the business of her family, not like a woman who’s spent the night turning over the question of whether to sleep with her own husband under the strategic guidance of a lawyer she met yesterday.

After breakfast, and once Tomás has collected Sarah, the drive to town is made in James’s hired brougham. He sits across from you on the soft leather bench, dressed in a beautifully tailored dove-grey suit with a deep navy cravat, his hat resting on his knee and his notebook tucked under his arm. He doesn’t speak for the first several miles, rather simply gazes out the small window at the rolling Texas landscape, his profile turned away from you, allowing you the dignity of your own composure.

"Mr Oliver," you say finally, as the outskirts of Sawyer's Creek come into view on the horizon.

"Yes?”

"Have you considered, sir, that my husband may not... may not be agreeable to the strategy you propose?"

He turns his head and looks at you, his eyes warm with a kind of dry, considered amusement.

"Mrs Miller," he says gently, "I’ve considered very little else since I drafted the bond paperwork last evening. I assume that this will form the substance of our conversation with your husband this morning. I don’t propose to ambush him, you understand. I propose to lay the strategy before him exactly as I laid it before you, to answer his questions with the same frankness, and to give him the same opportunity to refuse that I gave you. He is my client, ma'am, not my pawn. I don’t intend to move him about the board without his consent."

"Thank you."

"You’re most welcome.” He looks back out the window. "I should add, however, that his likely initial response is one I’ve already privately predicted to myself, and have prepared for. He will not, I think, take the proposal well at first hearing. Men of his particular character very rarely do. We must allow him the room to be properly outraged before we allow him the room to be properly persuaded."

"I don’t want to persuade him to anything he doesn’t want, Mr Oliver"

"Of course not, I wouldn’t dream of suggesting otherwise. I propose only to inform. The persuading, if there is any to be done, is entirely a matter between yourself and your husband. I shall absent myself at the appropriate moment."

The brougham rolls into the Street a few minutes later. The town is already at its mid-morning bustle, but you notice at once that the energy on the boardwalks has shifted in your absence. Heads turn, conversations stop and a pair of women outside the milliner's shop nudge each other and whisper behind their hands as the polished black carriage rolls past. The story of your encounter with Reverend Sawyer has, as you had hoped, become the only story in town.

The brougham comes to a stop outside the Sheriff's office. James steps down first, offers you his hand, and helps you to the dusty street. Then he tucks your hand into the crook of his arm and guides you up the wooden steps.

Sheriff Hayes looks up from his desk as the door opens, his eyes widening by perhaps a quarter of an inch when he registers the cut of James’s suit and the easy, aristocratic poise of his entry.

"Mrs Miller,” he greets you, rising slowly. “Sir."

"Sheriff Hayes," you say calmly. "This is Mr James Oliver of Oliver, Gerard, and Beaumont, attorneys at law of Galveston. He’s agreed to represent my husband in the matter of the upcoming proceedings."

"Sheriff,” James extends his hand courteously. "Mrs Miller tells me you have been a model of professional courtesy throughout this most regrettable matter. I thank you for it, sir."

Hayes shakes the offered hand looking faintly stunned.

"Well, uh…Joel Miller's a good man, sir. I'll be glad to see him out of that cell, if you can manage it."

"We shall see what can be managed, Sheriff. For the moment, Mrs Miller and I require a private consultation with Mr Miller. Have you a room suitable for the purpose? The cell itself is, I understand from Mrs Miller's description, somewhat inhospitable to the careful review of legal documents."

Hayes hesitates for only a moment, then nods firmly. “You can use my office here. I'll bring Joel through directly, but I’ll have to stand outside the door, you understand.”

"That seems entirely appropriate, sir. Thank you."

“Please.” Hayes gestures to his desk and James nods before sitting down into the recently vacated chair with you taking one opposite.

He sets his notebook precisely in the centre of the desk, aligns the pencil beside it, and folds his hands on top. He looks perfectly composed, perfectly patient, perfectly prepared to argue a complex matter of common-law marriage doctrine in a country sheriff's office without breaking a sweat.

You, on the other hand, can’t seem to stop the butterflies from swirling in your stomach.

The door behind suddenly opens and Joel walks in, your breath catching when you see him.

Hayes has clearly taken some pains since your last visit. Joel’s been given the opportunity to wash, his hair damp and combed back roughly from his forehead, his beard trimmed back to how it looks normally. He’s been allowed to change his clothes, and he somehow seems both larger and gaunter than when you last saw him through the iron bars, the hollows beneath his eyes more deeply shadowed.

His eyes find yours instantly and the relief that breaks across his face is so complete and so undisguised that it takes every shred of your composure not to leap up from the chair and throw yourself into his arms.

James rises smoothly to his feet and extends his hand as Hayes mutters something indecipherable and slips out of the office door.

"Mr Miller, sir. I’m James Oliver, of Galveston. I’ve been retained as your counsel of record, and I’ve already had the considerable pleasure of an extensive consultation with your wife. I have the honour, sir, to inform you that you are now represented by, if you will forgive the immodesty, the finest trial attorney west of the Mississippi River and we shall have you free of this absurdity very soon.”

Joel looks at the offered hand, at the immaculate suit, then he reaches out and returns the handshake.

"Thank you, sir."

"The honour is entirely mine. Please, sit down.”

Joel sits down beside you, his eyes drifting over your face with an intensity that’s almost physical and reaches for your hand, his warm fingers enveloping yours. “You look better, darlin’.”

"I am better," you reply as firmly as you can.

James clears his throat very politely.

"Mr Miller, with your indulgence, sir, I shall now lay before you, as concisely as possible, the substance of the case as I understand it, the prosecution's likely line of attack, the defensive strategy I propose, and the specific legal mechanisms by which I intend to effect that strategy. The matter is somewhat urgent, sir, as the judge will be arriving before the end of the month and certain preparatory actions must be taken without delay. I shall require your active consent to several proposals. May I proceed?"

"Uh…sure,” Joel replies, glancing quickly at you and then back again.

For the next thirty-five minutes, James lays out the case with the same precise, surgical clarity he used with you the day before. He summarises the evidence on both sides and the political situation in town following your encounter with Reverend Sawyer on the boardwalk. He lays out the doctrine of defence of conjugal estate and the precedents along with the prosecution's likely counter arguments.

You watch Joel listen intently, shifting occasionally in the chair and nodding where it seems appropriate.

Then James arrives at the matter of consummation, and you watch the precise instant when he understands where the lawyer is going. You watch the small, tight muscle that jumps in his jaw and the deep flush that begins to climb very slowly up the back of his neck, just above the open collar of his shirt, and which creeps upward into the hollows beneath his ears.

James doesn’t look at Joel while he speaks. He keeps his eyes fixed on his open notebook as he explains the legal doctrine and the prosecution's likely line of inquiry. He tells Joel that you’ve been entirely forthright with him about the current state of the marital relations, that no judgment whatsoever attaches to that fact, and that the defence have three options for handling it, of which he favours the third.

He explains the legal mechanism of the consultation bond and that with appropriate surety and his personal guarantee, the Sheriff can temporarily release Joel into James’s custody for purposes of trial preparation for a period of up to forty-eight hours. He explains that no witness is required to verify the specific use of those hours, only that the prisoner be returned at the appointed time. He explains that this will, in his professional judgment, render the prosecution's line of inquiry as to the legal status of the marriage entirely moot.

He sets down his pencil, closes his notebook and finally looks at Joel.

"Mr Miller, I have laid before you the strategy I believe most likely to secure your acquittal. I shall not pretend that it is not a strategy of considerable personal intrusion because it is and I do not propose it lightly. I propose it because, in my professional judgment, it is the cleanest and most decisive defence available to us, and because your wife has authorised me to lay it before you for your consideration. The decision, sir, is entirely yours."

Joel doesn’t move, his eyes fixed on a small knot in the wood about six inches in front of him. The deep flush at the back of his neck has spread now, climbing into his cheeks above the beard, mottling the rugged tan of his face with patches of hot, embarrassed red.

He doesn’t look at you, or the lawyer, though his hand remains firmly around yours.

"Mr Oliver," he says finally. "I appreciate the trouble you've gone to and what you’ve said here today. But you’re sittin’ in my Sheriff's office tellin’ me that the way out of this cage is for me to take my wife to bed under a writ of paper."

"Mr Miller, I…"

"I ain’t finished, sir."

James closes his mouth.

"My wife," he says, very quietly, "has been my wife for almost six months now and she’s the most decent person I’ve met in longer than I care to remember. And she has been kind enough to put up with a marriage to a man who hasn’t done right by her in the way that... in the way that a husband should. I should’ve bedded her that first night and I didn’t. She knows why and she understands it.”

He squeezes your hand.

“But that is between her and me. It ain’t between her and me and the Sheriff and you and a circuit judge. It is between her and me, sir."

The last word comes out hard, almost a growl, and you see James’s fingers tighten very slightly against the edge of his notebook.

You sit very still in your chair and don’t breathe as you feel the hot, stinging pressure of tears rising behind your eyes, furiously, absolutely refusing to allow them to fall. You stare at the side of Joel's face, at the deep red flush across his cheekbones, and you understand with a sick, sinking lurch in your stomach that he’s not refusing the consummation, but rather the audience. He’s refusing the violation of the small, private, infinitely careful thing the two of you have built together. He’s refusing to have it weighed and measured and entered as evidence in a courtroom.

You understand it absolutely, and yet, beneath the understanding, there’s another, smaller, more painful voice whispering in the back of your mind that asks whether perhaps, despite all he’s said and done, he simply doesn’t want you in that way.

You don’t allow your face to move, but you feel the small, tight muscle in your own jaw lock, the hot pressure climb higher behind your eyes, and you slide your hand back to your own lap.

Across the table, James registers the change in you with the speed of a man flicking a card across a green baize table. His eyes dart to your face for less than half a second, then snap back to Joel.

"Mr Miller," he says quietly, "I take your point entirely. I shall give you and Mrs Miller some privacy in which to discuss the matter between yourselves. I shall step outside into this glorious morning and inquire as to whether the Sheriff might be able to procure some coffee. I shall return shortly and should you wish to dismiss the proposal entirely, sir, I will receive the dismissal without argument, and we shall pursue an alternative defensive strategy."

He stands up smoothly, picks up his notebook and pencil, tucks them under his arm, nods once and then crosses to the door, pulling it shut behind him with a soft, deliberate click.

For perhaps ten seconds, neither you nor Joel move. Somewhere outside the door, you can hear the low murmur of James’s voice politely inquiring after the Sheriff's coffee mingled with the day-to-day workings of Sawyer’s Creek.

Joel keeps staring at the knot in the wood as you draw in a small, careful breath.

You mean to keep your voice perfectly level, to be the woman of steel who stood in Doc Cooper’s office and threatened to bankrupt the county, and the woman who had eviscerated Reverend Sawyer on the boardwalk in front of half the town.

You mean to be that woman, but what comes out of your mouth, instead, is a small, thin, betrayed whisper.

"You don’t want me."

Joel's head snaps up, the deep flush across his cheeks turning, in an instant, from embarrassed red to a stark, drained white. His eyes fly to your face with a force that almost rocks you backward in the chair, his hands raising up in a single sharp, helpless gesture.

"Darlin’…"

"It’s alright, Joel," you say, hearing your voice shake over the words. "I understand. Perhaps…perhaps time in a cell has given you the opportunity to think and perhaps you’ve decided that…”

He leaps from his chair, surges forward and then he’s on his knees beside you, his hands seizing yours where they sit clenched in your lap.

“Look at me,” he demands, his face inches from yours. “Darlin’, look at me.”

You slowly raise your eyes.

"Do not ever, ever say those words to me again. Do you understand me? Do not ever in your life say those words to me again."

"Joel…"

"There has not been a single hour these last months that I haven’t wanted you. I’ve wanted you sittin’ at the breakfast table and when you bend over Sarah's reading book at night and when you walk across the yard and when you’ve been sick and when you’ve been well and I…”

He breaks off, his body shaking.

“You have to know that I couldn’t have touched you the way I did in the barn if I didn’t want you. Nor would I have been so goddamn foolishly jealous of Samuel Thorne if I hadn’t thought he was tryin’ to take what’s mine. Darlin’ I…we…” he swallows. “I couldn’t have loved you the way I did that night if I didn’t want you. Hell, if things had been different…”

"Joel," you whisper.

"You ain’t been undesired, darlin’, you’ve been worshipped. There’s a difference. I didn’t want your first time to be when some stranger was lyin’ sick down the hall, or when you yourself weren’t fully healed and…and in the barn…” he lets out a ragged breath. “Well, that wouldn’t have been right neither, and maybe we oughta be thankin’ Tomás for interruptin’ us like he did.”

The hot pressure behind your eyes finally breaks and you feel the first tear spill over your lashes and slide down your cheek, hot and silent.

"Then why…when Mr Oliver said…"

"Because I don’t want it like this neither," he grounds out, his thumbs stroking frantically across the backs of your hands, his eyes misting. “Not on a goddamn writ. Not under a bond. Not for evidence to try and satisfy other people. We’ve been buildin’ somethin’ between us that is so careful and so quiet and so utterly ours that I’d rather chew off my own hand than have it dragged into a courtroom and weighed as a strategic asset. Do you understand me, darlin’? Do you understand what I’m tryin’ to say?"

"I understand.”

"Do you?"

"Yes, Joel. I understand, I do."

His shoulders sag and he leans forward, pressing his forehead against your clenched hands where they rest in your lap, his hair brushing your wrists. You feel the small, fine tremor that runs through his frame and watch, dizzily, as your own tears drip down onto the back of his head. You feel your hands unclench beneath his and turn over, palm up, your fingers threading into his beard, thumbs pressing gently against the rough plane of his cheekbones.

"Joel," you say quietly. "My darling, look at me."

He raises his head.

"You are the most caring, generous man I’ve ever known, and I don’t know why I said...” you shake your head. “You’re right about Mr Oliver’s proposal. I had the same response when he laid it before me yesterday afternoon. You’re right and I’ll tell him that we decline the third option, and we’ll find another way. I still haven’t given up on Doc Cooper and the town council and…”

"I didn’t say I declined the third option, darlin’."

You stare at him. “I…”

"I said not like this. I didn’t say not at all."

"Joel…"

"Lemme finish."

He shifts on his knees, drags a hand across his face, then he takes yours back, turns it over and presses his thumb into the soft centre of your palm, slowly, deliberately.

"I’ve been sittin’ in a brick box for over a week thinkin’ ‘bout you. Just about you, nothin’ else. There is nothin’ else to think about in this place, darlin’. I’ve thought about the night before I was arrested more times than I care to admit to a man of God or a lawyer. I’ve thought about it until I’ve very nearly worn the memory smooth. And what I’ve been thinkin’, darlin’, in the small hours of the night is that I might hang without ever havin’ known what it is to love my own wife properly and I can’t allow that. Do you understand what I’m tellin' you?"

"I think so.”

"So when that lawyer comes in here and tells me that he can have me released for forty-eight hours under a consultation bond, and that the bond will hold up before a circuit judge, and that the only condition is that I'm returned to this cell at the appointed hour... when he tells me that, darlin’, what my mouth says is not like this, and what my mouth means is that I will not have it weighed in a courtroom. But underneath what my mouth says, darlin’, there is another thing my mouth wants to say, and what that other thing wants to say is yes."

You go very still. "Yes?"

"Yes." His eyes don’t waver. "If you’ll have me on the condition that no piece of what passes between us is ever entered into evidence. If you’ll have me on the condition that the bond is the law's business and what happens at the ranch is ours and ours alone, and the lawyer can argue the rest of the case on his own pretty wits without our help, then yes, I’ll walk out of this Sheriff's office and not waste a single one of those forty-eight hours."

You look at him for a long moment, kneeling at your feet on the dusty floor, his hands wrapped around yours, his eyes burning with a banked, hungry fire that has nothing to do with strategy and nothing to do with consummation evidence and everything to do, simply, with the man you’ve married who wants you.

You lean forward in the chair, take his face in your hands and press your forehead against his.

"Then yes, Joel," you whisper. "On those conditions, yes."

His shoulders sag again, but this time from a long, slow exhalation of profound, weary relief, as though something he’s been carrying for a great deal longer than a week has at last been set down on the floor between you.

You sit there with your foreheads pressed together for a long, quiet moment, listening to the slow, even sound of his breathing. You feel the rough scratch of his beard against your cheekbone, the warm pressure of his hands on yours and the steady, deep, drumbeat rhythm of his pulse where your fingertips rest against his throat.

"You’d better call your lawyer back in here,” he says finally. “We got a bond to sign."

You laugh, small and watery and slightly broken, but it’s a laugh that feels like the first sip of cool spring water at the end of a very long, very dry road.

When James comes back into the office, he doesn’t look at your damp lashes or the faint pink at the rim of Joel's eyes. He simply resumes his chair, opens his notebook and lifts his pencil.

"So, have we arrived at a determination?"

Joel clears his throat. "We have, sir, but I have a question first.”

“Of course, ask away.”

“Does my wife have to take the stand? I mean, is there any way, if this thing goes to trial, that we can avoid that happenin’?”

James blinks. “Unfortunately not. If we’re forced into a trial, your wife will be a very important witness and given how articulate she is, I would be remiss not to use her.”

“Joel?” You look over at him. “I can do it.”

He pauses for a long moment, his gaze fixed on an indeterminate spot, then blinks twice and nods. “Then we'll take the option you suggest, sir – with conditions."

“Name them."

"First, what happens at the ranch over those forty-eight hours is the ranch's business. Not yours or the Sheriff's or the judge's. You won’t ask either of us about it. You won’t ask anyone else who knows us about the state of our marriage. If the prosecution puts that question to my wife on the stand, she’ll answer it truthfully and with dignity, and that’ll be the end of it. I expect you to intervene if any questions are asked tryin’ to probe into the nature of timin’ or method or the like. We ain’t manufacturin’ evidence, sir, we’re conductin’ a private marriage. Are we clear?"

"Entirely clear,” James nods, his pencil moving over the page.

"Second, I’ll not give the Sheriff a single cause to regret signing the paper for this bond, so I gotta be returned here on time."

"Noted."

"Third." Joel pauses, his hand reaching for yours again. "My wife sets the pace of every moment of those forty-eight hours. If she changes her mind about anythin’, the bond still stands and I still return on time. Are we clear on that too, sir?"

"Crystal clear, Mr Miller."

James sets down his pencil and looks across the table at the two of you for a long, considered moment.

“The bond paperwork has already been prepared and all it requires are the appropriate signatures. I believe you shall both be on your way back to the ranch within the hour."

“What about you?” You frown. “Don’t you have to come with us?”

“Mr Miller is being released into my custody, yes,” James nods, “but I have some business that I need to attend to in Sawyer’s Creek and therefore it would seem more appropriate for me to remain here in town until that business has concluded. You’re welcome to the brougham, of course.”

You glance at Joel. “But…”

“I am liable for what happens whilst Mr Miller is under bond, but that doesn’t mean he has to be in my sight at all times. Obviously, were you to flee the state, there would be ramifications for me, but you’re not planning to do that, Mr Miller, are you?”

The pause before Joel answers is longer than you would have considered appropriate, but just as you open your mouth to gently nudge him into responding, his grip tightens around your hand.

“No sir, I am not.”

“Good,” James smiles. “Well, let’s get you out of here.”

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰❤️➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

You run, your hand on the iron banister, using it to take the first four steps in two strides, your feet finding the worn stone. Behind you, Joel yells your name, but you keep running forwards, towards the courtyard and Javi, who’s already moving, his face coming up as you descend, reading you before you've reached him.

You hit the courtyard at speed, and his hands catch you by the arms, absorbing the momentum.

"We have to go,” you pant. "Right now, we have to get out of here!"

"What…?"

"It's a setup, all of it. Marco, this building…they're coming for you. Joel said there are men in the passage…” You turn, reading the courtyard with its three doors, the colonnade shadow and the single entrance of the passage behind you. "I don't know where Joel and Marco…they were trying to get me out the back and I…"

His hand goes to the gun at his hip with specific practiced movement, the draw and the check, his eyes already off you and on the passage entrance.

The sound comes from there first, not voices, but rather movement, the specific quality of multiple bodies moving fast through a confined space, the echo of the passage amplifying and multiplying the footsteps.

His hand finds your arm. "Behind me.”

"I have a gun," you reply, pulling the weapon out, pushing the phone into your back pocket and then discarding your bag on the ground.

"Behind me,” he says again, in a tone that suggests it’s not up for discussion. "Stay on my left and stay close.”

“Just like the old days,” you breathe, as the first man comes through the passage entrance.

Javi fires before he’s fully cleared the threshold, the single shot ringing out in the enclosed space, and the man goes down, his compatriot requiring to adjust his position long enough for Javi to move, pulling you with him towards the colonnade on the left.

The shadow of it swallows you both and Javi gestures to the door – the one on your left, the one Marco went through earlier. You twist the handle, find it unlocked and hurry through, Javi bringing up the rear, pulling it mostly closed and putting his back to the wall beside the frame.

As your eyes adjust, you see a corridor in front of you, running deeper into the building's interior, with offices on both sides. At the far end, there’s a junction with options of left or right, the building's internal geography opening up. Behind the door, in the courtyard, you can hear voices now, talking fast and low in Spanish.

"How many came through?" you whisper.

"I saw two," he replies, "but there were more behind."

"Okay…” you breathe, counting to ten quickly in your head, allowing the familiarity of the past settle in your chest and help clear your thinking. “Left or right?”

He looks at the junction, calculating. "Right runs back toward the passage. Left should take us toward the rear of the buildin’."

“The back exit.” He nods. “Okay, let’s go.”

You start moving along the corridor, taking the left turn and it opens into another narrower passage, the commercial premises of the upper floors accessible by a secondary stair that rises on your right. The ceilings are lower here, the smell of stone, old timber and salt-coast damp almost overwhelming.

Javi moves fast and low, you behind him and to the left, close enough to communicate, far enough that a single burst won’t take you both. Above you, you hear the sound of boots on stone and you both slam to a halt at the realisation that someone has come in through the upper level and is descending, the footsteps deliberate. A single person, moving carefully.

You both press yourselves back against the wall, guns up, and as the man comes around the corner, Javi moves, slamming his body into the opposite wall, pressing his gun to the man’s throat. The man – younger than you imagined, goes still immediately, the whites of his eyes enormous in the dim light.

"Cuántos?" Javi says against his ear. The man says nothing and he presses harder.

"Seis," the man says finally.

Javi looks at you over his shoulder and you can see him running the math in his head. Then he hits the man with the butt of the gun in one specific efficient movement, finding the precise location through years of practice, and the man folds without drama, sliding to the floor.

"There has to be a door at the end of this passage," you say.

He nods, and you keep moving forwards, slower now, listening for the sounds of others, until the door appears in front of you, heavy and iron banded. He reaches for the handle, twists it and it shakes against its hinges. He presses against it, and you join him, only for it to remain immoveable.

"Mierda," he swears quietly and you stare at the wood, the terrible realisation that Joel has locked you inside settling in your chest and fighting for recognition that you don’t have time to give it right now.

“The stair,” you say, thinking quickly. “We go up and over. The gallery above looks like it runs the full perimeter, so there has to be an exterior stair on the rear elevation." He hesitates. "It’s an old building. There has to be a secondary way down in case of fire."

"You're guessin’.”

"Yes, but I don’t think we have many other options right now. If we go back the way we came…” You trail off at the sudden sound of voices behind you, the decision seemingly made with no time for any further considerations.

The secondary stair going up is narrow and dark and your shoulder hits the wall twice on the turns. Javi’s hand presses against your back through the tight sections, encouraging you onwards and, eventually, the upper floor arrives in a sliver of light, and you exit through a door at the top onto a landing, then into a corridor that runs perpendicular to the gallery.

Javi takes your arm, holding you at his side whilst you both listen to the sound of footsteps distributed across multiple levels of the building in the coordinated sound of people closing a net.

"The gallery," he says quietly. "If we can reach the rear corner…"

A door opens to your left before he completes the sentence, the man who emerges experiencing a fraction of a second of surprise before Javi pulls you out of the way and subdues him. Stepping over the body, you press your back to the wall beside the open door and sweep the interior of the room. It’s empty and when you cross to the window on the far wall, you see the external stair – iron, bolted to the stonework and running from the first-floor gallery level down to the alley below.

"Here," you say, Javi joining you at the window. “If we get out onto the ledge we can drop down.”

"You first," he says, nodding when you hesitate. “Go – I’m right behind you.”

The window opens inward and you slide through it, feet first, your toes reaching, then finally gaining purchase on the ledge, before you drop down to the gallery rail below and move toward the external stair. It’s old and steep, ringing like a bell with every footfall – the specific resonant clang of iron announcing you and Javi to the alley below, to every window above and to anyone who happens to be waiting.

Halfway down, there’s a shot from above, the bullet striking the iron rail two feet from your hand. Pressing flat against the stair you turn and return fire upward – two shots, the angles wrong, suppressive rather than accurate – hear Javi firing above you and then the sound of someone falling heavily.

"Move," Javi says as he reaches you and, seconds later, the two of you hit the alley and start running, feet slapping against the concrete, breath tearing from your throat, chest burning and eyes streaming.

A block from the building, he shoves his gun into the waistband of his jeans, and you follow suit. The transition is seamless, borne from countless similar encounters, the shift from one mode to the other, walking replacing the running. To the casual observer, you’re simply two people moving with purpose through a street. The tourists with their cameras and their morning coffee part around you with complete indifference to everything that has just happened.

"They'll have the main road covered," you say, when you’ve recovered breath enough to talk.

"Yes." His hand finds its way to the small of your back again. “This way.”

You let him guide you, second left, right at a church with a blue door, through a covered market passage that smells of fish and cut flowers and the particular sweetness of overripe mango, then left into a street that runs along the inside of the old wall. A car slows in front of you and you both slide into a doorway simultaneously with the coordination of two people who know each other's rhythms. The car passes without stopping and you keep moving.

You take the next right, then left, the buildings changing register, the Colonial giving way to the early twentieth century, and when an alley appears to your right, Javi pulls you into it. It’s too narrow for cars and too dark for tourists. You follow him deep into the shadows, then you both stop for breath, allowing your bodies to honestly account for the last half hour, your lungs asserting themselves with considerable conviction. Javi rests beside you, his shoulder against yours, his chest doing the same frank admission of effort.

You bend forward and put your hands on your knees, inhaling and exhaling for you’re not sure how long, the alley around you quiet and staying quiet – no footsteps, no voices, the street beyond it going about its business.

“You okay?” he asks, and you clearly take too long to answer as you feel his hands on you before you can utter a word. They move quickly, taking rapid inventory, checking, accounting, reading you for damage.

"I'm fine," you manage finally, but his hands don’t stop.

They move to your face, tilting it towards whatever light the alley has, his eyes doing their own inventory, reading the evidence of the morning in your expression, in the flush of exertion, in whatever else is written there.

"Javi, I'm fine…"

"Let me see," he says and so you hold still whilst his hands move through your hair looking for blood, for impact, for the evidence of things that might have happened in the building or on the stairs or in the moments when you were separated by the width of a corridor or the turn of a landing. "Nothin’," he says, more to himself than to you.

"I'm fine," you say again as his hands still in your hair while he looks at you "Are you hurt?"

"No,” he replies softly. "I'm fine."

You look at him as your hand moves over his heart, feeling the hammer of it through his shirt. His hand covers yours and with the touch of it, something breaks in his expression, the specific fracturing of the operational face, the thing underneath it surfacing fast and complete.

"Dios…when I heard you…" his voice cracks. "When I heard rabbit and I didn't know…"

You kiss him hard, your hands fisting in his shirt and pulling him to you, your mouth finding his with the specific violence of relief, of fear finding its other side, of countless minutes of not knowing resolving into this.

He makes a sound against your lips, broken and raw, and kisses you back like he’s trying to crawl inside you, like the only proof that matters is this, his tongue in your mouth and his hands shaking against your jaw and the full weight of him pressing you back into the alley wall.

You pull him harder against you – no space, no air, nothing between you but the morning and what it’s been and the specific desperate need to confirm that you’re both on the other side of it. His thigh moves between yours, his hand sliding into your hair and gripping, pulling your head back, his mouth moving over yours.

Your teeth catch his bottom lip, and he groans your name into your mouth, the sound vibrating through both of you, his hand tightening in your hair hard enough to hurt and you don’t care because you want it, want the hurt of it, want the proof of his hands on you.

You kiss him harder, his hand leaving your hair to grab your thigh, operating purely on the desperate arithmetic of skin and breath and the need to be closer even though closer isn’t possible. Then his mouth moves to your neck, teeth scraping against your throat, his hand gripping hard enough to bruise, his breath coming in harsh bursts against your skin.

“Javi…” you gasp, and he suddenly pulls back, just far enough to look at you, his eyes completely black, mouth swollen, chest heaving.

"Mierda…" he swears, forehead dropping to yours, both of you breathing like you've run another mile. “I thought…I thought…”

“I know.” You cup his face gently and drop a soft kiss on his lips, practicality winning through. “How far are we from the hotel?”

He moves away from you, pulls out his gun and checks it, his eyes on the alley entrance. “Three blocks.”

“How long?” You ask, the look he gives you in response indicative of the fact that he knows exactly why you’re asking.

Ava.

“Ten minutes – give or take.”

“Okay,” you nod, pushing off the wall and quickly checking your own weapon before following him out of the alley and back onto the streets where ten minutes quickly become more like fifteen – not because of distance, but because of the doing of it correctly.

The route you take to avoid arterials adds four hundred metres, then you have to pause at the corner where a dark saloon sits idling outside a café and stand inside a hardware store pretending to examine paint until it moves.

Your heart surges as the hotel finally appears in front of you and you move quickly through the lobby, noticing the complete absence of evidence that anything untoward has happened, knowing you should feel relief, but unable to allow yourself to feel it until you’ve seen the proof.

You take the stairs two at a time, Javi at your back, then run along the corridor to the room, stopping yourself short from banging on the door and instead knock as calmly as your body will allow.

There’s a pause that seems to last an eternity and then Elena opens the door, her face rapidly assessing the two people standing in front of you.

“Dios mío” she says quietly, then steps back to allow you inside.

The first thing you see is Ava, sat on the rug with the blocks, her back to the door. For a second, you simply watch her, your body a beat behind your heart, then she hears you and turns, her eyes lighting up at the sight, a wide smile crossing her face as she instantly pulls herself to her feet and toddles towards you.

“Mama!”

The sound of her voice causes your body to go limp and you drop to the floor in front of her, throwing your arms around her and pulling her to you, her face going into your neck and her hands gripping your shirt with the fierce grip of a person who knows exactly how to hold on. You inhale deeply, holding onto the specific irreplaceable smell of her and press your face into her hair.

Then, you start to cry – not gradually, not in a dignified way with a single tear and a composed expression and the quiet management of it, but rather with emotion that arrives without permission and without warning, the kind that has been waiting in your body since you first locked eyes with Joel and is now arriving at its purpose.

Your shoulders are shaking before you know it’s happening. You feel Ava register the change and her hands tighten in your shirt. Elena's voice sounds at your ear – quietly, words you don’t understand – and then she takes Ava from you and moves towards the window with her.

Javi’s hands land on your shoulders, drawing you gently upwards from the floor towards him before steering you towards the bathroom, where he sits you gently on the edge of the tub and closes the door. Then he sits beside you and says nothing, his hand moving slowly on your back, not telling you to stop or to quieten, but just moving gently, aware that some things need to run their course and that the most useful thing is to be present while they do.

You let yourself sob whilst his hand stays on your back and when the worst of it has passed, he reaches past you and pulls a towel from the rail, putting it in your hands without comment. You press it to your face and take a deep breath.

“Can you…” his voice shakes slightly and you hear him pause to correct it. “Can you tell me what happened in that room?”

You lower the towel and stare at the while hotel tiles in front of you, deliberately avoiding his gaze.

“Querida,” he says, voice lower. “Did he…did he touch you?”

You shake your head dumbly. “Not…not like that, not like you’re imagining. He…I kissed him, he held me, but…it was all lies, Javi, all of it. He never cared about me, never loved me – not the way that I loved him. It was…it was like looking at someone else, someone I didn’t recognise.”

He waits, and you feel the weight of the waiting like a present entity in the room with you.

“He told me the truth – about himself,” you say slowly. “Told me that Sarah was real, but she didn’t die because of a car bomb. He shot and killed her by accident during a drive-by shooting and the cartel…erased her. That’s why you couldn’t find any records on her.”

He exhales.

“After she died, he left and moved to Austin. Only he didn’t leave, not really. The cartel reactivated him shortly after I moved to Cedar Park and…and that’s when he started targeting me.”

You put your hands over your face.

“The whole thing was a ploy. It was all to get to you. The plan was to abduct me, bring me to Colombia and torture me to reel you in. He said they knew you’d come if you thought I was in danger and, when you did, they’d torture and kill you. He said…he said he didn’t know why but…I don’t believe him. I think…I think he knows but he just didn’t want to tell me.”

“Maldito,” Javi swears softly, his arm coming around your shoulder, pulling you gently into him, his lips finding your hair.

“Do you know?” You ask softly. “Do you know why? I mean – you’re just one agent, but you told me before that this has been going on for years and you must have asked yourself why.” He tenses, his arm tightening around you and after a few seconds, you pull back and look up into his face. “Javi?”

You wait for him to deflect, to shrug, to claim he has no idea – to wear the look of dishonesty that you saw so many times during your marriage. But, instead, he meets your gaze and nods.

“I know why.”

You move slightly away from him.

“In the beginnin’ it was because I was prominent in the investigation. Speakin’ Spanish, being able to move around easier than those who didn’t…my name got out there, got back to the people in the cartel who obviously thought I’d have useful information. Latterly, when I came back to Bogotá after Escobar escaped…” he pauses, but his eyes never leave yours. “It was because I was feedin’ information to Los Pepes.”

Your jaw drops fractionally, the substance of what he’s saying landing hard. Los Pepes – the vigilante death squad formed in the months before Escobar’s death with the sole purpose of destroying him. Los Pepes – who brought violence and murder to the streets.

“It wasn’t official. I did it on my own, no-one knew, no-one sanctioned it.” He pauses. “Was it the right thing to do, I don’t know. All I know is, I thought my time in the DEA was up after Escobar died because it got back to the top brass and so…I resigned before they could fire me. I never thought, in a million years, that they would ask me to come back. But when I did…I guess the cartel Joel operates with now saw me as some kind of threat. Or maybe it’s Cali, worried that I know too much, I…” he looks away. “I’m sorry – I should’ve told you all this.”

You blink, your brain running rapidly over what he’s saying, thinking about dates, timelines, what makes sense and what doesn’t.

“But Los Pepes was only formed after Joel left me – and from then until now, nobody's tried to get close to me or…”

“Maybe they figured, after Joel left, it would look too suspicious.”

“But they could have just taken me, abducted me, like he said they were planning to. I don’t understand…”

“What is there to understand about this fucked up country, this fucked up world?” He says softly. “You could try to analyse it a hundred different ways and still end up with no answers – not real ones anyway.” He reaches out and cups your face again, your eyes closing, head automatically turning into his touch. “I love you, querida.”

“I love you too,” you whisper, saying the words for the first time in more years than you can remember, and meaning them. When you open your eyes, you see him looking at you with an expression that’s part devastation, part relief and part something else you can’t name.

“The first thing we need to do is get you and Ava the hell out of here. There’s a direct flight from Cartagena to Miami and I want you both on it – this afternoon.”

You look at him, the heat of his hand still warm against your cheek. "Come with us.”

"I can’t.”

"Please.”

"I can't,” he says again, his voice wavering slightly. "I have to go back to Bogotá. There’s gonna be chatter about this and fallout and I’m gonna have to explain…” he breaks off and exhales. “What happened this mornin’ needs to be accounted for. Joel, Marco, whoever sent those men… if I disappear with you tonight then none of it gets…"

“I don’t care about any of that,” you interrupt, tears welling in your eyes again. “I want you to come with us, Javi, I need…”

“I know and I want to, but I have to do this, and you and Ava can’t be in Colombia while I’m doin’ it," he says firmly and you feel the non-negotiable weight of his words. "I need you both back safe on American soil. You’ll fly to Miami tonight, then get a connection back to Austin."

"Javi, please,” you beg, panic rising in your chest. “You said you’d leave, you said…"

He turns on the edge of the tub to look at you, both hands coming to your face now, warm and gentle against your skin, his gaze holding yours. "I’ll come to you when it’s done. When I’ve done what I need to do, I’ll hand in my resignation, get on a plane and I’ll come to you, querida, I promise." His thumbs move at your cheekbones. "But I need you there to come to. I need to know you're there – you and Ava."

You look at him, at his earnest expression, entirely present, entirely here, entirely not lying to you.

"How long?" you whisper.

"I don't know."

"But…"

"I don't know," he repeats. “A month, maybe two."

“That’s too long,” you inhale sharply, the tears spilling down your cheeks again. “I don’t want to be without you. Ava needs you – I need you…”

He leans forward, the gentle pressure of his mouth on yours silencing whatever words are destined to come next, his thumbs wiping at the salty liquid on your skin.

Eventually, he pulls back and rests his forehead against yours. “I love you, querida, and I swear – on my own life, on my father’s life, even on Ava’s life – I’ll come to you. If you want me to, if you’ll have me, I’ll come.”

“I want you to,” you breathe and you close your eyes and kiss him again until Ava’s protests from the bedroom force the two of you apart and back into the present moment.

You pack fast, folding yours and Ava’s things together with both a desperation and a reluctance. Desperation to get out of Colombia, away from Joel and the sourness he’s left in your gut, but also reluctance to leave Javi to face whatever’s going to come next. Glancing up, you see him on the phone, talking low and fast in Spanish, moving the pieces that need to be moved in order to get you and Ava to relative safety.

"The flight's at three-thirty," he says when he hangs up the call. "I have you both booked on it and you’ll be back in the States by tonight. Go to the airport hotel in Miami and then take the connectin' flight to Austin in the mornin’. Elena and I will travel back to Bogotá.”

You nod wordlessly.

“You call me when you land in Miami and again when you get back to Austin, okay?”

“Okay,” you manage.

He nods and exhales, the plan imperfect but at least real. “Okay.”

****

The journey to the airport takes thirty-five minutes.

Javi drives in a way that exudes hyper-vigilance. You see it in the watchfulness of the simple act, the additional layer that isn’t visible in the hands on the wheel or the set of his shoulders but that you can feel in the car, in the particular way his eyes move between the mirrors and the road and the mirrors again. The route takes you through the secondary streets, the long way around.

You watch his profile – the jaw, the eyes moving through their pattern and see beyond that, to the other thing, the thing that isn’t the drive or the mirrors or the route.

"Don't," he says, voice low.

"I'm not doing anything.”

"You're lookin’ at me like you're memorisin’ me.”

You turn to look out the windscreen. “Maybe I am,” you reply and his hand comes across to your lap, warm fingers folding around yours, Ava babbling in the backseat as though the sight has stirred something inside her.

You don’t speak again until you reach the terminal, Javi pushing the trolley through the crowds whilst you follow with Ava on your hip. At the check-in desk, you watch the bags disappear, then retrieve your passports and boarding passes, smiling weakly as you’re told to have a pleasant flight.

"Gate fourteen," Javi says, reading over your shoulder, then glancing up at the board. "You’ve got an hour, but you should go through security now. Don't wait."

You look at him and nod, stomach clenching. "I need to say something.”

He blinks.

"I know you have a list of things you need to do, and I know that list is real, and I know this isn't the place to talk about it but…" you take a breath. "I don’t care about the reasons why people want you dead, Javi. I don’t care about Los Pepes or whether it’s Cali or whether it’s another group of fuckin’ psychos who…I just…I need you to come home for good. I need this to be real.”

"It is real," he says.

You nod, feeling your throat start to thicken. “We didn’t make it to the finca.”

“There’s still time,” he nods. “We’ll get there – or somewhere else.”

“If I didn’t have Ava,” you say, voice breaking on the words. “If I didn’t have Ava, I would stay. I would stay with you, I would…”

He steps forward and kisses you, firm, gentle and tender, and you kiss him back, because you don’t care who might be around to witness it.

"I love you," he says, when you pull back.

"I love you too,” you sniff, “and I need you to come home."

"I will.”

"Say it again – properly.”

"I will come home," he says, emphasising each word. "I promise you."

He presses his mouth to your forehead and holds it there for a beat, before turning to Ava and taking her from your arms. Lifting her gently, he brings her against his chest, holds her and looks at her face.

She looks back at him, quietly assessing, then grins. “Ha-vee.”

“Cuídate pequeña," he says quietly, closing his eyes and kissing the top of her head. Then he passes her back to you, steps back and looks at you. "Go.”

You nod, too full of emotion for further words, hoist Ava and your carry-on in your arms and turn towards security without looking back.

Tears blur your eyes as you move through the motions, queuing, dropping metal items into trays, and negotiating Ava through the metal detector in a way that’s acceptable to both. On the other side, you look at the departures board again.

Gate fourteen.

You start to walk slowly, Ava insisting on being put down so she can toddle beside you, her hand firmly in yours, watching the people around her with critical attention. You pass gates twelve and thirteen and see gate fourteen ahead – the seating area beginning to populate with families arranging themselves among the plastic chairs, a man asleep with his mouth open across three seats and a child working through a packet of crisps with mechanical focus.

You let out a breath.

"Excuse me."

You keep walking.

"Señora."

You suddenly feel a hand on your arm and stop dead, turning to see two people in suits standing to your left, a man and a woman, their expressions neutral.

"Agent Peña,” the woman says.

“I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong…"

"Agent Peña," she says again, as though she hasn’t heard you. "We need you to come with us, please."

"I'm not…" you look down at your boarding pass, your fingers curling tighter around Ava’s. "My name is not Peña, and I have a flight that boards in…"

"We're aware of your flight," the woman says with professional pleasantness – not unkind or aggressive, but simply a voice that indicates things will go much smoother if you simply cooperate. "This won't take long. If you'll come with us, please."

"My daughter…"

"Your daughter is welcome to come," the man says, stepping forward and raising his arm. “This way, please.”

You swallow hard, considering your options. Running will only draw attention to yourself and where would you and Ava run to? The gate isn’t open, the flight not yet ready for boarding and, besides, you can tell both the people in front of you are armed. You turn and look back the way you came, as if by some magic Javi will appear and whatever misunderstanding there is will be cleared up.

"Can I see your identification?"

“I promise that you’re in no danger,” the woman says, smiling down at Ava, who’s now looking up with curiosity and barely contained patience.

"I asked for..."

"Come now, please," she repeats, looking at you with the same smile.

“Okay,” you say after a beat, your heart hammering wildly as you follow them through the throngs of people over towards a door clearly only accessible with a key card. As you move, you reach into the pocket of you bag, the one containing the phone with Javi’s number still programmed in, fingers closing around it gratefully.

The man swipes, punches in a code and then pushes it open, gesturing for you and Ava to go first. Slowly, you walk through, the sounds of the departure lounge swallowed up as it closes behind you. The woman moves in front, and you follow her along a long corridor to another door that she swipes and opens.

Inside the room there’s a table with four chairs and no windows.

"Someone will be with you shortly," the man says and he and the woman leave, closing the door behind them before you can ask any questions.

“Mama,” Ava says as you set your bag down in the corner and stare at the chairs as though they might somehow not be real. Slowly, you pull one out and sit down gingerly, pulling her onto your lap and giving her your boarding card to inspect.

Five minutes pass and then ten, the room silent around you, the boarding pass now slightly damp and partially destroyed by Ava’s fingers. You take a breath and think about the two of you on the plane, Ava at the window watching Cartagena change and morph into Miami below you. You think about Javi, the look on his face and the feel of him against you, until you can’t think about him anymore. You reach into your bag and pull out the phone, noticing with dismay that there's no signal.

After another few moments, the door in front of you opens, and your eyes fly to it, your body bracing for whatever interrogation is about to follow.

And then you see who’s standing at the threshold.

Joel.

He comes through the door, looks at you and Ava, then closes it behind him.

You get to your feet quickly, pulling Ava close to you, moving away from the table until your back hits the far wall. Your fingers fumble over the useless phone and it drops to the floor with a crack.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Joel says, voice low, one hand reaching towards you.

“Get the fuck away from us,” you say in a voice that wants to be a shout but comes out merely as a whisper.

"We don’t have much time, and I need you to hear me.”

"I've heard you," you say, voice shaking. "I heard you this morning telling me what you built around me and what you used me for and then you tried to have me and Javi killed…!”

“No.”

“…and there is nothing more that I want to hear from you." You tremble, holding Ava so close that she starts to protest. "I don’t know why you’re here, or why you’ve brought us here like this, but I have a flight to catch that I’m going to miss if you don't let me out of this room."

"You're not gonna miss your flight.”

"How would you…?"

"Because I have someone holdin’ the gate," he says, “I promise you won’t miss it.”

You look at him and he looks at Ava – the brown eyes finding the brown eyes – and you see something moving through his face, returning to the moment when you said she has your eyes and your mouth and your curls.

"I need two minutes," he says, eyes lingering on Ava before moving back to you. "Two minutes and then you get on your flight and I'll never…" he takes a breath. "Two minutes."

"Joel…"

He reaches towards the back pocket of his jeans, and you tense with a sharp inhale that he recognises. “It’s not a weapon. I’m not…please, it’s…” He continues with the motion, then draws his hand back and you see him holding what looks like a small white card.

Slowly, he places it on the table, and, for a moment, you just hold his gaze, not trusting yourself to look, not wanting to see. After a beat, he motions with his head, encouraging you, and you take a small step forwards, then another, your eyes eventually dropping down.

It’s the emblem that hits you first. The blue circle, edged in yellow. The eagle, the shield and the rose.

Then you read the words printed underneath and your knees threaten to give out.

Joel Miller - Central Intelligence Agency

🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫

Part Twenty-Four

Main Story ♱

Part 1: Don't Blame Me

Part 2: Dollhouse

Part 3: Sad Girl

Part 4: Religion

Part 5: Try Me - TBD

Part 6: Salvatore - TBD

Part 7: Out of Time - TBD

Epilogue: Risk It All - TBD

Drabbles ♱

Lost in the Fire (from Part 4)

Links ♱

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#fic: haunted

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