✩𝐦𝐢𝐚𝐡✩

Notes: I swore this fic would be 12 chapters. Then I wrote 6k words for this single chapter and only covered like 30% of what I had planned, and I just sat there like… oh fuck. I'm not doing a 15k chapter again, no no no. So yeah, the chapter count is now a suggestion more than a promise. We’re probably looking at 13… 14… The outline is ready but the story keeps growing when I actually write it. Also, I usually try to post on Saturdays, but I’m trying to build a little buffer because next weekend I'm going to MOTHER ETHEL CAIN concert in another country and I won’t be able to write. I refuse to leave my girls hanging for two weeks, so I’m trying to get ahead. That said… I’m anxious as hell and might just post the next chapter tomorrow if you promise you’ll read it 😂

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Tommy.

The Fireflies.

…

Tommy.

The sun had barely risen but your mind was spiraling.

You fell back into formation and kept moving, one foot in front of the other, eyes scanning the road ahead out of habit while your brain refused to stay in the present for longer than thirty seconds at a time.

You pressed your cuffed hands against your chest. Every time your heart raced, it dragged up the old fear automatically, like it always had since you were five years old and first learned that your body could betray you without warning. You knew the difference by now between your heart genuinely struggling or simply reacting to stress, and you also knew it wouldn’t fail anymore after the surgeries. But it left behind a residue of anxiety that settled over everything else anyway.

The cuffs. Of course he had put the cuffs back on.

That was the thing about Tommy Miller in the aftermath… the cold, mechanical act of it. Like a door closing. Like he needed the physical act of restraining you to remind himself of what you were supposed to be to him: a job. He would reach for those cuffs with the same hands that had been holding your bare skin against him minutes before, and he would click them shut without meeting your eyes, becoming someone else entirely while you watched it happen.

You couldn’t quite place your thoughts on one thing at a time. Everything was piling up, almost suffocating.

The fireflies.

What will happen when the Fireflies find me? you wondered.

Would they kill the brothers on sight? Or, more realistically... would them even stand a chance against the Millers?

The ghost feeling of the cold tile against your back shifts your thoughts again.

The way Tommy’s eyes would lock on yours every time he surrendered.

You had watched him fight and you had watched him lose so many times, until the only thing left was his forehead against yours and his breath in your mouth and his eyes saying everything his voice refused to.

I told you I'd stop.

You breathed in slowly through your nose and let the frustration linger.

The fireflies.

They were close.

The relief of it was still warm in your chest but underneath it, quieter and considerably less comfortable, something else had started moving.

What would be the aftermath of this encounter? Who would walk away alive from it?

What would Tommy do when the rules were no longer his to control and you didn’t need him anymore to go to Baltimore?

Would you still want him?

Would he choose you?

The honest answer was that you didn't know.

And you were not, as a rule, a person who was comfortable not knowing things. You had built your entire life around the ability to read people, to stay three steps ahead of whatever was coming.

It’s hard to tell when he kept choosing you and then punishing himself away, punishing you for it too. He kept reaching and then retreating, and…

Gosh, here was your mind on Tommy again.

You glanced ahead at Joel's broad, limping silhouette, then behind at Tommy's alert, scanning eyes. You had watched these two men dismantle a FEDRA squad without breaking a visible sweat. You had watched them navigate waves of infected with the cold efficiency of people who had been doing this for years. Your Firefly crew were committed and brave and well-trained. But they were not the Millers.

You needed a plan. You couldn’t afford to have them hurt.

And you couldn’t afford to have Tommy hurt either.

If your crew found you and made the wrong call, the outcome was not something you wanted to picture. And if somehow, against the odds, your crew managed to get the upper hand—

The book.

You stopped dead.

You forgot it on the entrance hall floor of the gymnasium when you threw it at Tommy's chest in the dark of early morning.

Your hands flew up to your face, pressing flat against your cheeks, fingers covering your eyes.

"What?" Tommy said, reaching you.

It was just a book. You knew that. In the scale of everything you had lost and everything that was still at stake, it was nothing.

Except it was your uncle. Except it was the quiet way Tommy was asking to be saved.  

And now it was gone. Like your uncle was gone. Like Tommy’s warmth too. Like everything eventually went.

You were not going to cry about a book. You were absolutely not going to cry about a book.

Your eyes burned anyway.

"Hey." Tommy's voice was closer now, quieter. "What happened?"

"I— I forgot the book there." The words came out smaller than you intended.

Tommy looked to the side. His jaw worked once, slowly.

"I’m sorry, I know it's stupid. I know it doesn't matter, I know it's just a book and we have bigger problems and I…" You stopped. Swallowed. "…It was important to me.”

He was quiet for a moment longer. Then he looked at you, fully, for the first time since the changing room and without the careful sideways avoidance he had been maintaining all morning.

"…It's in my backpack," he said quietly. "Relax."

You stared at him for a second. And then you stepped forward and cuddled into him the best you could, the cuffs making the embrace clumsy and incomplete, your face turning into his chest anyway because it was all you had and it was enough.

Tommy's hand came up and cradled the back of your head, hesitant for a second. Then his fingers pressed you gently closer, just for a moment, just long enough for you to feel his heartbeat under his chest.

Your throat got tight. Something in you wanted to say. Three words you had no business saying to someone who was smuggling you. The most specific and irreversible three words in any language.

You swallowed them back down.

But the book was in his backpack. And you felt those same three words sitting stuck in his throat.

Then he pulled back.

"Joel's watching us too closely," he said, his eyes moving briefly ahead to his brother's silhouette on the road. "Don't do this." He adjusted the strap of his backpack with one sharp tug. "Let’s move on."

---

A few hours later, the illusion of safety the gymnasium had offered was completely shattered.

A distant clicking, a rotten and organic smell on the air. Then a runner in the undergrowth, dealt with quickly and quietly. Then two more on the road ahead, navigated around with careful detours that cost you time and energy you didn't have to spare. By the afternoon the encounters were coming closer together, the gaps between them shrinking, the world pressing in from every direction with a density that hadn't been there yesterday.

The world already felt different from the days before. Worse.

Tommy's hand went up. All three of you stopped.

He and Joel exchanged one of their wordless conversations, a glance, a slight tilt of the head, a decision made and agreed upon in under two seconds. Tommy moved left, melting into the tree line with his crowbar already in hand. Joel positioned himself slightly ahead of you, pipe raised, watching the road.

You stayed still and counted.

Three more runners. Dealt with in under a minute, no bullets spent, no unnecessary noise.

You fell back into formation, Joel ahead, you in the middle, Tommy behind, and kept moving.

"Why is it getting worse?" you asked quietly, keeping your voice low, the same way you kept your footsteps careful and your eyes moving. "The further we go, the more there are."

"Population," Tommy said from behind you, his voice equally low. "Bigger cities, more people before outbreak. More people means more infected, more raiders, more of everything." A pause. "More resources too, if you know where to look. But yeah. It's just… more. All of it."

"I don't know how much more of this I can take before my heart actually gives out," you muttered, pressing your cuffed hands briefly against your chest.

"Good," Joel said flatly from ahead, not breaking stride. "Less talking."

He moved his fingers in his right hand, as if something was bothering him. You guessed it must have been from the punches he’d thrown Tommy hours before, and you thought Good. Hope it hurts.

Tommy exhaled quietly behind you. "We're doing fine," he said, and he was working very hard to sound like he believed it. "We've handled worse than this. We just keep moving. We're fine."

You glanced back at him briefly. His eyes were scanning the streets ahead, alert and focused. But underneath the vigilance something else was there. He was exhausted. He was scared. He was disguising both with the competence of someone who knew that falling apart was not an option.

At some point it was inevitable that you had to walk through some sort of city center. You reached a commercial street, the remains of shopfronts lining both sides with the display windows long since shattered. There was no way around it. The surrounding streets were blocked, the detour would cost hours you didn't have, and so you went through.

Joel studied the street for a moment, then nodded toward a cluttered pile of vehicles, a delivery truck wedged against two abandoned cars, high enough to see over the surrounding buildings.

"Stay put," he said quietly. "Both of you."

He moved toward the truck and began climbing, slow and careful, his bad leg making the ascent stiff and cautious.

You and Tommy stood in the middle of the dead street in silence.

His eyes found yours for exactly two seconds as a brief and involuntary contact. Then they moved away again, scanning the surroundings. But you had caught it. Those two seconds where the vigilance had slipped just enough to check on you.

"Tommy." You kept your voice low. "Do you have my Firefly pendant? Can you give it back?"

"Not now."

"Please."

"I said not now." The words came out between his teeth, eyes still moving over the street. "Goddammit."

"Tommy. I’m scared." Your voice was quiet but completely steady. "And if I die today I want to die with it on. I need to." You paused. "I want it on my body. Whatever happens."

Tommy went still, but not the tactical stillness of a man scanning for threats anymore. Something else entirely. The thought had landed somewhere undefended and you could see it moving across his face.

He looked at you. The guard dropped, enough that his eyes were just his eyes for a moment, not the careful instrument he used.

"I won't let that happen," he said quietly. "You hear me?"

"I trust you," you said simply. "But I'd still like it back."

Tommy held your gaze for one more second. Then he exhaled slowly through his nose and swung one strap of his backpack off his shoulder, fingers finding the small front pocket and unzipping it.

He took the pendant out. He held it for a moment, looking at it, before he settled the backpack back onto his shoulder.

You tilted your head slightly downward. His hands came up, rough and careful in equal measure, and he lowered the chain slowly over your head, letting it fall into place around your neck. His fingers eased the chain down with gentleness, his knuckles brushing your nape as he guided it, and you felt the small weight of the pendant settle against your sternum again, coming to rest exactly where it belonged.

His hands moved unhurried to your hair and drew it gently out from under the chain, letting it fall back over your shoulders. The gesture was so simple, so quiet and so intimate that neither of you breathed properly for a moment. His fingers lingered at the ends of your hair for just a second longer than the task required.

You looked up at him.

He looked down at you.

His expression was open in that way it only got when he forgot to be afraid of being human. His eyes moved from yours to the pendant resting against your chest, then back up.

The boots sounds cut the small spell that enchanted you both for seconds. Joel's steps hit the ground behind you.

You both turned.

Joel stood there. He wasn't angry, that would have been easier.

His face held something considerably more dangerous than anger: a stillness, a flatness, and you could see a suspicion being confirmed in real time. And then deciding, very calmly, what to do with the confirmation. His eyes moved between you, between Tommy's hands not quite finished pulling away, the proximity, the look on his brother's face.

He stood there for a long moment. Then, slowly, he raised one finger to his lips indicating silence.

He jerked his head toward the door of a small store to the left, a pharmacy, or what remained of one. And started moving toward it.

You looked at Tommy. The color had drained from his face completely. He swallowed once and his eyes met yours. Not reassuring exactly, maybe just acknowledging that whatever was about to happen was about to happen, and then he nodded toward the door.

The three of you slipped inside.

Tommy and Joel moved through the space quickly in an urgent sweep.

Then Joel turned around. The vein at his temple was visible from where you were standing. His face was composed in the way that was considerably more frightening than anything louder.

You took a step back. Then another. Then another, slow and careful, moving toward the far end of the store with your back to the shelving, putting as much distance as possible between yourself and Joel.

His eyes followed you. Then moved back to Tommy.

"Joel," Tommy's voice was half a decibel too loud, and Joel's eyes snapped to him like a blade.

"Tommy." Joel held up one hand and made a short, sharp silencing. Joel stepped closer to his brother, dropping his voice to barely above breath. "Across those cars. At least twenty runners. Dormant." His eyes didn't move from Tommy's face, with a cold, unblinking focus that meant he was done extending patience. "Keep it low. And tell me what the fuck is happening between you two."

Tommy's jaw worked. "Nothing's happening, Joel. I don't know what you think you—"

"Don't." The word came out soft and absolutely lethal. "Don't do that."

"I'm not doing anything—"

"I fucking saw it, Tommy."

"I was putting her pendant back, that's—"

"Her pendant." Joel repeated it slowly, like he was turning something over to find where it was broken. His voice dropped even lower, which somehow made it worse. “You’re out here in the middle of the fucking chaos, putting her necklace back on her like she’s your goddamn girlfriend. That’s what we’re doing now?”

But then Tommy's chin lifted slightly in that stubborn angle you had learned to recognize as the moment he stopped retreating and started pushing back. "Fuck you. She asked for it back. It's hers. I don't see why—"

"Because I told you what she was," Joel breathed, and the quiet fury in it was terrifying. "I told you exactly what she was doing and I watched you let her do it anyway and now you’re standing here in the middle of a street full of infected, being all nice with her like she’s anything else than—”

“Fuck you, Joel,” Tommy snapped, voice low but sharp. “Fuck you and all your orders and all your fucking assumptions.”

The two brothers stood chest to chest in the cramped space, not quite touching, but the hostility between them felt like a physical thing. Joel's hand ready at his side, Tommy's shoulders squared, neither of them willing to be the one who moved first. Years of loyalty, resentment and guilt compressed into six inches between them.

You watched the disaster unfolding, slow and suffocating. Waiting for the moment Joel would hurt Tommy again. And then the moment he would hurt you. Your heart was loud in your chest. You pressed your cuffed hands against your sternum, feeling the rhythm, too fast.

Then you felt something else entirely.

The air changed on your left side. Humid. Fetid. A wet, rasping hiss so close that the rancid warmth of it reached the side of your neck before you had registered the sound.

You could swear the heartbeat under your palm ceased.

You moved only your eyes. In your peripheral vision, close enough to touch, the fungal growths spiking from its skull, the orange threads webbing across one eye. It stood pressed against your left side, its ruined head tilting slowly, horribly. Downward, upward, sideways. Like a dog trying to resolve a scent it couldn't quite understand. Its chest heaved in low wet, broken breaths. Its fingers flexed at its sides.

It wasn't attacking. It was thinking, or whatever passed for thinking.

You knew this behavior. By now, you recognized it the way you recognized your own heartbeat. And because you knew, you also knew you had one minute. Maybe one and a half.

If the brothers didn't move to save you before these seconds, it would all be gone anyway. And if the brothers did move, if they saw the stalker standing beside you, simply evaluating you with its horrible tilted patience, then a different kind of disaster would begin. One that would unravel your secrets faster than any excuse you could come up with.

"Tommy." You breathed it. Barely a sound.

But Joel and Tommy were still locked on each other, both of them a single wrong word away from something physical.

The stalker's head tilted again. Its fingers flexed. It leaned almost imperceptibly closer.

"Tommy." Slightly louder this time, the word fraying at the edges despite everything you had to hold it together.

He turned. Then Joel.

For a fraction of a second they were processing it, Tommy's eyes finding the stalker, finding you, finding the impossible proximity of both, and then everything happened at once.

Both draw the gun at same time, but Joel shot first, the movement fast, instinctive and completely automatic.

The shot cracked through the dead air of the pharmacy. It missed the stalker by inches, and it missed your head by less.

You felt the air of it pass your face and your whole body lurched sideways, pure reflex, as the bullet buried itself in the shelving behind you, sending dust of plaster into your hair.

The stalker lunged, redirecting toward Joel at the noise and movement, covering the distance in one horrible fluid rush.

Tommy's shot came before the creature reached him. The stalker dropped and went still.

“You okay?” Tommy asked, voice urgent, almost scared to move closer in case he found you weren’t.

“I—I’m fine,” you finally managed after processing that you were still alive.

Silence crashed back into the pharmacy.

The three of you stood exactly where you were. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. The adrenaline had nowhere to go and so it just sat there, burning through your veins.

Tommy's eyes shifted to his brother.

Joel Miller did not miss. Not at that range. And not only he missed, but had nearly killed you. Tommy had watched his brother shoot in conditions that would have humbled any experienced shooter. And he did not miss like that.

Joel shifted the gun to his left hand and was opening and closing his right hand at his side. A small, almost imperceptible motion, the fingers curling and extending as if testing something.

Joel's eyes moved to you. Just for a moment, a brief, unreadable look that lasted too long, something flickering behind it that didn't quite resolve into any expression you could name, trying to make sense of what he saw.

Tommy moved toward you, one hand checking your face, the side of your head where the bullet had passed too close, your arm for bites, making sure that you were still whole before he could move on to anything else. He saw nothing but you in that moment.

But Joel… Joel saw it all.

Then the sounds started from outside.

The twenty dormant runners were no longer dormant. The noise of the gunshots had traveled, and now the wet clicking was escalating into something frantic, the shuffle of bodies hitting metal, the percussive slam of things throwing themselves against the vehicles outside trying to find the source.

"Barricade. All of it. Now." Joel orders.

You all moved. Tommy grabbed the nearest shelving unit and drove it toward the door. You moved to the windows, shoving the pharmacy counter with your shoulder, the cuffs making every movement clumsy but not impossible. Joel was already at the second window, dragging a heavy couch and slamming it into place.

There was nothing left to do but wait: either for the creatures to calm or for them to break in.

Tommy turned to you, he took your cuffed hands and separated them as much as the chain allowed, then placed his gun carefully into your left hand wrapping your fingers around the grip one by one until the hold was right.

His chest pressed against your back as he reached around, his arm running along yours, raising it until the gun was level. His other hand came to your left side, adjusting your stance with a firm, wordless pressure at your hip. "Keep your elbow soft. Don't lock it." His voice low enough that it existed only in the small space between his lips and your ear. "You see anything move that isn't me or Joel, you pull. Don't think. Just pull."

His hand tightened briefly over yours on the grip, making sure the hold was solid and then he stepped ahead and picked up his rifle.

The three of you stood in the dim, barricaded pharmacy. Guns up. Not speaking, breathing carefully and waiting.

The slamming and the disgusting sounds continued for tortuous long minutes.

You kept the gun high, bracing for the worst. The sounds loud and frantic outside.

Ten, twenty or forty minutes could have passed like that, you wouldn’t know. And gradually, unevenly, the slamming began to slow. Through the narrow crack in the barricaded window, you could see the street beginning to settle.

Then silence. Finally, real silence.

Tommy's back hit the barricaded door and he let it take his weight, eyes closing, head tipping back. He exhaled long and slow.

Joel immediately moved to you and took the gun from your hands without a word. Then he disappeared to the back of the store.

"We wait," Tommy said quietly, to his brother's direction. "Let them clear the street fully before we move."

Joel didn't reply. He came back carrying a chair. He set it down in the middle of the place with a single abrupt motion.

His right hand opened and closed at his side one more time.

"Sit."

You felt your limbs going numb. He would pull out now every secret you protected and you were helpless. You crossed to the chair and sat down.

He held the gun with his left hand and pressed the barrel to your temple.

"What was that?"

The strangled gasp that escaped you was involuntary, and every muscle in your body locked simultaneously. The metal was cold against your skin and your mind went completely white for a second, all strategy and calculation burned away by the single, clarifying fact that Joel Miller's finger was on that trigger and he would definitely pull it if he felt like it.

"Joel! Get the fuck away from her!" Tommy's voice came sharp and immediate from across the room, his body already moving.

Joel pressed the barrel harder against your temple. Your head tilted under the pressure.

"What? I… I don't know what you're talking about, Joel." The words came out fractured, your voice doing things you couldn't control. "Please take it off me. Please."

"Don't act dumb," Joel said quietly. "That's something we all know you're not."

"Joel, put the fucking gun down," Tommy stated once more.

"You stay where you are." Joel didn't raise his voice. "You are blind, Tommy? You saw what that stalker did?" His eyes stayed fixed on you, but the words were aimed at his brother. "It was standing right beside her. Dead still." A pause, each word landing with deliberate weight. "Have you ever seen that happen? Have you? In four years, have you ever once seen an infected do that?"

Silence. You watched Tommy's face across the dim light. Watched the frown form slowly, the pieces assembling themselves behind his eyes against his will.

"You're bitten." The gun pressed harder. "Aren't you. You're already bitten. When? When did it happen? When were you—"

"I'm not bitten!" The words tore out of you, louder than you intended, raw and genuine and completely unperformed. "I'm not! I swear to God, I am not bitten — Joel, please, I am not bitten!"

Your hands were shaking. The cuffs rattled.

"Why would that stalker have absolutely no interest in attacking you?"

The pharmacy was absolutely silent except for the distant, fading sounds of infected dispersing through the street outside.

You stared up at the barrel pressed against your temple and felt the answer sitting in your chest, not yet ready to be said out loud.

"Joel, I swear, I was never bitten." Tears were coming now, real ones, and you didn't try to stop them. "Please take this gun away. You're scaring me." You looked past the barrel. "Tommy. Tell him. Tell him I'm not bitten. I was by your side the whole time. You know I'm not."

Tommy's eyes moved between you and his brother. The confusion on his face was genuine.

"Joel." His voice came out measured. "I'm sure she wasn't bitten while she was with me. I would've seen it. And… they would still attack her. They just stop when the infection had completed its course.”

A long silence followed.

Then Joel lowered the gun. He started pacing. Four steps toward the back of the store without a word, disappearing into the shadows beyond the collapsed shelving.

Tommy looked at you, in doubt and incredulous and scared at the same time.

"You've seen my body, Tommy," you whispered, holding his gaze. "Multiple times. You know I don't have any bite marks. New or old."

Then Joel's footsteps returned from the back of the store. He stopped. Pressed the heel of his left hand against his forehead for a moment, eyes closed.

You stayed in the chair, breathing carefully, not moving a single unnecessary muscle.

Tommy stood exactly where he had been standing, frozen, his rifle hanging loose in his hands. You could see him replaying it. Recontextualizing everything through this new, unwanted lens.

You saw the chance.

You stood up from the chair.

"What?" Your voice came out sharp and almost incredulous. "What are the two of you thinking? That I'm infected proof or something?" You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Now the two biggest skeptics assholes I've ever met decide they believe in something extraordinary? Now?"

You turned to face Joel directly.

"You saw an infected act differently and you're challenging your own beliefs?" You tilted your head slightly. "You're admitting it then? That this world still has things in it neither of you understand? That it's not all just bodies and bullets and nothing worth saving?"

Joel's eyes narrowed. Any answer he gave would cost him something. Agreement meant admitting the world was more than he had allowed himself to believe, denial meant admitting the stalker had been nothing. You watched him arrive at your trap and find no exit from it.

You kept going.

"You know what I actually saw back there? I saw two idiots so busy beefing each other that they almost missed a stalker tearing me up. I saw you raise that gun and nearly put a bullet through my skull." Your eyes moved to his right hand. "I saw a man who can't shoot straight trying to decide if I'm the threat in this room." You let that land for exactly one second. "And I saw you so convinced that Tommy and I have something going on that you couldn't think past your own paranoia long enough to do your job. For a man who prides himself on being smarter than everyone around him, Joel… that's embarrassing."

Joel’s hand closed around your throat before you finished the sentence, that large and rough hand almost closing entirely around your neck. He walked you backward two steps and held you there, reminding you of the mathematics of the situation.

"You have been skating on thin ice since day one," he said, voice dropping to something terrifyingly conversational, "and I cannot explain to you how close I get, every single day, to deciding the payment isn't worth it." His eyes held yours without a flicker. "and you have no idea how tempted I am, right now, to find out that your neck breaking in my hands is worth more than that."

You stared back at him.

Tommy crossed the rest of the space between them and grabbed Joel's shoulder and shoved, but not hard enough to make him to lose the grip from your neck. "Get off her, Joel!"

The gun came up in his other hand and found Tommy's chest. The two brothers stood chest to barrel, both breathing hard.

Tommy looked down at the gun. Then up at his brother's face.

"You're really doing that?" His voice came out low and genuinely disbelieving. "You're really pointing a gun at me, Joel?"

Tommy took one deliberate step backward.

"I'm tired of the bullshit from both of you," Joel said quietly, the gun lowering. "Don't step further unless you're planning to be useful."

Your heart was slamming against your ribs hard and your legs wanted to give. You didn't let them. Joel looked back at you and you held his gaze with everything you had, the fire in your eyes refusing to go out no matter what the rest of your body was doing, and you watched something shift almost imperceptibly in Joel's expression. A fractional hesitation. The faintest recalibration.

"Admit it," he said, quieter now, some of the heat replaced by something more calculated. "You have something. That's why it didn't attack you. That's why Lincoln wants you so bad in Columbus. That's why you're worth all of this." His eyes moved briefly to Tommy, then back. "And that's why you've been working on my brother since day one. Getting under his skin. Making him feel things. Using whatever it is you have to pull him to your side." His jaw tightened. "Admit it."

You held his gaze for a long, measured moment.

"Admit it then," you said quietly. "That you believe it, Joel. That there's something in this world still worth understanding. Still worth hope." You paused. "Admit that."

The silence stretched.

Joel's jaw worked. His eyes moved over your face, recalculating, arriving at the same cornered place he had arrived at before and finding it no more comfortable the second time. Slowly, he removed his hand from your throat and stepped back.

You straightened. Rolled your shoulders once.

"I have no super power," you said, voice steady and clear. "I have no idea why that thing didn't attack me immediately. Maybe it was confused. Maybe I smelled like dead already after weeks on the road with the two of you. All I know is that I have been honest with you, both of you, despite being dragged across the country against my will. Despite being cuffed and threatened and starved and used as a punching bag." Your eyes moved to Tommy, then back. "And you have done nothing but treat me like I was the criminal here."

You looked between them both.

"And, oh, you think I’m seducing your brother, manipulating him?" The word came out with a short, incredulous laugh that was only partly performed. "That is simultaneously the most hilarious and the most offensive thing you've said to me, and Joel, you have said some truly offensive things." You shook your head. "I would never, you hear me? Never have any interest in either of you. I’m disgusted by both of you. I am nauseous being this close to both of you. I am counting the days until I never have to look at either of your faces again." You tuck your cuffed hands against your ribs. "The only reason Tommy and I can stand each other is because we made the decision to maintain a basic level of human decency instead of making this nightmare worse than it already is." You held Joel's gaze. "That's all it is."

The pharmacy was very quiet.

Joel looked at you for a long moment. Then he looked at Tommy. Then back at you.

Something had shifted in him. The certainty of minutes ago had developed a crack in it, small but present, and you could see him deciding whether to acknowledge it or ignore it entirely.

He turned toward the window. But first he held Tommy's gun out to him in a single, wordless gesture, handle first.

Tommy took it. And then didn't let the moment pass.

"You pointed my own gun at me, Joel."

Joel checked the crack in the barricade, eyes on the street.

"I did what the situation required," he said flatly.

"The situation." Tommy let out a short, disbelieving breath. "You suspected me, your own brother… of what exactly? What did you think was happening?" His voice tightened, the frustration breaking through the control. "You made a fool of yourself, Joel. You scared her half to death, you pointed a gun at me, and for what?" He shook his head.

Something crossed Joel's face then. Fast and unguarded and genuine, a flash of something that looked remarkably like pain, but coming specifically from having hurt someone you weren't supposed to hurt. His eyes found Tommy's for just a moment, and in that moment they were not the eyes of the man who could kill.

"Tommy," he started.

And then stopped himself. The flash was gone. The wall came back up with the quiet efficiency of long practice, and Joel Miller reassembled his unreadable face and turned back to the window.

"Street's clear," he said. He pulled the shelving away from the door with his good hand, the wood scraping against the tile. "We're too far behind schedule. Let's move."

You closed your eyes for exactly one second.

Three bullets. You had dodged three of Joel Miller's bullets today, in one form or another, and you were still standing. The relief of it moved through you like warm water.

Joel stepped outside carefully, rifle up, scanning left and right before moving.

You crossed the pharmacy toward the door. As you drew level with Tommy, his hand closed around your arm.

You stopped. Looked up and to your left. He looked down and to his right. Your eyes met in the narrow space between your bodies, and what was in his face stopped your breath for a moment: raw confusion, and beneath it something that looked very much like anger that had nowhere clean to go.

"I have to give you the credit," he said. "Standing there and managing to turn it around. Making him question the things he saw with his own eyes." A short, humorless exhale. Shook his head once. "That was something."

You nodded and turned to move.

His grip tightened on your arm. You stilled.

"I don't believe any of it, by the way" he said.

His eyes held yours and they were a devastation. Exhaustion and sorrow and fury all of it present simultaneously. And underneath all of that, the particular heartbreak of a man who had just watched his brother snap the last string of respect he had left to give him. Whatever thin wall had existed between what Joel was and what Tommy had been willing to see was burned to the ground today.

"Those clickers in the bunker," he said quietly. "They were never a real threat to you, were they." It wasn't a question. "You've been hiding things since day one. How much else is a lie?"

"The only lie," you said quietly, "was the part where I said I was disgusted by you and that I never wanted to see your face again."

Something moved across his face. He swallowed it back down.

"Bullshit. I don't know what you're hiding," he continued, voice low and stripped of everything but honesty. "I don't know what that stalker was doing or why. But I know you know." His jaw worked once. "And whatever it is… it's the real reason they want you. It's the real reason any of this is happening."

"Then admit it," you said softly. "Admit that’s something there to believe, Tommy. Something worth fighting for. That we could actually—"

He interrupted you abruptly, his hand coming up to hold you jaw firmly. Then, gently.

He leaned in.

His warm lips met yours, hesitant at first, then pressing with quiet desperation. You felt the slight tremble in his fingers against your cheek, the way his breath hitched when your mouths touched. You could almost see it, even with your eyes closed: The first light finding its way through the crack, and getting in after a very long time trying.

Everything else vanished, dissolving into the single, overwhelming fact of Tommy Miller finally, finally kissing you. The electric feel moved through you from your lips to the soles of your feet, warm and irreversible.

Five seconds, that was all it were. That was all the time he could afford without risking more. And for five precious seconds there was only the careful press of his lips, the soft pressure of his palm holding your face, and the overwhelming feeling that this was the first real thing either of you had allowed yourselves in years.

Then he pulled back, forehead resting against yours. His eyes were narrow and raw when they met yours.

"We'll get you to Baltimore," he said quietly. "Okay? Just be patient." A pause, his thumb brushing your cheek once. "I'll convince him."

----

im sooo hyped for this!

Tommy wasn’t supposed to do that yet. I had a different plan for when it would happen, but he just… decided. Sometimes the characters take the wheel and I let them. In this case, it felt natural... that final disappointment with Joel piling on top of the slow realization that hope might actually exist. So I let my baby have that moment.

Tag list:

He’s standing outside with a pretty blonde girl, sharing a Marlboro Red and whispering sweet nothings.

And you’re shouting. Laughing, too, slung over the shoulder of a security guard, being kicked out for being disruptive. Whatever the fuck that meant.

For what it’s worth, he sits you back on your feet gentler than you deserve. “Oh, so bitches don’t know how to say excuse me and somehow it’s my fault? It’s fuckin’ bullshit, Dennis, and you know it!”

“Not my call, kid,” Dennis explains with a shrug. “Sorry. See you next weekend.” And without another word, the suited man disappears back into the nightclub, leaving you, and the blonde, and one Tommy fucking Miller.

You’d be embarrassed, if it weren’t for the six shots coursing through your bloodstream.

They stare. Both of them, but in different ways. Her gaze is concerned, maybe a little frightened. But Tommy’s is dark. Excited. Filled with lust, but you hadn’t known that yet.

“What? You never seen someone get kicked out before?”

“Sorry,” the blonde says quickly. “You okay?”

Nice. She was nice. That’s about all you remember. She helps you fix your too-tight dress and goes back inside. Tommy promises to follow her in a minute, once he finishes his cigarette. 

But that doesn’t happen.

Instead, he sweet talks you in the way he’s always been good at. Makes you feel real special. Puts his mouth to your ear and makes obscene jokes, the heat of his breath sending goosebumps down your spine.

He touches you softly at first. A simple brush of his knuckles across your cheekbone. He flashes that killer smile and his hand finds a home on your waist. Drifting lower and lower and before you realize it, he’s slipping it up the back of your dress.

In hindsight, that first night should’ve been the red flag to end all red flags. He’d been at the nightclub with someone else, and somehow you’d wound up in the back seat of his truck with his cock buried deep inside you.

No one had ever gotten you to the finish line before that night. A couple of boyfriends had tried, but mostly, you’d had to ignore their rhythm and circle your clit yourself just to get there.

But Tommy isn’t like that. Not even a little. Seems to know the way around your body better than you yourself do. Lifts you off of him and replaces his cock with his fingers halfway through, and moves them just right until you soak him, only to slide right back in with a deep groan and that prideful grin on his face.

He likes to talk real nasty in your ear. That much never changed. That first night, as the condom swells inside you, he looks right into your eyes and says, “Damn, baby. You’ve got the kinda pussy that’ll make a man go fuckin’ crazy.”

If his girlfriend hadn’t been the red flag, you think that should’ve been.

But you were young and dumb and Tommy was older and exciting and delicious.

So, you give him your number when he asks for it. 

Rookie mistake. 

Two weeks later, you get a text on Friday night.

Going to Club Orchid with some friends tonight. Could use a back seat girl.

Back seat girl. 

It makes you so fucking mad, so irritated that you complain about it to your roommates all day. And they all agree that it was a shitty thing to say.

Sure, Tommy was attractive. Tall and broad and rugged with that big Texas belt buckle and that deep Texas drawl and those curls and the fucking mustache. 

But he wasn’t God’s gift to Earth. And when you and your friends find your way to Club Orchid that night, you seek him out to tell him just that.

And you do. Give him a glare sharp enough to cut and call him an asshole in front of all his friends. You remind him that his access to you is a privilege because it is, and warn that you’ll end up in his dad’s backseat if he’s not careful.

But Tommy takes your insults and threats with ease. Smirks the whole time like you’re putting on his favorite show. Leans back with an elbow against the bar and a glass bottle in hand. Licks his lips when you’re done and says, “You’re fuckin’ sexy when you’re all worked up. You know that?”

You roll your eyes and blow him a kiss with your middle finger before setting out to find someone else to dance with. 

And you do. Some pretty boy from out of town who’s all too happy to let you grind on him in the middle of the dance floor. He buys you and your friends drinks all night and runs his soft hands up your thighs with no fear in him. The kind of boy you’d normally take home. Closer to your age. Nice, but not too nice.

You can feel Tommy’s eyes on you from across the room, though. Catch his gaze every couple songs, hot and lingering. You like the way it felt to have his attention. Like that he could have any girl in the room but he stares only at you.

A little after midnight, you step outside for some fresh air. And you can see him leave the bar from the corner of your eye, fully aware he’s following you and trying to ignore the way your skin prickles in excitement.

You don’t even make it to the backseat that night. Tommy shoves your dress up and your panties down and takes you right on the hood of his truck. Presses your face to the black chrome paint and fucks you hard. Tangles his hand in your hair and says, “Pretty girl got her feelings hurt, did she? S’alright, baby. You got me back good. Lettin’ that little boy touch you all night right in front of me. But pussy this good needs a fuckin’ man, don’t it?”

No one on Earth has ever irritated you more. But no one else has made you feel that good, either. 

Tommy likes it deep. Gives you those fast, punishing strokes that have your eyes watery and your head all fuzzy. He brushes his rough fingers over your clit with expert precision, pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you with ease. Like it’s his fucking day job.

He kissed you afterwards. Rights your dress, squeezes your cheeks between his fingers and presses his lips to yours with such intensity it steals the breath from your lungs. He hadn’t done it the first time, and it leaves you a little confused. 

Enough that you consult the group chat the next morning. Half of the responses conclude that you’ve gotten the man pussydrunk, while the other half insist on blocking his number.

But you don’t, of course. Just chang his contact name to Tommy Miller - DNI. 

You ignore his messages for a while and avoid the clubs and bars you know he frequents.

But it does little to change the course you’re on. 

The next time you see him is at your favorite takeout place. You’ve already ordered and are waiting on the other side of the counter, wearing your comfiest pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt. A far cry from your best look, but it didn’t seem to bother Tommy in the slightest. 

He bypasses the woman behind the counter entirely, coming up to your side instead. He towers over you in a way that’s a whole lot clearer in the daylight. So tall you have to crane your head up to watch him speak. “Nice seein’ you here,” he says. “Best barbecue in Austin. Shame only the locals know about it.”

“I prefer it that way,” you admit, nose upturned, a cold edge in your voice. “Keeps away unwanted advances.”

He smirks at that. “Unwanted, huh? S’that what it was?” His eyes flicker down, right between your thighs. “Didn’t seem that way when she was cryin’ for me.”

You roll your eyes and bite your tongue, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave you be. 

But Tommy only doubles down. Leans in close and says the most obscene thing you’ve ever heard in your life up until that point. “You know, some people would call it cruel, keepin’ a little girl from her daddy.”

“Jesus Christ,” you scoff. “You’re disgusting.”

Tommy smiles real wide. Presses a chaste kiss to the top of your head and says, “I’ll see you later, baby.”

He would not see you later, in fact. You’d make damn sure of it. 

When he returns to the cashier, he tells her the name on his pickup order and you try to drown out the sound of his voice and the way he smiles at the girl behind the counter. Try to ignore the way she smiles back, and slides him a piece of paper with a phone number scribbled on it.

But when your order’s finished, and you pull out your debit card to pay, she informs you that it’s already paid for in full. 

You try not to let it get to you. Try not to convince yourself paying for your food means anything. You didn’t ask for him to buy your dinner, and so you don’t owe him a thank you or the last thirty dollars in your account.

But you have a weird feeling he’ll try to hold it against you. Which is why you open that one sided text thread and send a message, half hoping he’ll leave you on read. 

Thanks for buying my food. Didn’t have to do that, but I appreciate it. 

His response is immediate. 

Yeah I did. I always take care of my girl.

His girl. It makes your stomach flip. Makes you feel equally nauseous and elated. 

Not your girl. 

Those typing bubbles pop up, disappear, and then pop up again. He’s hesitating. 

Could be, though.

The hesitation is enough for you to make a decision. Tommy Miller doesn’t seem much the settling down type. You know guys like him. Take pride in seeing right through their facade and turning their own tricks back on them.

And, truthfully, you’re weren’t ready for anything exclusive or serious, anyway. You had no interest in being his girl. No interest in him at all. 

You don’t respond.

But you see him. That weekend at Club Orchid, the following weekend at Frank’s Bar. It seems that no matter where you go, he’s always there. And you try to keep your distance. 

Truly, you do. But it’s like Tommy Miller’s this beacon of light and you’re a brainless little moth. Sometimes he shows up in these too tight t-shirts that barely fit his strong biceps, sometimes he wears this cologne that’s sweet and musky and masculine and mouth watering, and you just can’t help yourself.

You always know he’s around when you walk in some place and you’re given a Jack and Coke before you even make it to the bar. It becomes a running joke between you and your friends. Like it’s his little way of saying ‘hey, baby. be seein’ you later.’ 

And god damnit, you do. 

You christen every god forsaken inch of his truck, the backseat of your friend’s Camry, both the restrooms at Club Orchid, the alley behind Frank’s. He makes you feel like a horny teenager, never satisfied, always hungry.

And it goes on for months. Longer than any other casual hookup you’ve ever had before him.

Tommy has no problem keeping up with you. Even though you always poke fun at him for his age, sometimes offering a viagra when you share a cigarette and ask for round two before you even make it back inside to the thrall of the party.

He says, “I’m thirty five, girl. Not seventy five. Bend the fuck over.”

Each time it’s a little more dirty and a little more depraved. He gets to know you, to really know you. Can hear the difference between a moan that says, that’s good and one that says, Jesus Christ, right fucking there. 

And you come to know him, too. Know just how hard to squeeze his cock to make his breath hitch, know when to suck and when to lick, know that if you look up at him with innocent eyes while he’s halfway down your throat it sends him careening off the precipice of release.

Tommy likes it when you’re sweet to him. He likes when you beg for it, likes when you say please. But you also know he likes the chase. 

Convincing you is half the battle, and if you didn’t know any better you’d assume he enjoyed it more than the sex. He doesn’t embarrass easily, and you find that the meaner you are to him before he spreads your thighs, the harder he is when his cock finds home.

But on one particularly bad Friday, you find yourself at Frank’s alone. Your friends are busy and your roommates bailed last second. Not their fault—food poisoning happens to the best of us.

It’s not bad because you’re alone. It’s bad because you’d been laid off that afternoon and now were in a frantic search for a new job. Something temporary until you made it through the screening process at someplace that paid decently. 

You’re drowning your sorrows when Tommy finds you. Ordering doubles all night and charging it to your credit card even knowing you shouldn’t.

He sits beside you at the bar. Doesn't say a word. Just exists with you in the silence and orders a drink for you both. 

You hate to admit it, but you think it might just be one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for you. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong, doesn’t offer to fix it, doesn’t urge you to sneak off to the back to have a quickie. He’s just…he’s just there. 

And, after last call, he gently tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear and says, “C’mon.” 

You don’t know why, but you do as he says. End up sitting in the corner of the couch in his apartment, your dress in a pile on his bathroom floor, wearing a well loved Def Leppard t-shirt from his closet. He makes two cups of microwave noodles, sits beside you, and asks, “You like Pawn Stars?”

All you give is a shrug in response. Have never given a shit about reality television shows, really. But somehow, it’s exactly what you need.

Tommy sits there with you, arm draped around your shoulders, and watches reruns until you fall asleep. Doesn’t press you for answers or ask you for anything. He just…he takes care of you. In a way you’ve never been taken care of before. He’s kind and gentle and good.

He kisses your forehead when he turns the television off and retires to his bedroom alone. But, before he goes, your sleepy voice cuts through the silence. “Tommy?”

His heavy steps pause on the hardwood. “Yeah, baby?”

“Thank you.”

A soft smile curls at the corners of his lips. It’s the first time you see it; the love in his eyes. Not love in the typical way of the word. There’s no expectation tied to it, no hidden intention. It’s just good, simple, pure adoration. Given to you freely from a man who has a good heart but isn’t quite ready to give it away.

You wake up before the sun with a splitting headache and a clearer head. Even fully aware that it’s kind of a shitty thing to do, you slip out of Tommy’s apartment before he wakes. Send him a quick text that just says thanks again, and walk back to your car parked in Frank’s parking lot with your shoes in hand.

A little after you turn twenty six, James takes you by surprise. You meet him at a houseparty in Houston and hit it off quicker than you anticipate. He’s the sort of guy you’d bring home to your parents. And when he surprises you at your new office job with a dozen roses in hand just to ask you on a date, you can’t help but say yes.

He opens every door for you, gives you his jacket in the rain, walks on the outside of the sidewalk. Your friends like him, he’s funny, and he never once gives you any mixed signals. Even admits early on that he wants to take things slow because he’s dating not for fun but with the intent of eventual marriage.

James is a good guy. A really, really good guy. And you like him. Truly.

Which is why, several weeks into your relationship, you think it’ll be fine if you accompany your friends to Club Orchid on his arm.

You should’ve known better.

And you know it’ll be bad when that Jack and Coke is presented to you by a waiter before you’re four feet inside the door. 

Your friends give you worried glances, but you try to shake it off. It’s just a drink. It doesn’t mean anything. And so you simply thank the waiter and sip slowly from the glass and go about your business.

The heavy weight of his stare prickles at the back of your neck. James asks to dance and you say yes, trying to convince yourself you’re not doing it just to get a good look around the room. To find him. 

It takes a couple of songs. Club Orchid is busy, bustling with bodies and spilled liquor and the scent of cigarette smoke. But you do find him.

Sitting at a table near the back, feet extended, arms crossed over his chest and that fucking smirk on his face. He’s got on battered cowboy boots and an old pair of wranglers and that fucking Def Leppard t-shirt. The same one you’d slept in on his couch. 

You’re not a cheater. Would never slip off to the parking lot while James waits for you inside, oblivious that you’re getting your back blown out thirty feet away.

And yet, the image in your brain gets stuck. Roots in deep. Makes a home inside. 

But you’re not like that. You’re not. 

When you tell James you’re going to run to the restroom for a second, he can sense your unease. He asks if everything’s okay, asks if there’s anything you need. His concern only makes the obscenities that haunt you feel that much more depraved. 

You promise James that you’re okay, that you just need a second to yourself. 

But you can feel Tommy’s familiar warmth at your back the moment you step through the door.

The restrooms are dimly lit, dark walls covered in graffiti. There’s a couple making out near the sinks and a young woman beside them fixing her lipstick in the mirror.

You don’t turn to face him. Not until you’re inside of the stall at the end, and he closes the door and latches it behind himself. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Could ask you the same thing, sweetheart,” he says. As if he has any right to.

“I already told you. I’m not your fucking girl.”

Tommy laughs. A deep rumble in his chest. “Mhm. Sure. Keep tellin’ yourself that.” He steps forward, crowding you. And when you take a step back to create much needed space, he just keeps coming until your back is pressed against the painted concrete wall. “You're his girl now, s’that it?”

“Yes,” you tell him. But your voice shakes when you say it.

Tommy catches it. Hears your hesitance. “Fine,” he says with a playful smirk. “I’ll bite. Just answer one question.”

A crease forms between your brows. You cross your arms over your chest and find that your heart is beating so fast you can feel it hammering against your sternum. “What?”

Tommy gently takes hold of your wrists, unfolding your arms. He stares you right in the eye, his gaze filled with so much intensity and darkness it chokes you. He takes your hand in his and presses it against the bulge in his jeans, and asks with a syrupy voice, “He fuck you like I do?”

Though you try not to react, your muscles deflate and a quiet whimper slips past your lips. You know if you lie he’ll taste it like smoke in the air. So, you say nothing instead. Keep your lips sealed firmly shut. 

But your silence is answer enough. Tommy smiles wide and presses a kiss to your hairline. He rests his cheek against the top of your head—such a rare, affectionate caress that you almost don’t notice his free hand begin to gather the fabric of your dress at your hip. 

He keeps the other held firmly against his cock, puppeteering your fingers, stroking the hardness there just how you know he likes.

“Don’t know why I asked. Already knew the answer,” he mutters, fingertips dancing over the elastic band of your panties. He slides them from your hip to that spot just below your navel—back and forth, back and forth, feeling the smooth fabric. “He know about that special spot, baby? Hm? He get as deep as I can? He keep up with you?”

No, no, and no. “It’s better with him.” Lie. “He’s nice to me.” True.

Tommy snorts. “You don’t like it nice,” he says. And then he slides his hand between your legs, middle finger pressed against your slit through the fabric of your panties. “Tell me the truth. Tell me what you want.”

His hand stays there, caressing you, sliding against your clit over and over and over. You can’t think like this. Can’t move, can’t breathe. Your hips tilt against his hand and you can feel his smile as he presses another loving kiss to the top of your head. 

Corrupted.

You’re totally, completely corrupted. 

Fucked in the head because you’re going to let him do whatever he wants to you in this dirty bathroom stall while your boyfriend’s alone on the dance floor.

And then Tommy steps away, leaving you cold and wanting and soaked. 

Clarity comes trickling in and your stomach twists. But there’s a part of you, too, that wishes you’d been bolder. A part that regrets not saying yes faster. 

“S’alright,” he says. “If you want to be with some fuckin’ asshole who doesn’t know his way around that sweet pussy of yours then fine. Be my guest. Suit yourself. But don’t let me see him touch you again, cause I’ll bash his fuckin’ head in.”

The words sound so unbelievable in your ears that you laugh. “You’re insane,” you say through your giggles. “Like, actually fucking crazy.”

He grabs your face, gentle enough not to hurt, firm enough that your laughter dies in your throat. “Do what you want, but I don’t want to fucking see it.”

It’s only then that it becomes clear to you. Behind his anger, there’s injury. You’re hurting him. 

And you’d feel bad if you had a reason to. But Tommy’s not good to you. Doesn’t ask to take you on dates, doesn’t make the effort to get to know you, doesn’t even typically kiss you goodbye after he spreads your legs. 

You deserve better and you know it. You deserve someone more like James.

He leaves you alone in that bathroom stall and you fight off the tears that well in the corners of your eyes.

When you regain your composure, you find James at the bar. He asks again if you’re okay and you admit that you’re not. Tell him you’re just not feeling it, that you’d rather spend the night tucked into bed with him. 

And he’s all too happy to take you up on the offer. He makes you popcorn and rents that new romcom starring your celebrity crush. He gets ice cream delivered at midnight just because you say it sounds good.

You try not to think about Tommy. But that dull, thrumming ache between your thighs persists. As if your traitorous libido had been promised sweet, sweet relief, only to be let down.

And you try with James. Really, you do. You tell him what feels good and he goes down on you for half an hour with no complaints. But he’s…he’s kind. And you can only take so much trying before you’re just tired. You know faking it doesn’t benefit either one of you, but you don’t want to hurt his feelings, either. Because he’s so good in every other aspect and you’re terrified of scaring him off. 

And it’s not that big of a deal, right? It’s not like the sex is bad. It’s just not what you’re used to. Different can be good, can’t it?

After he finishes he’s kissing you and saying goodnight and he’s dead asleep in ten minutes flat. It’s fine if you slink off to the bathroom after he’s started snoring to take care of the ache yourself.

It wouldn’t be the first time and you know it probably won’t be the last.

Except…it doesn’t happen. 

You try every trick in the book. Even let your mind wander to places it shouldn’t, but you just can’t get there. 

Ten minutes go by. Fifteen. Twenty. Forty.

Your desire lingers, hot and heavy and suffocating. The entire night has got you so frustrated and worked up that you could cry. 

And you won’t be able to sleep, not with the pent up arousal that demands attention. So, you make a decision.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard on your phone. Unsure and yet still determined. You type out the classic you up? text, only to delete it.

You settle on a different phrasing. Still no better, but at least it doesn’t make you cringe as hard. 

Are you awake?

Tommy’s response is instant. Like it always is.

Call if you’re serious.

It makes you roll your eyes and sigh in frustration, but you do it anyway. Move to the couch in James’s living room instead, further away from the bedroom to ensure he won’t hear you. 

And then you call Tommy Miller for the first time in your life. 

He picks up on the second ring. “I’ll admit, I didn’t think you had it in you, baby,” is his greeting. Voice dark and sultry as he taunts you, the word baby sliding through you all soft and sweet and buttery. 

It has your stomach fluttering, warmth slithering through your center. But irritation follows it. “Shut the fuck up,” you bite back. Mean.

Tommy just laughs and you can hear the amusement in his voice when he speaks. “Don’t think you called to tell me that,” he says. “Can I guess?”

His voice. Just his fucking voice.

Your heart rate kicks up, that familiar pressure forms between your legs, painful at this point. And you know it’s wrong but you don’t care. You just need relief.

Tommy continues to speak, even though you offer nothing in the way of an answer. Says, “I think I was right on the nose, huh? He might be nice, but he can’t fuck you right. S’why you’re callin’ me, ain’t it? Got that uppity, rich asshole wrapped around your finger, though. An’ it’s no surprise, really. So goddamn pretty in those little dresses.”

You put him on speaker and lower the volume as low as it’ll go, placing your cellphone on the back of the couch. Freeing up your hands so you can lift your t-shirt with one and slide the other beneath the waist band of your pajama shorts.

He continues, oblivious. “Got those sweet, innocent eyes an’ that smart ass mouth that looks like it was made to fit a cock like mine.”

Your head falls back, sighing as you circle your clit with the perfect pressure, the perfect speed. Pleasure shoots through you, building low in your belly. 

“You let him fuck your pretty mouth, baby? Hm? Tell me. You swallow him down easy? Or do you cry on it like mine? Get all teary eyed and messy?”

His voice is so dark, so deep. But he’s looking for an answer and you don’t have the patience for it, you just want to get there. So in the silence all you can think to say is, “Keep talking.”

Tommy hears it, the breathlessness in your words. The need, the desperation. “Oh, shit,” he hisses. But then he chuckles, low and quiet. “You touchin’ yourself right now, darlin’?”

You don’t answer, too ashamed. But you pick up the pace, press a little harder against the sensitive nerves, and you try to swallow a moan. It comes out as a breathy sound instead, stuck in the back of your throat.

Somehow, the cadence in which he speaks grows darker. Sinister, even. ”Dirty fuckin’ girl. Bet you just had him inside you, huh? He in the other room? Tell me.” 

“No,” you say. But it’s so unconvincing that Tommy laughs. 

“Ain’t gotta lie to me. S’okay, though. I know how you get with that little attitude of yours. Too bad your boyfriend don’t know that all it takes to fix it is to get all up in your guts. Ain’t that right, darlin’?”

“You’re so—hmm—so fucking annoying.” You don’t mean it. Not really.

It doesn’t phase him. “You got your fingers inside yet, baby? Or are you still touchin’ her all sweet and soft?”

“Not…God—not yet,” you breathe out, trying to ignore the way your voice sounds so desperate in your ears. The pleasure coiling around your spine is already better than it was before, heightened just because he’s there. 

Tommy clicks his tongue. “Got two hands, don’t you? Go on, now. Just one, greedy girl. Gotta pace yourself. Make it last, make it good.”

Even though you know he can’t see you, you follow his instructions to the letter. Use your free hand to slide a single finger inside—the middle one, pressing hard in just the right spot. 

Your breath stutters the moment it happens, and you can feel your walls clench and shiver around the digit at the sound of that liquid smooth laugh of his.

“Got no fuckin’ clue how hard I am,” he whispers, voice smokey. “Got my dick leakin’ just thinkin’ about ya. From hearin’ all those pretty noises you make.”

You roll your fingers over your clit faster, chasing relief. Somehow it’s both too much and not enough, and before long you find yourself begging. The way you always do when that thick Texas drawl floods your ears. “Oh—fuck. Fuck, please, Tommy—”

His breath hitches on the other side of the phone. There’s a long, shaky exhale—and you know you’re getting to him. Can feel the sudden shift, can hear the strain in his words. “Christ. Slutty little thing. Sayin’ my name while he’s in the other room.”

The shame of it all makes you whimper, but it only spurs him on.

“S’alright, pretty girl. Ain’t gonna tell. Slide another finger in, baby. Ya earned it. Let me hear you,” he says. 

And though your immediate compliance stirs something angry and irritating inside, you do as he says. Tell yourself it’s not because you have to, but because you want to. Would do it right at this moment even without his words. 

The stretch is sweet and aching, fingertips finding home with practiced ease, warmth pooling low in your belly. Quiet, breathy sounds leave your lips, refusing to remain behind your teeth.

“Ohh, that’s it, ain’t it? This all you needed? Wanted me to talk ya through it. You cum for him like you’re about to cum for me?”

It’s right there, right there—your eyes squeezed tight, thighs trembling, breath getting stuck at the top of your lungs. 

And then he laughs. A low, baritone sound that sends shivers down your spine. He says, “Nah. ‘Course not. That pretty little pussy ain’t his, is it, baby? My fucking girl. Not his. Mine.”

The way he says it—possessive, controlling, certain—sends you over the edge, diving headfirst into bliss. 

You have to turn your head and press your mouth against your shoulder, fighting back the noises threatening to spill out, trying to keep quiet but failing miserably.

“Sound so pretty right now,” Tommy mutters. “Wish I was there with you, watchin’ you make a mess of yourself. Fuck, baby. That’s it.”

The sensation sticks. Lasts and lasts and lasts until you’re fighting for air, until your thighs clamp down tight around your hands between them. 

And even after, as your orgasm slowly fizzles out and your muscles loosen considerably, your skin still tingles. You let your head roll back, falling limp into the couch cushions, trying to catch your breath.

Tommy says nothing for several seconds, but you can still hear him on the other end of the line. Can feel him. The tension changes. Not awkward, exactly. Reluctant. As if he wants to speak but is afraid to.

You’re the one who decidedly ends the silence. “Uhm…thanks. By the way.”

Whatever Tommy had wanted to say gets lost. Tucked away someplace else for a different time. “Ain’t gotta thank me for doin’ my job, darlin’. Told you, I always take care of my girl.”

With a scoff, you roll your eyes and pick your phone back up. Press it to your ear and deny his words, even though something about the way you say them feels like a lie. “Not your girl, Miller. Goodnight.”

You don’t let him get another word in before ending the call. But just before you hang up you can hear him laughing. 

Not long after, you break up with James. Give the classic, it’s not you, it’s me speech and pick up a box of your belongings from his rental a week later. 

It surprises you how relieved you feel afterwards. How little you care about his absence. Because while, yes, James is kind and honest and good—you realize you’ve gotten bored. Have begun to miss the excitement without realizing it. The push and the pull and the heady desire in the middle of a dance floor.

That first weekend, your roommates insist on going out. Say it’s their way of getting you ‘back out on the playing field,’ which you know is just an excuse to drink too much. 

Still, you go. Decide on one of those nightclubs in the college part of town. Too expensive and too crowded and too loud, but somehow it’s exactly what you need.

And it’s the first night in months you spend just for yourself. You dance with your friends and even though your roommate's boyfriend lingers, the energy is good. Youthful and relaxed and healing, the way all girls' nights are.

You don’t see Tommy’s text message that night until several hours after he sends it. 

Hey. Can we talk? 

It makes your stomach turn. Because it feels like one of those messages. The ones you receive right before you block a phone number, insisting they need more from you. More time, more attention, more.

And you’re not ready to give Tommy up before you even go back to him. Not just yet. 

Don’t want to be tied down after just cutting yourself loose, but you don’t want to lose him at the price of freedom, either.

Because he might be annoying and frustrating and too damn full of himself, but you like him. Like the things he does to you, anyway. 

You’d never admit that, though. Not to his face. At least not now. 

So, you wait until morning to text him back. Hope that time has given him some clarity. He asks to take you out for breakfast, and it only stirs up that anxiety once again. 

Because you’ve been here before. Already know exactly what the conversation will entail. 

If it were anyone else—anyone at all—you would’ve cut your losses by now and added his number to the graveyard at the bottom of your contact list. 

But…his dick curves upwards. He eats you like a man starved for it and grabs you by the jaw and looks you right in the eye while he whispers that perverse filth, all while buried deep inside you. 

You agree to coffee. Not breakfast.

Tommy’s already at the local shop when you get there. Leaning against the brick wall outside the door, silver belt buckle catching the light of the morning sun, one brown leather boot crossed over the other, cigarette hanging loosely in his hand. 

He smiles when he sees you. A big, toothy grin. Laughs when you’re close enough to hear and says, “Jesus. Would you fuckin’ relax? Stop lookin’ at me like I’m holdin’ a loaded gun in my back pocket.”

“Stop looking at me like you’d let me point one right between your eyes,” you chide, hoping to set the tone before it spirals. 

But Tommy doesn’t care. He never has. Just holds open the door and lets himself shamelessly ogle you as you walk over the threshold. 

You order first, listing off the specifics of your favorite drink. The one you use as both a hangover cure and a pick me up on those days that like to drag on. You say please and thank you when the interaction permits and try not to feel the way Tommy crowds you, his warmth seeping through the fabric of your jacket.

He orders a simple black coffee. No cream, no sugar. When the young woman with blue hair behind the counter asks if he’s sure, he says, “Definitely. I like ‘em when they bite back.”

Mortification comes fast. “Oh my god, ignore him,” you interrupt. “I’m so sorry. How much?”

Tommy pays. Insists on it. And even though he tips the barista on his card, you take the stray bills at the bottom of your purse and stick them in the tip jar on the counter, too.

Instead of sitting in the cafe, you decide to go on a drive. Tommy’s truck is clean and smells like old leather and the faint scent of pine coming from the tree shaped air freshener hung around the rearview mirror.

“You know, I don’t…” he shakes his head, eyes focused on the road ahead. There’s no traffic and the city is still wet with morning dew. “I don’t normally do stuff like this, so I’m gonna get right to the point.”

You sit there, silently sipping your latte from the passenger seat, feeling more awkward than you ever have in your life.

“I know we…we’ve got a good thing goin’, you an’ I. And I didn’t expect to want more but I like you. Think about you every damn day. Waitin’ by my phone, hopin’ you’ll text.”

He chuckles and shakes his head, completely oblivious to the way your insides begin to twist and turn uncomfortably.

He glances away from the road for a second, letting himself savor the sight of your profile and the way the rising sun paints the sky orange and pink behind you.

You watch his jaw feather, teeth clenched. He’s nervous, you realize.

“I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is I’d like to…I don’t know. Try somethin’ else, if you’re down for that. Take you out on a real date. See you more than just to get off. S’that…s’that somethin’ you’re interested in? With me?”

Even knowing it’s your turn to speak, the words refuse to form in your mouth. Get lodged in the back of your throat, sitting heavy like a stone. You find yourself wishing you would’ve called this off. Told him you were busy today and tonight and every day going forward for the rest of your life.

Tommy laughs. “Relax, sweetheart,” he says. “Assumin’ lookin’ like you’re about to hurl is the answer. I get it.”

You let out a long breath. “Tommy, I’m sorry. I like…” you stop. The word you doesn’t pass easily. Instead, you amend the phrase, saying, “I like what we have now. And I’m just not ready for anything serious so soon.”

“So you did break up with him, then?” He turns to you, a wicked smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. Looking less like he’d just gotten rejected and more like he’d just found out the most satisfying news of his life.

The smug look only serves to irritate you. With a scoff you ask, “Are you saying you thought I still had a boyfriend and asked me out anyway?”

“Wouldn’t exactly call him competition,” he says, eyes narrowed in amusement. “You only liked him ‘cause he was sweet to you. F’ya want flowers and love notes, I can make it happen. The difference between me an’ him is that I can do all that and fuck you right, too.” 

“God. Do you hear yourself when you speak?”

“Only thing I wanna hear right now is you moanin’ my name,” Tommy says.

At first, you think he means it as a joke. Says it to get under your skin in the way he’s always been good at. 

But then his eyes turn molten as he looks over at you, one hand clenched tight around the leather steering wheel, the other laying loosely on the center console that separates you. His gaze drags down your body; over your neck, lingering on the curve of your chest, over your soft thighs. “Why don’t you go’head an’ take those off for me.”

And god fucking damnit, you do. Try to quiet your breathing as he drives, speed increasing with each inch of skin you expose as you roll your leggings down.

He starts off slow. Calloused fingers kneading the inside of your thighs, creeping ever higher. By the time he presses his hand hard against your aching center, over the lace fabric of your panties (that you promise yourself you didn’t wear in anticipation for this very moment), you’re already so wet that he laughs as your slick soaks through.

Tommy teases you for so long that you’re breathless and whimpering before he even slides the fabric aside and dips his fingers through your sticky folds.

As much as you try to fight it off, he gets his wish. Has you moaning and crying out his name in minutes, fingers buried deep inside you, making a mess on his leather seat.

The worst part, you think, is that he doesn’t even ask for you to touch him back. Just gets you off while he drives in the fast lane, as if he’s satisfied with just that. You can see the bulge in his jeans, pressing hard against the denim, but he doesn’t acknowledge it in the slightest.

And once your head falls back against the headrest and you use a handful of napkins he’s got stored in the glove box to clean the wetness between your thighs, Tommy drops you off near your car in the cafe parking lot.

You don’t really know what to say. Goodbye feels weird and formal. See you feels like you’re promising to see him again, even knowing you need to cut him off entirely before this gets too complicated.

So instead, you say, “Thanks for the coffee,” and try to slip out of his truck without another word.

But Tommy doesn’t let it happen. Grabs you by the back of the neck, pulls you close until you can feel his breath against your cheeks. Smirks in that annoying, confident way of his and says, “Don’t let me see you step out with another man.”

The words are said quietly, like a threat. You curse your body for tightening up at the sound of them in his mouth, muscles tensing, needy in a way you try and fail to fight off. “Then I suggest you stay the fuck home.”

His eyes flicker to your mouth. Attention fixed on the curve of your lips, your cupids bow, the glisten of your lipgloss.

But Tommy doesn’t kiss you. He rarely does. Instead, he licks the corner of your mouth and moans like it’s his favorite taste. “You try an’ get with someone else an’ I’ll ruin it,” he whispers. “Promise.”

The way he says it, like his unwanted possession is a form of devotion has you rolling your eyes and shoving his shoulder. “Go fuck yourself, Tommy.”

With an arrogant raise of his eyebrows, he leans over the center console as you climb out of his truck. “Oh, trust me, baby. I definitely will be. An’ I’ll be thinkin’ of you and that sweet fuckin’ pussy you’ve got the whole time.”

You slam the door in his face and return home both satisfied and angry with yourself.

And the worst part is that when you see him that weekend at Club Orchid, there’s a pretty girl sitting in his lap. 

She’s got her arms around his neck and her mouth pressed up against his ear, miniskirt riding high on her thighs, his big hands tracing the cobalt colored edge.

You try not to react. 

Really, you do.

But how is that fair? Promising to ruin every relationship for you just because he didn’t get his way, only to taunt you like this so soon after?

Your friends, God bless them, do their best to distract you. Buy shot after shot and pull you to the dancefloor. Tell you to ignore him, that you deserve better. Say that he’s an asshole and he’s always been. Encourage you to move on.

Tommy doesn’t look at you, and somehow it feels worse than if he had. Because if he touched the girl on his lap but gave you his attention, you’d know he was doing it on purpose. Goading for a reaction. You would know that he still cared.

But he doesn’t. Just tucks the girl’s hair behind her ear and kisses her knuckles and his hand sneaks higher and higher on her thigh.

It makes your stomach turn. 

Even knowing you rejected him and you have no right to be…jealousy is rarely coupled with sensibility.

You try to convince yourself it’s better this way. Better that he find someone else to twist up. To confuse. Tell yourself you shouldn’t feel jealous, you should feel sorry for the girl.

 When you slip away from your friends for some fresh air just before last call, you freeze when you see Tommy standing outside the front door. Cigarette held loosely between his fingers, smoke curling around his face.

Painfully handsome, even in the low light of the street lamp. He stares with his mouth curved at the corners, unmoving, like he’d been waiting for you.

He doesn’t speak, and neither do you. He just waits. To see who breaks first, to see who opens up the path to all that emotion you’ve both been fighting off. His posture is casual, relaxed, but his eyes are anything but. Sparkling with challenge, with temptation, with invitation.

It would be effortless, you know. To fly off the handle, to be mean the way you want to be. Call him easy, ask him if she could taste you on his tongue, to quote his previous taunts and say, ‘Does she swallow you down easy? Or does she choke on it like I do, crying for it just the way you like?’

But you don’t.

You look right fucking past him. 

Find the group of guys just a little further from the door. Slide into their little circle with no resistance, give the tallest one your sweetest smile and ask if you can share a cigarette.

You’re not sure how long Tommy waits before leaving the club entirely to find his truck in the parking lot. Not sure if he hears you introduce yourself to all three men and giggle when they compliment you on your peach colored nail polish.

The next morning, you wake up to a lengthy text message.

An apology. An explanation.

Tommy admits he has feelings for you. Plain and true and honest. Says he was only trying to make you jealous, to make you want him the way he wants you, that he never even kissed her. Couldn’t fathom tasting anyone but you.

He recognizes that the way he went about it was wrong and says this whole thing is new to him, that he’s never wanted to hold on to someone like this. Even confesses that your apathy had hurt him.

With the anger still fresh in your mind, your response is cruel.

Yeah I’m not reading all that.

He doesn’t respond. 

And for months, you stay clear of Tommy fucking Miller.

Focus on yourself. Your career, your health. You start taking vitamins and drinking less and cooking more at home. Get a promotion and a pay raise, and you’re doing good.

Until one fateful Friday night when you go to pick up your order at your favorite take out place.

He’s sitting there at one one of the tables, leaning back, arms folded over his chest, long legs extended and crossed at the ankles. There’s a black suede cowboy hat on his head and he’s wearing a leather jacket with silver hardware that matches the pointed boots on his feet. Starched blue jeans and that belt buckle, looking all big and Texas and devastating.

Like always, he smiles when he sees you. It’s less playful this time, though. Feels more like genuine affection instead of that teasing smirk he always wears.

You try to ignore him. 

But the brown paper bag sitting on the table in front of him has your name on it.

You try to grab for it, to be quick and get it from him so you can leave without speaking.

That doesn’t happen, though. Tommy’s hand flies out to grab your wrist. Not hard, just enough to give you pause. “Please,” he says, a desperation in his voice that you’ve never heard before.

A crease forms between your brows as you assess him, watching the way his jaw flexes, the way his throat bobs as he swallows hard.

“I can’t get you out of my fucking head,” he says. “Please. Just…sit. Have lunch with me.”

You know you shouldn’t.

But you do. 

Sink slowly down into the chair across from him and wait patiently as he pulls your food out of the bag. He sets it in front of you just as the woman behind the counter delivers him a separate order, as if he’d planned this.

And you think maybe he did, because his words are gentle when he speaks. Cautious. “Look, I’m…I’m sorry. I don’t know how to do this.”

“You mean how to treat a woman like she has feelings?”

You can see the smart remark on the tip of his tongue. But for what it’s worth, Tommy swallows it down. “I should have been better to you from the start,” he admits. “Should’ve done this whole thing the right way, but I didn’t know at the time that I would feel the way I do.”

Unsure of his intentions, you say nothing.

Tommy continues. “The last time we talked, I know you weren’t ready for anything serious. But I…I’ve never felt like this for anyone. And if you could try an’ give me another chance, I swear I’ll be better. Try to be what you deserve. An’ if you still don’t want anything serious, I’ll take whatever you wanna give me. Just friends, if you want. Or we can go back to the way things were before. Whatever you decide, I’ll take it. ‘Cause, Christ, sweetheart. I fuckin’ miss you somethin’ fierce.”

“You just miss the sex. You hardly know me, Tommy,” you say.

“But I want to,” he replies. “An’ you’re wrong. It’s about more than that. F’you want, give me a real chance. Take you out on a few dates. Walk you to your doorstep and bring you those flowers an’ love notes you want. Won’t even kiss you ‘til you say so. Promise.”

There’s so much conviction in his words. So much sincerity. But you know men like Tommy. Know they’re real good at saying exactly what you want to hear and even better at convincing you they’ve changed when really, they’ve just gotten better at lying.

Careful. You have to be so, so careful.

“Let’s just see how lunch goes,” you say.

And much to your surprise, it feels…good. You learn more about him in a single hour than you have in the almost two years that you’ve known him. Learn that his best friend is his brother and that he has a niece named Sarah who his entire life revolves around. 

It’s sort of endearing, the way he talks about her and how proud he was when she won her soccer tournament last week.

But he asks about you, too. About your family and your friends and your job, listening intently as you speak.

By the time you finish your meal, he hasn’t got you convinced exactly, but there’s a little softness around the edges now. He asks if you’d like to go see a movie with him next weekend, and you agree.

Your roommate knows something’s up the moment you walk through the door. And when she pulls the information out of you and the word Tommy falls from your tongue, she’s groaning before the second syllable. 

Still, you go see that movie. He takes you to dinner afterwards, too. And you return home with plans for coffee in the morning and a fresh bouquet of roses in your hands. 

It starts to trickle in slowly; the want. The desire. The need for him to touch you. 

He takes you to a baseball game and splays his big hand on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd, keeping you safe, touch warm and inviting and possessive in the way that only he can be.

Tommy doesn’t make any moves. But sometimes you can see it in his eyes when you’re talking and he’s watching your mouth, breath hitching in his throat, gaze dark and wanting.

When he takes you out late one night for ice cream, he swipes vanilla cream from your bottom lip with his thumb and sucks the sugar off his finger. Moans quietly at the taste, but doesn’t make the dirty comment you can see swirling in his head.

He starts to text you more often. Sweet, short messages that say good morning, pretty girl and hope you’re having a good day and need anything from the store?

Once, he texts you in the afternoon.

Thinking of you.

And you don’t respond. Not right away. Instead, you wait until the sun sets. Wait until you’re tucked into bed beneath your sheets, thighs pressed tightly together, warmth gathering low in your belly in a way that’s impossible to ignore. 

Thinking of you, too. Wanna come over?

He hesitates with his response, the typing bubbles disappearing three different times before an answer finally comes through.

I’ll bring you breakfast in the morning. Take care of her for me, my needy girl.

You’re not sure if you’re disappointed or satisfied with his response. The offer hadn’t been given with an expectation yet still, it softens you up just a little more.

You drag it out for weeks.

And not even once does Tommy complain.

Things change, though, the night you’re laying in the bed of his truck on top of a mountain of pillows and blankets, trying to see the supposed meteor shower that’s twenty minutes away. You turn on your side and ask, “Are you seeing anyone else? Be honest. I won’t be mad either way.”

You steel yourself in anticipation for his answer.

“Truth?”

You nod.

Tommy licks his lips. “I haven’t been with anyone else since I met you.”

It makes you laugh. You don’t mean to, but the amusement bubbles out of you anyway. “Jesus. You’re fucking lying to my face.”

“I’m not,” he insists. Doesn’t say it with any urgency or frustration, and the tone gives you pause.

You try to search his face. To see an ounce of dishonesty in his eyes. But you come up empty, and Tommy just stares at you. The energy between you turns heavy. Meaningful in a way you’re not used to. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he says. “You’ve been stuck in my head since that first night. I think about it sometimes.” He chuckles, as if the information is amusing and not the most surprising thing you’ve ever heard.. “I remember that pretty dress you wore an’ the way you’d been screamin’ at the bouncer carryin’ you over his shoulder. Causin’ all kinds of trouble. Stole my heart right then and there.”

“Stole your heart, huh?” You say it with thick sarcasm, but you can’t wipe the grin off your face if you tried.

The realization hits you hard. Sharp and swift.

You want more, too.

More than these nights together. More than sweet gestures and breakfast in the morning and dinner on the weekends. You want to kiss him. You want to hold his hand and sleep in his bed.

You want to be his fucking girl.

Tommy laughs, shakes his head, and playfully shoves your shoulder. “Yeah, stole my damn heart. Fuckin’一thief…s’what you are. Don’t let it go to your pretty head. Forehead’s big enough already,” he teases.

But it’s too late. And you’re moving before you can think better of it, swinging your leg over him, straddling his hips, skin buzzing with anticipation. You take him by the jaw, delighting in the way his eyes darken and the air gets caught in his throat. “You love my big forehead,” you say.

An assumption. A risk.

One that pays off.

Tommy turns his head and presses an open mouthed kiss to your palm. “Fuck yeah I do,” he muses, lips curved at the corners in that way of his, the way that’s always made you weak. “Now c’mere. Let me taste you.”

You lean forward to kiss him, and the intensity skyrockets the moment your tongue touches his bottom lip.

Tommy rests his hand on your throat一not squeezing, just caressing. Feeling your pulse beneath his long fingers. He licks into your mouth, tongue gliding against yours, not just tasting but savoring.

When you start to roll your hips over his, he moans against your lips and his fingers twitch around your neck. “Goddamn, baby. We gotta…fuck. Gotta stop. Wanna do this right. Rose一hm一rose petals an’ shit. Champagne and一”

“I hate champagne,” you whisper, kissing a trail down his jaw, his neck, his collarbone. You slide your hands beneath the soft cotton of his t-shirt and drag your nails gently down his skin, feeling the softness turn to hard muscle, flexing beneath your touch. “But I like you.”

You shove the fabric up, exposing his sunkissed skin, and your lips immediately find it. He tastes warm. Ambery and masculine, like sweat and soap. Your mouth waters, leaving a trail of wetness down his chest, over his belly. When you kiss the left side of his hip, you suck a purplish mark there.

Claiming, without the need for words. 

Shifting lower, you settle between his spread thighs and look up at him through your lashes as you stick out your tongue and lick his bulge through his jeans.

Tommy’s hands fly to your head, twisting in your hair, pulling you back. “Jesus Christ,” he hisses, breathless. “Do you mean that? You fuckin’...you like me?”

“Truth?”

He nods. 

You smile. Can’t help it. “Yeah,” you answer. “I mean it.”

Tommy’s answering grin is full of elation and has you giggling. “My fuckin’ girl,” he states, and you can see the smug look in his eye. Can’t even really be mad at him for it, because there’s satisfaction in the words, too. Happiness.

With practiced ease, you unbuckle his belt and pull the zipper of his jeans down with your teeth. His cock is already hard and aching when you reach beneath his boxers to pull it free.

You start slow一kissing the tip, sliding your tongue over the veins on the underside of his cock. He pulses beneath your touch, his hands in your hair gentler now. Stroking the side of your head softly.

But that softness ends the moment you take him in your mouth and suck. You take him down as far as you can, fighting the pressure at the back of your throat. Wrap your lips tightly around him and watch the way his head falls back and his eyes squeeze shut.

“Shit, baby,” he sighs. “Been dreamin’ about that sweet mouth.” His hand finds the back of your head, pushing you further down.

Your eyes water and you struggle to suck in oxygen, but stay right where he wants you.

“Look so fuckin’ pretty like that, mouth all full’a me.” With his free hand, he swipes away the stray tear that leaks down your cheek with his thumb. “Doin’ so fuckin good.”

When you start to choke, Tommy lets up. Pulls you off of him, hand still in your hair, smiling wide as thick stands of saliva keep you tethered together. Spit coats your chin and your eyes are bleary, but the moment you catch your breath he’s guiding your mouth back to him, his hips bucking, forcing his cock to reach just a little further down your throat.

“Yeah, there you go. That’s it. Slutty little thing. An’ all mine,” he says. “Cryin’ for it. Bet you’re real wet, too. Lettin’ me fuck your mouth like a whore. Takin’ it like one.” You can hear his breath stutter, his grip in your hair tightening. Know he’s close before he even pulls you away again. “Lift up your dress, baby.”

You do just as he says, like you always have. Grab the ends of the flowing fabric and pull it up over your head until you’re sitting there in his truck bed, wearing nothing but honey colored panties, your favorite black bra, and the tears on your cheeks.

This time, you hadn’t anticipated it. Hadn’t anticipated him.

Tommy reaches behind your back and unclasps your bra with deft fingers, pulling the straps down your shoulders. When he traces the elastic band over your waist, he murmurs, “Cute. These, too, pretty girl.”

As soon as you shimmy your panties down your legs and toss them to the side, Tommy’s tugging you up his torso, hands firm on your hips.

“Bring that ass here,” he orders, sinking further down into the blankets beneath you. He pulls you up until your thighs bracket his head, hovering over him. Tommy stares up at you like you’re the most magnificent thing he’s ever laid eyes on, the intensity of it sending a shiver down your spine.

And he doesn’t break stride; holding that eye contact even when his tongue splits you open, flicking over your clit. “Oh, God.”

You can feel him smile against you, stubble scratching lightly against the inside of your thighs. He licks and sucks and leaves no inch of you untouched, tongue circling, your nerve endings spit slick and pulsing beneath his ministrations. 

Though you try to hover, to give him room to breathe, Tommy won’t have it. His arms wrap around your thighs and he pulls you down, pressing you against his face, moaning when you shift your hips and grind yourself against the flat of his tongue. Hot and wet and desperate. “Just like that,” you tell him, your own voice foreign in your ears. “Fuck, yes, Tommy, please一”

He groans and you can feel the rumble vibrate between your legs. His tongue makes obscene sounds beneath you, soft and delicate against your most sensitive parts. He takes your clit gently between his lips and sucks, and you can feel that familiar warmth begin to quickly build.

Tommy’s always known just how to touch you. Has your pleasure down to a science. So it’s not surprising when you thread your hands through his dark hair, silky between your fingers, and your head falls back. “I’m gonna cum一fuck, I’m gonna cum, I’m一ohmygod一”

It hits you hard. Your thighs shake around his head and your vision gets all spotty. Your spine bends, arching against his mouth, seeking the friction that Tommy’s all too happy to give. He just sucks your clit harder, tongue swirling, until the overstimulation becomes too much to bear and you’re pushing yourself up on your knees.

He chases you. Leaning forward to press one last open mouthed kiss to your wet heat. “Fuck, baby,” he mutters, lips glossy with your arousal. “Look so goddamn pretty when you cum for me.”

And even though you can still feel the aftershocks of your orgasm, thighs still twitching, you find yourself insatiable for him. “Tommy,” you breathe. “Please, I need…”

“Tell me,” he urges. “Tell me what you need an’ I'll give it to you.”

“Want you inside me,” you say. “Please.”

You can see the flicker of disquiet as it crosses his face. Not disappointment, exactly, but…something despairing. “M’sorry,” he says. “I didn’t think we were doin’ this tonight. I didn’t bring anything with me. Here一why don’t you lay back. I’ll fill her up with my fingers, baby. Give that pretty little pussy what it needs.”

“It’s okay,” you insist. “I’m…I’m on birth control. If you want we can…” You’re not sure why the suggestion makes you feel shy all of a sudden. You’ve never done this, not with anyone. But you want it with him. With Tommy fucking Miller.

That smug smirk finds its way back to his lips. “You want me to fuck you raw, baby?”

When you nod in response, you swear you can see something shift inside him. As if he wasn’t head over heels for you already, he certainly is now.

“‘Course you do,” he says, tone full of adoration. “Christ, girl. C’mere.”

You straddle him again, sliding his cock through your slick folds, the head nudging your clit in a way that has you panting. You roll yourself over him once, twice一and then you’re tilting your hips at a different angle and he slips right in.

He lets out a groan and pulls you forward, arms wrapped tightly around your middle, chests pressed together. Tommy kisses you hard and begins to move underneath you, cock splitting you open, thick and punishing. “Best fuckin’ pussy I ever had, squeezin’ tight like it wants more. Greedy thing, just like you,” he mutters between kisses, fucking up into you. “So wet for me. No one else can fuck you like this, baby. Can they? Huh? Speak, girl.”

The words don’t come easy, all sense emptied from your brain and replaced with the way he makes you feel. Smothering, everywhere all at once. His heavy hands on your waist, his tongue against your skin, licking up the salty tears on your cheeks, his cock buried so deep inside you you can feel him in your belly.

You shake your head, dragging up the energy to cry out, “No, no one else一just you, Tommy just you一God一!”

“Yeah, that’s right,” he says. “Pussy fuckin’ belongs to me. Not even yours anymore, is it? S’all mine. Gonna fill her up, pretty girl. Fuck you full’a my cum till she’s all cute and sticky.”

That warmth builds again. Slower this time, but searing. Burning like a red-hot coil, curling up your spine. The perversion he speaks only heightens your desire, lewd sounds emitting from between your legs.

His thrusts grow sloppy. Harder, bruising. “S’like you were made to take my cock,” Tommy says. “Shit, baby. M’so close. You’re doin’ so good.”

Tommy doesn’t slow, even though you’re a moaning, writhing mess on top of him. His hold on you stays firm and his pace stays steady.

He grabs you by the throat, forcing you to look at him, squeezing just enough to make your head all fuzzy. “Say it. Tell me what I wanna hear. Tell me you’re mine.”

“I am,” you whimper, the truth burning like hot coals in your mouth. You think maybe you have been for some time, but only now are you able to admit it. “M’yours—fuck, feels so—so good. Your girl, Tommy—I’m your girl—” Your words are clipped, forced out in your haze, panting.

You can feel him pulse inside you, can feel the sudden increase in pressure as he empties himself with his cock buried to the hilt. “That’s right, sweetheart,” he praises, pressing his mouth to yours, moaning against your tongue, capturing your lips in an all consuming kiss that makes you feel robbed.

When you begin to pull away, trying to shift off of him, Tommy stops you with a firm hand at your hip. 

“Nuh-uh,” he says. “Not finished ‘til you cum again. Wanna fuckin’ feel it.”

“But you—”

“Still hard, isn’t it?”

You blink, a little startled.

But Tommy just moves his hand around your neck down your chest, pushing lightly, giving him access to slide his fingers between your legs to press them gently against your clit. “Go on,” he urges. “Take it. S’all yours. Fuck yourself on my cock, baby.”

His words are filthy and depraved and make your clit pulse beneath his thumb. One tentative, experimental roll of your hips has him tensing—but Tommy moans low and thrusts up in tandem, giving you what you need, giving you everything.

It’s euphoric—the way he opens himself up to you, letting you take and take and take, letting you be selfish. Encouraging it. 

All yours.

You find a good rhythm, his cock hitting the perfect spot inside you, buried deep. And with his fingers working between your legs it doesn’t take long before shocks of bliss shoot through you. 

Short bursts at first, chasing it, chasing release—

And then he looks you in the eye and says, “Cum for me, baby.”

It barrels into you without warning—unrelenting, strong, intense the way Tommy has always been. The way you’ve always needed.

He fucks you through it, hips slamming against the back of your trembling thighs, thumb continuing to circle your clit. The breath leaves your lungs completely and the only sounds you’re able to form are helpless whimpers. 

Tommy takes it in stride. Holds you upright when you fall forward, muttering all the while with his lips against your ear. “Yeah, that’s it. Fuckin’ take it, pretty girl. Shit—she’s squeezin’ me so tight. You like that? Hm? Cummin’ on my cock like the good girl you are. So damn cute when you get fucked all stupid.”

When you begin to come down, he slows his pace until he’s barely moving—just reverent, rocking movements beneath you. Tommy holds you close, arms wrapped around your waist, his embrace warm and safe and good. 

He kisses your cheek, your temple, the top of your head. The touches are careful, gentle, a stark contrast to the way he was only seconds ago. You find just enough energy to roll off of him, but Tommy doesn’t let you get far. Helps you tug your dress back over your head, tucks himself back into his jeans, and then pulls you back to his side.

The silence feels weighted, but not uncomfortable. Just…different. You lay your head on his chest, heaving with every breath, and his fingers gently trail over the curve of your spine, pressing into the tender muscle and tracing soothing patterns

And then quietly, he admits, “You’re stuck with me now. You know that, right? Gonna piss you off forever.”

It makes you smile. A wide spread grin, paired with a sudden flush that creeps up your cheeks. And even though no one has ever been able to get under your skin quite the way Tommy has, you find yourself with only one thought at the idea of being well and truly stuck with him. 

“It’s your darling’s birthday,” she said enthusiastically, her teasing smile emphasizing the word ‘your’.

He loved how Sarah called you, using one of the pet names he gave you, adding a possessive touch to it. God, he really loved that, and he was grateful that you two got along so well.

“Birthday? Is it really?” he asked, frowning.

His daughter's smile dropped, her shoulders slumped. “Dad?! Tell me it’s a joke. It’s a joke, right? And please, tell me you didn’t forget the cake…”

It was impossible to continue the teasing, seeing  her crestfallen face and a pout, and Joel couldn't help but laugh.

“Of course I’m joking, baby girl. Ain’t gonna forget this special day. And yes, I got the cake. Bought it yesterday on my way back from work.”

“Her favorite cake?”

“Yes, her favorite cake,” he smiled, touched by Sarah’s thoughtfulness and attention. 

“Great. And I’m too old to be called a baby girl, by the way,” she said, flashing a smile at him before rushing downstairs. 

She was growing up way too fast for his liking.

Joel got up and glanced at his wrist, then remembered his watch was broken, left in the dresser drawer. He told himself he really needed to get it fixed when he'd get the time, but the thought made him sigh. Too many things to do in a day, and not enough time for all of them. His watch would wait.

“Dad!!! Breakfast’s ready!”

“Coming!”

They were finishing breakfast when Tommy arrived, patting his brother on the back.

“You’re late, no more pancakes,” Joel said as he glared at Tommy.

“It’s ok, already ate. And I thought you didn’t like them, by the way?”

“Your niece is torturing me, forcing me to eat them,” he said while taking one last bite, making Sarah giggle, and his heart melted. As much as he loved to play a grumpy dad, the way his daughter cared for him always moved his heart.

“So… big day, big brother, uh? What did you get your girlfriend this year?”

“A uh… a bracelet,” Joel replied, feeling himself blush, knowing too damn well that he looked like a teenager every time someone talked about you. 

It was a feeling forgotten a long time ago when he became a single father and threw himself headlong into Sarah's well-being while men his age were partying or doing sports. 

But not Joel. He loved to rock his daughter when she was little, her eyes fixed on him until she fell asleep, as if he were her anchor in this world, when in reality, she was the one who kept him afloat. Running to get her meds to help relieve whatever pain was affecting her. Watching her smile, two little teeth peeking, the same dimple he had printed on her cheek. Standing behind her during her first steps, ready to catch her each time she wavered. Teaching her to swim, ride a bike, fly a kite, skim stones and so many other things. Making sure she had everything she needed, even though he could never totally fill the void her mother had left. But he was committed to always trying his best, as long as he'd be able to.

He was so focused on Sarah that he didn’t notice women’s gazes fixed on him, at a grocery store or when he picked her up at school. Indifferent to them hitting on him shamelessly at his daughter’s soccer practices, where he only had eyes for Sarah. 

He went on a couple dates, but they didn’t go anywhere. He just wasn't into starting a relationship.

Until he met you, a woman who stirred up a tidal wave in his dormant heart. 

Things were so easy and natural, without a rush, without a demand from him to sacrifice his time dedicated to Sarah. Unlike you, other women had often asked Joel to leave his daughter with a babysitter for a night. But he didn't want to. He wanted to spend as much time as possible with her, until she grew up and became a teenager of 14 or 18 who’d prefer to hang out with her friends rather than with her dad. Of course, that would be her choice, it was a natural order of things. But until she needed him he wouldn’t make that decision. He’d already spent too much time working, building his own company, making more money for Sarah, for her education.

You made Joel’s heart come to life again, his feelings growing stronger for months, and now he was wrapped around your finger, his heart racing each time he saw you. Thought about you. 

Everything was going wonderfully with Sarah. You knew the movies she liked, often discussed them with her, while Joel had trouble even remembering the title of the newest movie she wanted to see. "Dawn of the Wolf!" you and Sarah would repeat in unison for the tenth time, laughing. You naturally came not only into his life but into his daughter’s too, and now he couldn't imagine living without you. He hated when you didn't stay over, yet kept his biggest wish a secret from Sarah for now — you moving in with them.

“A bracelet? Mmmm… no ring?” his brother chuckled, looking at Sarah.

“What? No, not a ring.”

“But you’re thinking about it, right?”

“They have to live together before he proposes to her, uncle Tommy,” Sarah said, making Joel choke on his pancake. “What are you waiting for, dad? She sleeps here more and more often, which is cool, because when she doesn’t, you're extra grumpy.”

“That’s my niece,” Tommy grinned.

Joel glared at him then lowered his gaze, twirling the fork between his fingers, then looking at his daughter.

“You uh… you wouldn’t mind? If she moved in here with us?”

“Of course not, she's cool. And you could watch Curtis and Viper with someone else and not me, all benefits!”

“What, you’re telling me you’re not into Curtis and Viper?” Tommy asked with a smirk, to which Sarah replied, “oh yeah, I am, top action movie,” making Tommy snicker. But Joel didn’t react to their banter because

a) he knew that she loved the movie as much as him and was only teasing him as usual, especially when Tommy was around. They both loved poking fun at him

b) he could only think about the prospect of you moving in.

“You’re sure? It's always just been the two of us. I don't want... I don't know, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.

“Dad, I told you, she's cool. You’re happy with her, you love her. She should move in.”

“Not to mention that she’s really special, for loving a fucker like you,” Tommy added, making him and Sarah laugh again. 

“Jesus… Okay, if that’s alright with you, I’ll ask her.”

“Now let’s hope she won’t say no,” Tommy smirked before they heard a knock on the door.

“Behave,” Joel mouthed to his brother, his frown vanishing instantly when he opened the door and faced you. He pulled you into a hug, murmuring a soft “happy birthday, darlin’. I missed you last night,” in the shell of your ear.

“I missed you, too. Thank you, baby.”

You slid your hands down his back, pressing yourself to him, his broad shoulders and reassuring chest against your body, as you breathed in his scent, his cologne and shampoo. He pulled away after several seconds, cupped your cheeks in his large hands and kissed you. 

“You get more beautiful every day, how is it even possible?”

“I guess your eyesight is probably going every day, baby.” You gave him a smile that lit up his heart, like it’d always done.

He scoffed with a fake annoyance and invited you to come in. 

“Happy birthday, darlin’!” Tommy and Sarah cheered together, making you laugh when you noticed Joel’s face at their greeting. 

“Thank you, guys! Hey, sweetie,” you said, hugging Sarah. “How are you doing?”

“I’m good! Are you ready for your special day?”

“Of course, I’m so excited! Hey, Tommy.”

“Hey, sweetheart. It was about time you arrived, Joel is all grumpy this morning.”

“No, I’m not! But stop calling her darlin’,” he said, pointing his index finger at his brother, then grinned.

The three of you laughed and you pressed yourself against Joel, murmuring a soft “I’ll always be your darling,” that only he could hear. It filled his heart with a rush of heat. Then you all left the house, got in his truck and headed to the lake. 

During the ride, Joel’s large hand remained on your thigh, possessive and protective, squeezing it lightly when his fingers weren't brushing your inner thigh. Your eyes met again and again, and you smiled at each other, your hand placed on his. Your gaze always fell on his plushy lips, bringing your thoughts to him settling down between your legs, his broad shoulders spreading them before he’d go down on you, his lips on your cunt, his hands on your hips, as he would eat you out perfectly until you came on his tongue. 

Heat reached your cheeks when you felt his eyes on you, fully aware that he knew what you had in mind.

“Tonight,” he murmured, making you soak your panties even more than two seconds before.

You couldn't believe this perfect man was your man. He was sweet, protective and caring. So sensual and hot when you two were together. And gorgeous, as if his face and body were carved by a sculptor.

The lake was one of your favorite spots, with wildflowers along the water's edge and birds singing in the trees. 

You kissed Joel before going to the dock with Sarah, to skim stones in the water and try to make them bounce as many times as possible.

“You’re way better at this than me,” you said, watching her grab another one. She was beautiful, smart and sharp, a ray of sunshine, with a radiant and contagious smile. Your heart sank when you thought of Joel who had raised her alone, making sure she lacked nothing and surrounding her with love.

“Dad!” Sarah shouted. “You have to teach her your trick!” 

Joel and Tommy joined you, the game quickly turning into a competition between the two brothers while you and Sarah watched and cheered, then you all ate the picnic lunch you'd packed before you went to Joel and Sarah’s house in the morning, blew out your candles, and opened presents.

Tommy’s gift was a book that you were sure you'd only mentioned to Joel, so he had probably told his brother about it while Tommy was searching for an idea. You hugged the younger man to thank him, glanced at Joel and mouthed a ‘thank you’. He smiled, a grin so wide and beautiful that your heart exploded, overflowing with love you had for him.

"So, did I choose well?" Tommy asked with all the confidence and smugness a younger brother can possess, and you told him it was perfect, making him swoon without a hint of shame. He was always funny and warm, the best brother-in-law you could dream of.

Sarah's present was a framed print. The two of you talked about poetry and painting a few times, and a couple weeks earlier while you were in a shop in front of some reproductions of paintings, she asked if there were some favorites of yours. You weren’t surprised that her compassionate and generous nature led her to choose such a mindful gift. You hugged her and said, "thank you so much, sweetie, I love you." You felt Joel's soft and grateful gaze on the two of you. You didn’t look at him this time. You were too emotional.

Joel gently squeezed his daughter's shoulder, then handed you his package, a rectangular shape with dark-colored paper and a silver bow tied with two loops. You unwrapped it, revealing a velvet box which you delicately opened. It contained a silver bracelet, so pretty and perfect for your taste.

"Oh my god, Joel! It's so beautiful!" you exclaimed as he put it onto your wrist.

“You like it?” he asked.

“Are you kidding me? It’s perfect!” You kissed him and snuggled up to him, looking down at your wrist, your back against his chest, his arms around you. He was your happy place. You always felt safe around him, joyful and loved.

You took several pictures that day, Joel and Tommy drinking a beer, Sarah kissing her father on the cheek, his gaze fixed on you, the three Millers jumping from the deck. Then you put down your camera and joined them in the water where you all splashed each other, before it quickly turned into a girls’ team vs boys’ team. You laughed so hard that your jaw ached. 

When it started getting cold you all got out and dried off, Tommy made a fire and Joel took his guitar case out of the truck. He played several songs that you all sang together. It was a perfect day, surrounded by the people you loved most in the world.

When you came back to the Millers late afternoon, after dropping Tommy off, and Sarah went to her room to listen to music, Joel told you he had another present for you. You raised your eyebrows as he put something on the kitchen counter.

“Oh, Joel, you didn't have to…”

“Baby,” he said. “I want to wake up every day with you. Fall asleep with you. Watch TV with you. Shower with you. I’m not always easy, but…”

He slowly removed his hand, revealing a key, and your eyes widened.

“Joel, are you… asking me to move in with you? With you and Sarah?”

He nodded, then added, “I love having you here. In the morning in the kitchen, drinking coffee. At night. I want the bed to smell like you every day, for the rest of my life. I want to live with you, have you all by myself, every day and night. My work hours are shitty, but I wanna take care of you. Every week, every month, all my life.”

Hearing his confession, you felt like your heart was about to jump out of your rib cage. You were moved, but you thought about Sarah, and the implied changes in her life. Their lives.

“Is… is Sarah okay with this?”

“Yes, she is. I've been thinking about it for a while, but I didn't know how to tell her. It's always been just the two of us, you know? Even though I knew she adores you, I didn't know… and then this morning it came up in a conversation, she asked me what I was waiting for, so… Here's a duplicate key I made several weeks ago, if that's okay with you.”

“Of course, it is, oh my god, Joel,” you cried, throwing yourself into his arms.

He chuckled, hugging you tight.

“Welcome home, darlin'.”

That night, he sank between your legs, just like he'd promised in the truck. Eyes dark, full of desire and need, he lapped at your cunt until your thighs shook on his shoulders, your fingers grasping his curls. After he had crawled on top of you and kissed you, he brushed your wrists and the bracelet with his calloused fingers, as soft as velvet on your skin. "These wrists... are mine,” he murmured, gaze lowered towards you, full of self-confidence. The same one you discovered the first time he fucked you, watching the way your body was shivering, touching you the way you needed it, as if it was the hundredth time and not the first one. 

“What else is mine, sweetheart?"

“Me. All of me.”

“That’s right,” he said as he pushed in and kissed your neck, making you arch your back and bite your lip, brushing your g spot slowly, again and again, until you came on his cock, his eyes fixed on yours. He followed right after, groaning, his forehead against yours, sweat dripping down his curls.

Mornings with Joel were always special. Precious. From the very first one, then when you slept at his place once a week, then twice. They still were special, several months after moving in. Maybe more than ever. 

Sometimes you woke up first, the daylight bathing the room in an orange hue as the sun kissed the foot of the bed. Whether your back was to him or you were facing him, you would snuggle up to him, seeking the warmth of his body against yours. Pressing your back against his broad chest, settling into his arms like a cat in its favorite spot. You could hear him moan, half-awake, as his arms tightened around you. Often falling back asleep.

Sometimes he would wake up first and watch you sleep. As he looked at your hand resting on the pillow, he’d imagine a wedding ring around your finger. He wanted you to be Mrs Miller, to hear people call you this way. 

Then he would lean to you and kiss your cheek, or your forehead, or both, slowly and softly, until you’d wake up and bury your fingers in his hair, drawing your body towards his, throwing your leg around his thigh.

Sometimes you didn't really know who had woken up first. Your bodies finding each other, the warmth of one melting into the other, hands searching for fingers, lazy kisses on a patch of skin, before finally finding lips. He would lower his boxers, or you would, just enough to free his cock, and he’d push in after pulling your panties to the side. He would thrust gently, just to feel you, just to make you feel good, and be as close as possible, both of you only half awake.

His eyes barely open, he’d look at you, searching for you, as your fingers slid over his warm, tanned skin, letting him control the rhythm of his hips against you.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he always said, in his sleepy, hoarse and warm voice.

“Morning, baby,” you would reply between moans.

These were your mornings with Joel, before your day would start. And you loved every second of it.

Nights were just as special as mornings, your bodies needing to be one.

“You make me feel like I’m the only woman in the world,” you breathed, your forehead against Joel’s, who was kneeling on the bed, his cock buried inside you as you were seated on him. He was caressing your back, pressing you against him, your breasts against his chest, radiating heat, that was mingling with the burning sensation in your lower abdomen.

“That’s because you are,” he replied, pulling away to look at you in the moonlight. “You are, you hear me?” His soft eyes were locked with yours. “Most beautiful woman in the world.” He caressed your cheek, his fingers always so soft against your skin.

“Will you still love me in 20 years?”

“Oh, darlin’. You'll never get rid of me. Not in 5 years, not in 20 years, not in 50 years.” He lowered his gaze, then chuckled, “was that creepy?”

“It could be, but it’s not,” you laughed, brushing the curls at the back of his neck. 

“You're the love of my life, sweetheart.”

“And you’re mine.”

You felt his cock twitch inside you, and he slid his hands under your asscheeks, slowly moving you up and down his shaft.

“You make me feel so soft. I want to protect you, be there for you. Hold you in my arms, all my life,” his words and his cock made you moan, and you stammered weakly, “I’m madly in love with you, Joel Miller.”

“That’s good. ‘Cause I’m madly in love with you, too. And with these little moans, too. You always moan so prettily for me. Now, you’re gonna be good, sweetheart?”

You hummed, his cock filling you so perfectly, so slowly, spreading you apart in the most perfect way.

“Yeah? You’re gonna come on it, baby? I know you can do it,” he praised, circling your breast with his hand before taking your nipple in his mouth, sucking on it and making you shiver. 

“Come on it, baby, come on. Come on my cock. I can feel you flutter around me. Christ, it’s so good, you’re doing so good for me. Always do.”

You whined when you came, pulsing on his shaft and he followed you soon, holding you tight against him, breathing loudly in your ear.

Sundays were soccer game days, and you didn't want to miss a single one. Even if you didn't really like the jealous glances of other women while Joel was holding you against him. 

The day Sarah won her first cup you were so proud of her, you couldn’t hold back your tears when you took a picture of her and her dad, while she was holding her trophy, Joel looking at her proudly.

That day, just after you took that pic, Tommy smiled at you then said “you're good for him. For her too, and she’s everything to me. Thank you, sweetheart, for being here.”

“They’re good for me, too. I’m so lucky, Tommy.”

“I hope one day I’ll love someone like you two love each other, and have a family like yours.”

“I’m sure you will. You deserve it.”

One week before Joel’s birthday, just after breakfast while Joel was showering, Sarah looked at the calendar on the fridge where “September 26th” was covered with red hearts, purple stars and blue butterflies that she had drawn. She asked if you could take her to a store to get a birthday card. 

You went there in the afternoon and she chose one with a dinosaur on it. She loved them since she was 3 or 4, ever since her and Joel watched a cartoon together, with a t-rex so silly that it made her laugh a lot. For weeks, she imitated the dinosaur, trying to scare her father by making what she thought were scary screams while they just were cute. Of course, Joel played along and used to get jumpscared exaggeratedly, making her laugh so hard that she always ended up out of breath.

Once back home with the card, you watched her seated at the dining room table, carefully writing something for him.

“Dear dad, let’s see… You’re never around, you hate the music I’m into, you practically despise the movies I like, and yet somehow you still manage to be the best dad every year. How do you do that? :)  Happy birthday, papa! ❤️ Sarah”

“That’s very sweet and moving, sweetie! He’s so lucky to have you,” you said, after she let you read it. “He’s gonna love it.”

“I’m going to get his watch fixed, too,” she added, her beautiful eyes fixed on you, full of trust, sharing her secret with you. She wasn't your daughter but you loved her so much, was so grateful that she accepted you into their lives.

“Oh, that’s such a good idea! Do you want me to come with you?” 

“No, it's ok, I’ll go after school, it’s on my way. I got the money, too. Do you have any ideas for his birthday?”

“Yes, the other day we walked past a music shop, and he pointed out a guitar. I think he’d really like it.” Sarah’s smile lit up. “He’ll love it!”

On the night of September 24th, you were lying on the bed when Joel came out of the bathroom, his hair still wet and pulled back, towel tied loosely around his hips and a few raindrops beading on his shoulders. The view left you breathless. He was gorgeous, more than ever, maybe.

“Do you have any idea how handsome you are?” you said after a few seconds, once you managed to breathe again.

“Shut up,” he chuckled, deepening the dimple on his cheek.

“Oh my god you’re blushing!”

“ ‘course I’m blushing, I’m not used to being praised by a woman as pretty as you.”

“Nonsense, you’re just so cute, Mr Miller.”

“Really? Well, I don’t think I ever heard you calling me cute, when i’m fucking you deep into the matress, do I? Aw, who’s blushing now, sweetheart?” he smirked, dropping the towel to the floor, his hard cock springing free. He grabbed your ankle to pull you closer before climbing onto the bed.

“You’re not playing fair!” you giggled, letting him manhandle you on all fours.

“Mmmm, you're right. Do you want me to stop?” he smugged before spanking your ass lightly, making you push against his crotch.

“Could you stop?” you asked playfully, looking at him over your shoulder.

“Damn, who’s playin’ dirty, now, baby?” he breathed, mesmerized by your drooling cunt, and you let him enjoy the view a little more by leaning on your forearms.

“Jesus christ, sweetheart…”

“She’s waiting,” you teased, still looking at him, feeling yourself dripping.

One hand on your hip, he slid the tip of his cock along your folds, covering it with your wetness before nestling it at your entrance and slowly pushing in.

“Oh, shit,” you whined.

“That’s a lot of cock for this little pussy, isn’t it?”

You only managed to moan while he bottomed out, so slowly that you closed your eyes and squeezed the pillow. It was incredibly good to feel him so deep, like he was made for you, as you were made for him.

His other hand grasped your hip, and he started to fuck you at a slow pace, his moans lulling your ears before giving way to the praise he knew you adored.

“Damn, baby.”

“My perfect girl.”

“Taking me so good.”

“So tight for me.”

“Gonna make me come way too soon if you keep squeezing me like that.”

“You wanna come, baby? D’ya want me to make you come, darlin’?” spanking you again when he only heard moans in response.

“I didn't hear you,” he growled.

“Yes, please… please, make me come.”

He leaned towards you, his chest covering your back, and slid his hand to your clit, brushing it so perfectly, peppering kisses on your shoulder, whispering in your ear “you’re perfect, baby. Made for me and for this cock. Come on it, baby. Soak me.”

“Oh my god, Joel, I’m gonna… Oh fuck, I’m coming, I’m coming…”

He spanked you, making both of you whine. “Shit, yeah, just like that, squeezing the shit outta me. Doing so good for me. Oh fuck, baby… oh…”

His words turned into moans as he came, squeezing you tightly under his fingers, thrusting deep inside you, only releasing his grip when his spasms ceased. He rolled onto the bed and pulled you towards him, holding you in his arms.

“I love you. Do you have any idea how much I love you?”

“I love you, too, just as much, baby. I’m so happy, Joel. You’re making me so happy.”

You fell asleep against each other, his beard lightly rubbing against your hair.

The next day you were finishing packing your suitcase, just before Joel was going to drop you off at the airport. The idea of not being here for Joel's birthday breaking your heart, you tried to change the date of the seminar months before, then to find someone else in the company who could go there instead of you, but didn't succeed. 

Taking one last sad look at the bedroom, you noticed one of Joel's sweatshirts hanging behind the door.

"Can I take it?" you asked.

"What, this sweatshirt?"

"Yeah, It'll be like a security blanket, while I’ll be on the other side of the country for your birthday. Otherwise I feel like I'm gonna cry all day."

"Oh, sweetheart..." he said, taking you in his arms. "Remember what I told you. We'll have plenty of time to celebrate and you’ll be back soon, just in a few days, okay? And yeah, of course, you can take it. But don't you want a clean one? I wore it today…”

“No, I want your scent on it.”

“It’s kinda hot, you know that?”

You smiled at him, grabbed the sweatshirt, and you two headed to the airport.

On the morning of September 26th, you called Joel when you arrived in your hotel room, on the other side of the country, and wished him a happy birthday, trying not to show how upset you were, to not be there with him.

“Thank you, darlin’. And don't worry, really, I’m gonna be working late today. I don’t even know if Sarah will still be awake when I get home. We’ve got time, baby. All the time in the world.”

“Yeah, okay,” your pout disappearing quickly at the sound of his calm voice.

“So, tell me, darlin’. How’s Boston?”

*****

When you hung up you didn't know that you’d never return to Texas.

You didn't know you'd never see Sarah again.

Joel didn't know he'd never get the chance to give you the engagement ring he'd hidden in his nightstand, planning to give it to you when you got back from Boston.

And Joel didn’t know that Sarah had a birthday card for him in her bedroom, the card he’d never read.

part 2

Joel masterlist

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Pampered little shit, that's what Daisy is.

The most spoiled sheep in all of Texas, you can be sure of that. Refuses to eat the grass around the barn like every other animal. So you have to haul her four miles up a hill before she’ll even consider opening her mouth. And don't even think about giving her hay if you don't want a hoof hitting you square in the knee. You even have to sing her a song when you're crouched down trying to milk her. Sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? Well, it's true. You've hummed so many Dolly Parton and Johnny Cash songs to Daisy that you can't stand to listen to their voices anymore whenever you go out to a dance in town.

And all of it is your daddy's doing.

If that man didn't treat Daisy like his own child you're sure she'd quit being such a snob.

Well, guess what? The prissy cotton ball got knocked up in March and your daddy's fussing over her like she's about to have his grand baby.

Can you believe that?

You can swear on your life that she only enjoyed that high pasture because the neighbour's ram was getting sweet on her.

Now it’s late July and she’s round as a barrel, waddling around the barn like a freaking duck. Her sides sway when she walks, her udder’s all tight and shiny, "bagging up," as your daddy keeps proudly announcing. She can’t seem to get comfortable, lies down, grunts, hauls herself back up with the kind of suffering sigh usually reserved for when your dad loses at poker to your neighbour.

You would almost feel pity for her. Almost. If she didn't turn into an aggressive little bitch.

She’s developed… opinions. Opinions about everything. Daisy’s decided she’s above grass entirely.

You try to give her the grass by the barn because she's too pregnant to walk up the hill where her baby daddy's probably waiting? She snorts, stamps a hoof like she’s declaring war.

You offer the expensive hay your mama bought especially for her? Yeah, that hay that cost more than your truck payment. Same reaction, only louder, as if you personally insulted her.

You crouch to milk her, and she leans back on her haunches, hooves braced, glaring like she's preparing to kill you.

And maybe she is.

Sometimes she tries to shove you with her head. Not playful, definitely not gentle. Full-on "get out of my way" because she is pregnant and dramatic and convinced the world exists solely to serve her cravings. If she misses, she’ll stomp her front hooves, ears pinned, eyes wide, just to make the point. And when you think she's done? She bleats. High-pitched and commanding, the kind of bleat that could summon cows from the next ranch over if they weren’t too afraid of her.

Speaking of the next ranch, she seems to have developed a certain fondness for it. For what your darling neighbour, Joel Miller, is growing.

Corn.

Over the crooked fence line and across property you absolutely should not be crossing, stands a tall, golden field that might as well be calling her name.

And your daddy? The only craving of his sweet fluffy angel that he can't satisfy is this. Why? Because he doesn’t plant corn. Says it’s too much work, too much water, too much risk.

Joel apparently disagrees. Has about 150 acres of land dedicated to it.

You think you've had enough of her diva attitude and you're about to slaughter her with your bare hands? She suddenly becomes docile when the wind shifts just right and carries that sweet green smell from Joel’s fields.

She just stands there, calm as anything now, like she hasn’t been making your life hell all day. Nose lifted, ears twitching, breathing it in like it’s the finest thing she’s ever smelled.

You follow her gaze out toward the fence without meaning to.

Ripe. Golden.

Not yours.

You click your tongue and turn away.

"Don't even think about it, Daisy. That corn ain't ours."

Not that the fucking sheep understands a word you're saying, but you can swear that she rolled her eyes behind your back.

────୨ৎ────

You don’t think much of it after that. Just another one of Daisy’s moods. The Lord knows she’s had plenty.

Your daddy heads out not long after supper, already halfway into his boots while he’s still talking, hopping a little on one foot as he tries to shove the other on properly. He’s got that look on his face too, like he’s been thinking about this game all day.

You lean against the doorframe, watching him fumble around like he’s in a hurry for once in his life.

"Where’s your hat?" you ask.

He glances around, pats his head like it might magically be there, then spots it on the table and grabs it. "Right there, see? I knew where it was."

"Mmhm."

He jams it onto his head anyway, a little crooked, and only fixes it when he catches you looking.

"Don’t start," he mutters, but there’s no bite to it.

You let out a quiet snort.

He steps closer then, reaching out to tuck a stray piece of your hair back before leaning down to press a quick kiss to your cheek, his stubble scratching just enough to be annoying.

"Don’t wait up," he says. "Game might run long."

You already know the drill. His poker games always drag well past midnight. Especially if there’s booze involved.

And there’s always booze involved.

You nod, half listening, your mind already drifting somewhere else entirely, running through the list of things you might have forgotten to do before coming inside. The chickens... the latch on the coop.. whether that one stubborn hen finally went in or decided to sleep out like she’s got a death wish.

Meh.

It’s been a while since you’ve had to chase a fox off with a rifle. Could be entertaining.

Your mama doesn’t even look up from her chair, too busy picking at something in her lap. "Don’t lose too much," she calls out, like she’s said it a hundred times before.

He laughs, already turning toward the door. "No promises if Joel’s there."

That gets your attention for half a second.

Of course he is.

When isn’t he?

You lean your shoulder a little harder into the frame, watching your daddy step out onto the porch, boots thudding against the wood. "Try not to bet anything we actually need this time," you call after him.

He waves you off without turning around. "That was one time."

"One time too many."

You still sometimes bring up the time your dad didn’t have enough cash and decided, like an idiot, to bet a few acres of land instead.

And lost. To Joel fucking Miller.

You remember that fight. Hard not to.

Your mama near tore the house down, your daddy swearing up and down he’d win it back next time.

He didn't.

Joel won it fair and square, as everyone kept saying.

The great Joel Miller. God of poker games to your dad. Asshole land thief to your mom. Keeper of Daisy’s latest obsession. And the fantasy of all the girls in town. Maybe even some of the married ladies too, if church gossip is to be believed.

Scandalous.

From what your aunts have told you when they visit, it seems that he's always been the center of attention for women. Even when he was married a long time ago. Even more so when his wife left him.

"You should’ve seen him back in high school, sugar. Prettiest thing you ever laid eyes on."

"If I hadn’t already been promised to your uncle Peter, I would’ve snatched him up myself."

"Mhm, that man’s always had women trailin’ after him."

"Still does. Don’t think he don’t notice neither."

"Speakin’ of that… when’re you gonna let someone put a ring on that finger, darlin’?"

"Lord, you might be the only unmarried gal left 'round here."

"Ain’t natural, a pretty thing like you, still runnin’ around with no husband."

"I know this real sweet boy over at my church. Works with his hands, good family, don’t drink much…"

"Don’t listen to her, that boy’s mama is a nightmare. But she’s right about one thing. You oughta settle down soon."

"You don't wanna end up like aunt Petunia."

Oh, yeah. Aunt Petunia. Jilted at the altar and never even looked at another man again.

Turned to religion instead. Properly turned, too. Church every Sunday, every Wednesday, and any other day her arthritis doesn't act up. Talks about sin and damnation every chance she gets.

The only unmarried woman in your family. And, naturally, the favorite subject of town gossip.

Somehow, every conversation with these women ends up circling right back to the same thing. A ring on your finger. Preferably sooner rather than later.

And how, at your very grown age, it’s practically a tragedy there isn’t one already.

The screen door creaks as you pull it shut behind you, and a second later the truck engine turns over, loud in the quiet of the evening. Headlights sweep across the yard, catching the fence line, the barn, the edge of the field before swinging away as he backs out.

You watch until the red of the taillights disappears down the road.

For a moment, it’s quiet again.

Just the hum of insects, the distant rustle of something in the grass, the kind of stillness that settles in once the day’s properly done.

You push off the doorframe with a small sigh, stretching your arms over your head until your back cracks.

"Well," you mutter to yourself, "there goes the evening."

Your mama shifts in her chair but still doesn’t look up, already halfway to falling asleep where she sits.

You glance between her and the dark window, then out toward where the barn sits just barely visible in the distance.

Everything seems fine.

No foxes, no whining from one particular sheep, no stray chickens running around the coop. Just peace and quiet.

You shrug it off and go to bed.

────୨ৎ────

If there truly is a hell where people burn at the stake, as your aunt Petunia so often reminds you, then you’re certain their screams sound better than whatever the woolly demon in your barn is making.

Somewhere between a dream and waking, something feels off. Too quiet, then not quiet enough. A sound that doesn’t belong, threading its way into your head until you can’t ignore it anymore.

You frown, shifting under the covers.

There it is again.

Your eyes snap open. You lie there for a second, staring up at the ceiling, listening.

"That fuckin' sheep's gonna be the death of me," you mutter, already pushing yourself up.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, barely awake, shoving your feet into your slippers while rubbing at your eyes. Your nightgown clings to your skin in the heat, an uncomfortable reminder that sleeping with the window open in the middle of summer was a mistake.

"Mama," you call as you step into the hallway, voice still thick with sleep.

No answer.

You head for your parents' room and push the door open. You're not sure how late it actually is, but your dad's side of the bed is empty.

Probably still out playing poker with Joel and God knows who else.

"Mama, wake up."

She groans, shifting under the covers but not opening her eyes. "What?"

"Daisy’s actin' up. She sounds-" you hesitate, listening for another noise from outside. "She sounds wrong."

"She’s fine," your mama mumbles, already turning onto her side. "They do that."

"I don’t think she’s fine."

You stare at her, waiting for her to sit up, to tell you what you're supposed to do.

She doesn’t.

Just pulls the covers higher and settles right back in like you didn’t just wake her up.

"You know daddy's gonna kill us if somethin' happens to Daisy-"

Snoring. She's fucking snoring.

You let out a slow breath through your nose. "Unbelievable."

Fine.

You turn on your heel and head for the door, trying to reach for your boots in the dark hallway.

The night air hits you warm and heavy as soon as you step outside, thick with dust that makes you cough. You don’t hesitate, heading straight for the barn, boots kicking up stray pebbles with every step.

Halfway there, you stop short, squinting into the dark.

"Shit."

You turn back toward the porch, grabbing the old flashlight hanging by the door, thumping it once against your palm until the beam flickers to life.

"Better not die on me now," you mutter, already heading back out.

Another strained sound reaches you before you even get the door open.

"Yeah, yeah, I’m coming," you mutter, pushing inside.

You hook the flashlight between your shoulder and cheek for a second, fumbling along the wall until your fingers find the old oil lamp.

"Hold on, hold on..."

It takes a second. Longer than it should. Your hands aren’t as steady as you’d like.

The wick finally catches, flame flickering weak at first before steadying, casting a warm, uneven glow across the barn.

Shadows stretch and shift along the walls, softer than the harsh electric light but no less unsettling.

You grab the lamp, turning back toward her.

Daisy’s pacing.

Or trying to.

She takes a few stiff, uneven steps, then stops, shifting her weight like she doesn’t know where to put it. Her sides heave, and when she sees you, she lets out another one of those low, strained sounds that twists something in your chest.

Daisy tenses, and the flame trembles with the motion, throwing her shape into something uneven and sharp for a second before settling again.

"Alright," you murmur, more to fill the space than anything else. "Easy."

Your shadow moves when you do, stretching long across the straw, then snapping back in as you lean closer.

"Hey- hey, easy," you say, moving toward her slower this time, hands out.

"Yeah... yeah, that’s it. Calm down," you say quietly.

The barn feels too quiet otherwise.

Too still outside of her breathing, the soft rustle of straw, the occasional creak of wood shifting somewhere above.

Daisy sways again, a strained sound leaving her as she tries to settle. Her sides rise and fall too fast, breath uneven, and for once she doesn’t look at you like she’s about to take your knee out.

"Don't you dare bite me now, girl," you murmur, crouching down beside her.

She just looks tired.

As close as you were to turning her into lamb chops just a few hours ago, the sight does something unpleasant to your conscious.

"Okay," you say, more to yourself than her. "Okay, I’ve seen this. I know this."

You haven’t. Not really.

Not like this. Not alone.

You’ve helped once when your cousin gave birth, but you’re certain it’s a whole different thing when it’s a sheep.

You reach out anyway, resting a hand against her side, feeling the tension there, the way her muscles tighten under your palm. The lamplight flickers with the movement, soft and uneven, catching on your hands and the curve of her body.

"Easy," you murmur. "C’mon, girl."

She lets out another sound, sharper this time, and you wince. "Yeah, I know. I know."

You glance back toward the open barn door for a second, half expecting your mama to suddenly appear, maybe your daddy too, like this is something you don’t have to handle by yourself.

Nothing.

Just the dark yard and the sound of insects humming like nothing’s wrong.

"Great," you mutter. "Love that for me."

Daisy shifts again, and this time she goes down, legs folding under her awkwardly before she settles into the straw. She doesn’t stay still long, though, moving, adjusting, like she can’t get comfortable no matter what she does.

"Alright, alright," you say quickly, moving with her. "That’s fine. That’s… that’s normal, I think."

You drag a hand over your face, trying to remember anything your daddy ever said about this that you actually paid attention to.

You’ve never been one to love the countryside life, even though you were born into it. Always wanting more, always planning on leaving as soon as you could.

Maybe that’s why you pushed back every time your family tried to marry you off to some farmer.

Is it so wrong to want more? Is it so wrong that you don’t want to end up like the other women in your town?

They all seem to think so.

Another strained sound from Daisy pulls your focus right back.

You lean in a little, squinting. "Okay. Okay, I see it."

Your voice drops without you meaning it to, like talking softer might make it easier.

"Yeah, yeah, that’s it," you say quickly. "You’re fine. You’re fine."

You don’t know if she is.

But saying it feels necessary.

Time stretches after that.

You lose track of it somewhere between talking to her like she understands you and trying to keep your hands steady when things get messy.

It takes longer than you expect, longer than you’re comfortable with. You second guess yourself more than once, wondering if you should’ve dragged your mama out of bed anyway or waited for your daddy to get back home.

But somehow, you managed on your own.

────୨ৎ────

You didn't think the most evil creature in all of Texas was able to create such a delicate little thing.

Daisy shifts beside you, low and restless now that the worst of it is over. The lamb presses close to her side, unsteady but trying to stand on its legs.

You push yourself up slowly, joints stiff, brushing straw off your nightgown without really thinking about it. Your legs feel heavy when you stand, boots scraping through the hay as you move closer to the feed.

You scoop some up without thinking, more out of habit than hope, and hold it out toward her.

"Here," you say. "Eat something."

Of course she doesn't listen to you and won't eat anything you're offering. Not the grass, not the hay, won't even drink some water.

She might've just given birth but she's still a stubborn cunt.

You let out a slow breath through your nose, already feeling the headache coming on. "So what, you gonna starve now?"

She looks past you instead. Towards the open barn door. You follow her gaze before you can stop yourself.

Out beyond the yard, past the shining creek and the fence line where dark fields stretch out under the night sky.

And there it is. Corn.

Joel's corn.

You close your eyes for a second.

"No," you say immediately.

Daisy shifts forward like she didn’t hear you, nudging the back of your leg with her head.

You open your eyes again. "Absolutely not."

Behind you, the lamb lets out a small sound, pressing closer to her side.

If she doesn't eat, then her baby doesn't eat.

Darn it.

────୨ৎ────

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Since when does a sheep tell you what to do?

Daddy would get angry if he found out that his precious baby gave birth and didn't have anything to eat.

Stupidest reasoning you've ever concocted.

But you've done worse than steal from your neighbor's cornfield. Much worse, if you're being honest. And with no reasoning at all, so does it really matter now?

You find a weak point faster than you should.

Of course you do.

One of the fence posts leans just enough, wire sagging where time and weather have already done half the work for you. You step closer, testing it with your hands first. The wood shifts slightly under your grip, old and tired.

You plant your boot on the lower wire, gripping the post with one hand while the other keeps the flashlight angled awkwardly between your fingers. The wood digs into your fingers as you haul yourself up, nightgown catching on the wire for a second before you yank it free.

"Ow, shit," you hiss quietly, not stopping.

You swing one leg over, then the other, balancing there for a breathless second at the top.

Then you lower yourself down on the other side, boots hitting the ground with a soft, uneven thud. Your knees bend to take the weight, and the flashlight jerks hard in your hand, beam skittering across the rows of corn before you steady it again.

Your boots sink slightly into the softer ground beyond the yard, grass brushing your legs as you move faster than you probably should. The flashlight beam cuts a narrow path ahead of you, bouncing with every step, catching on fence posts and patches of uneven earth.

The corn moves slightly in the night wind, tall and dark around you, swallowing the edges of the light.

One step in and the world changes. The fence is gone behind you, the barn somewhere farther than it should feel, and all that’s left is rows of tall stalks shifting softly in the wind.

You lift the flashlight, sweeping it ahead.

Light catches on leaves, gold-green and sharp at the edges, throwing shadows that move when you move. It feels like the field is watching you back, which is ridiculous, but so is everything else about tonight.

The stalks brush your arms as you push through them, dry leaves scratching at your skin, whispering every time you pass. The sound of your own breathing starts to feel too loud, so you focus on the light instead.

You shift the flashlight, biting down on it so it rests between your teeth, freeing your hands. The beam tilts upwards now, illuminating more sky than ground, but it is enough. Just enough to see where your fingers are going.

"There," you mumble around it.

You reach out, grabbing one of the stalks.

It is thicker than you expect, rough under your palm. You pull a few ears free, stuffing them quickly into the crook of your arm before moving to the next. The corn husks crinkle loudly in your hands, every sound feeling bigger out here than it should.

"This is ridiculous," you mutter again, voice muffled.

The flashlight slips slightly between your teeth as you speak, and you tighten your jaw to hold it steady. Somewhere behind you, the field shifts with the wind, corn bending and straightening like it is breathing.

You hear a crunch of boots through dry stalks that is not yours.

You freeze so fast your whole body locks up, flashlight still clenched between your teeth, corn pressed tight against your chest.

Then light cuts through the rows.

A second beam.

Please let it not be Joel, please let it not be Joel, please-

Well, of course it's Joel. It's his goddamn field, isn't it?

You shift slightly, like moving will somehow make you less visible, but the moment you do, the corn in your arms slips. One ear hits the ground. Then another. The whole bundle follows in a soft, humiliating cascade of thuds and rustling husks.

"Shit-" you whisper around the flashlight.

The second beam adjusts immediately.

Now it finds your face properly.

You blink against it, raising a hand to shield your eyes, corn scattered all around your boots like evidence you cannot undo.

When your vision finally adjusts to the light, you see that it's not only a flashlight pointed at your face, but a rifle too.

Could this night get any more shitty than it already is?

You take the flashlight out of your mouth slowly, like that might somehow make this less embarrassing, and swallow.

"What the fuck are you doin'? Get that thing outta my face."

The light doesn’t move.

"What am I doin'?" comes the reply, calm as anything. "What are you doin' out here in the middle of the night? I coulda shot ya."

What are you supposed to do? Thank him for not killing you?

You stare at him through your lashes, irritation rising quicker than any common sense you should have right now.

"Weren't you supposed to be out playing poker?"

A beat passes where neither of you really moves. The flashlight is still pointed at you, though it dips slightly now, enough that you can actually see him instead of just being blinded by it.

He looks down first, then past you, then at the ground like he is trying to understand what he is looking at. It takes him a second too long to say anything, which already makes this worse.

"Fuckin' thief," he says finally, like he is still processing it. Then his eyes come back to you. "What would your daddy say if he found out about what you're doin'?"

"He’s not gonna find out," you say quickly.

Joel lets out a quiet breath through his nose, like he has already heard enough.

"The hell he is," he mutters.

Before you can react, he steps forward, closing the distance in two long strides. His free hand wraps around your arm, not rough but not giving you much of a choice either. Close like this you can see the rifle in his other hand clearly, a reminder that you should probably behave.

"Hey-" you start, pulling back instinctively.

"Come on," he says, already turning you with him. "You’re gonna tell him yourself what kinda thievin' kid he raised under his roof."

You stumble a step before catching your balance, forced into motion as he guides you back the way you came. The corn brushes against you again, louder now that you are not sneaking, the flashlight beam jerking in your hand as you try to keep up without tripping over uneven ground.

"The corn wasn't even for me, it was for Daisy-"

"Daisy?"

Yeah, playing the sheep card, that's totally gonna work.

"Yeah," you say, a little too defensive now, "My sheep."

He keeps walking, doesn’t slow, doesn’t let go of your arm.

"You broke into my field for a sheep," he says.

"I didn’t break in," you shoot back. "And she just gave birth, for your information."

Not that he cares.

You reach the edge of the field, the fence coming back into view, and he finally slows. His grip loosens just enough that you can pull away. You yank your arm free, taking a few steps back.

"Daddy ain't even home," you add. "Thought he was out playin' poker with you."

"I didn’t go tonight," he says.

You frown. "What?"

A little late to find out that he was home the entire time. Maybe if you knew from the start you wouldn't have snuck in his field.

You cross your arms anyway. "Well, he went. So he’s not here. Which means there’s no reason for you to be draggin’ me back like I’m five."

He looks at you for a second, then says, "You've always had such a mouth on you, sweetheart."

You don’t answer him right away. That alone makes it worse, because now it’s just quiet. Too quiet.

What if he does tell your dad that you snuck on his property and tried to steal from him?

Then you'd be fucked.

The thought sits heavy in your chest longer than you want it to. Not enough to scare you straight, but enough to make you stop talking for a second.

Wait, what the fuck is that?

A sound cuts through the corn behind you. Growling..?

The rustling comes harder now, closer, moving through the rows in a way that doesn’t sound like wind.

Something bursts through the edge of the corn a second later, low to the ground, fast enough that your brain doesn’t fully register it at first.

Then it does.

Fucking fox. Probably on its way to kill your chickens.

You step back too quickly, boots catching on uneven dirt and broken stalks. Your heel slips, your balance goes before you can fix it.

"Shit-"

It happens fast. One second you’re upright, the next you’re going down hard into the dirt and scattered corn. The flashlight flies from your grip, beam jerking across the ground, cutting through stalks before it drops out completely. The batteries must’ve come loose.

For a second, everything is just noise. Your own breathing, the rustle of the corn, your heartbeat too loud in your ears.

A shot is fired. The loud noise startles you even more than it did the fox who crawled under the fence and ran off.

You don’t move right away. You’re still half on your side in the dirt, one hand braced under you, the other feeling blindly for the flashlight.

You don’t even acknowledge Joel until his rifle lands on the dirt beside you, smoke still curling from the barrel. Not long after, his flashlight is thrown down too, the beam angled uselessly into the ground.

The light spills forward, cutting across the dirt and broken corn stalks, making it harder to see him properly when you turn your head. Just shape and shadow now. Close enough that you know he’s there.

You’re still on your hands and knees, trying to get your footing back, palms pressed into the dirt while you push yourself up a little at a time. The ground shifts slightly under you as you move, uneven and stubborn.

Then a thought flashes through your mind, an undeniably bad one.

If trespassing and stealing weren’t good enough reasons to get you reported to your father, you were about to give him something truly worth reporting.

You give him another look over your shoulder, even though you can't really see him you can tell he's kneeling or crouching behind you.

Perfect.

That was it. You snap your heel backward and upward, swinging your leg around in a pass meant to land squarely between Joel’s legs.

That's for scaring the shit out of you with that rifle of his.

Your aim isn't at its best in the pitch-black night, but what you lacked in precision you made up for in force, your foot drove in hard where you assumed his groin was.

From the way your heel drove into him and the sound that tore out of his throat, you figured you’d landed it well enough. But when you turned your head again, you saw his silhouette clutching his stomach.

A little lower next time, maybe.

You figure that this is a pretty good time to run away, so you try to sit upright and bolt straight for the fence.

But you don't get far. Something clamps around you ankle dragging you right back. You lose your balance mid trying to stand up and fall straight to your face.

What you don't expect is a sudden retaliatory strike.

You feel his hand gripping a fistful of your nightgown, hauling it up until you can feel a gentle breeze grazing the skin of your hips.

A sharp, abrupt slap lands against the curve of your ass. Your mouth drops open in shock. You barely have time to react before another hit snaps across your cheek.

"Fuckin' hell.. your daddy should've done this to ya a long time ago, sweetie," he muses through his teeth.

It's not the first time you're being told that you need a good ol' spanking. You never actually got one, so maybe that's why you're so shocked to feel Joel, out of all people, do it.

"Spoiled little thing, ain't ya..? Thinkin' everything should go your way.."

Sounds familiar?

Maybe you and Daisy aren't that different after all.

You let out a short, breathless laugh despite yourself, more annoyed than intimidated and lift your ass up in the air, wiggling your hips at him.

He lets out a low grunt and moves in closer, clearly unamused by your teasing. The air around you thickens with the soft scent of worn leather, dry hay, and fresh wood shavings, all layered with the salty tang of skin that’s spent the whole day beneath the sun.

Well, this is clearly one strange way to convince him not to tell your father what you've done tonight.

Your teeth clamp down so hard you almost bite clean through your lower lip, trying to hold back a reaction you can't quite control. The night around you feels even tighter somehow, the cornfield pressing in on all sides, the rustle of dry stalks shifting with every faint movement.

Then something shifts behind you and a new sensation cuts through everything. Warmth presses against you, sudden and intrusive, and you go completely still for a heartbeat, your thoughts stalling in the dark as a finger pushes your underwear to the side.

For a moment, you stay frozen, caught in the pitch-black field while the corn rustles around you and the silence stretches tight and uneasy.

He teases you lightly with the tips of his fingers, hovering at your entrance. A sharp, consuming need coils through you, tightening your thighs as you respond instinctively, your body betraying you and deepening the slick warmth that gathers against his hand.

Then, without much warning, he slips a finger into your warmth and curls it just right. The sensation pulls a sharp sound from you, your fingers burying into the dirt underneath you.

A mix of intensity and emotion overwhelms you, so strong it stings behind your eyes. You tremble as your body responds to him, sensitivity heightening everything he does. When he adds another finger, it’s slower this time and you gasp at the stretch and pressure, your breath catching as he works you carefully.

"Gonna hurt a little, baby," he murmurs behind you.

Your gaze is fixed forward, at the rifle laying on the ground next to you, at the flashlight that does absolutely nothing to help you see the man behind you. You almost extend an arm to grab it, but you stop yourself when Joel's hand leaves your cunt. You sigh at the loss, arching your back into him.

You hear the faint clink of his belt buckle, followed by the soft scrape of his zipper coming down. A moment later, there’s the rustle of fabric as he pushes his jeans down.

His hands slide around your back, holding you close as he draws you in. His pelvis is flush against yours, what you assume is his cock heavy against your thigh.

A sudden rush of emotion and intensity floods through you, scattering your thoughts until they drift loose and unfocused, leaving your mind suspended.

You feel the cold press of his belt against the back of your leg, the nudge of his cock between your thighs, hands groping over your hips, squeezing the soft flesh in his rough palms.

The head of his cock grazes your swollen clit, going up to nudge itself at your entrance. Then something warm and sticky lands between your folds.

"Did you just fuckin' spit on me?"

His cock slaps against your moist folds with a squelching sound, making you clench around nothing.

"Language, sweetheart," he says through gritted teeth.

You should recoil from his touch and tell him that spitting is fucking gross, but before you can protest further he smears it up your slit. He slots his head against your hole and you let out a strangled noise, vision blurring further into the dark as he slams into you.

There is an ache as he pushes in, a stinging sensation that dulls with the warmth and pressure of him settling heavily inside you. Spreading you apart in his hands, he spits yet again, the glob of saliva landing at the base where he's buried to the hilt inside you.

"So fuckin’ tight, sweetie," he says. He reaches around to rub your puffy nub, a move that makes your entire body shiver.

Joel moves his other palm up your back, finding purchase in the braid resting on your back, tugging it until your back arches even more. He lets a low groan escape out of his throat while he rocks his hips back and forth.

For a moment he withdraws, gripping your hair even tighter, then he drives his cock to nestle inside your cunt again. The circles on your clit and harsh movements may as well set your whole body on fire.

You are filled to your limit, overwhelmed by heat and slick need, your body trembling as each sharp thrust draws another helpless sound from your throat. Already worn down, overstimulated, and desperate, you’re barely a second away from begging him to slow down.

A sharp slap echoes as your bodies meet, the sound punctuating the moment, and a muffled whimper slips past your clenched teeth as the sensation of your climax crests and pulls you under.

You let out a soft, broken sound, your back arching even as you instinctively pull away, caught between retreat and need. Your body wavers, unsure whether to escape the overwhelming sensation or press closer, chasing it instead.

Your fluttering walls push him over the edge. You feel him twitching inside you before he pulls out, his release spilling across the curve of your lower back.

The sound hits you both at the same time.

That low, familiar rumble of your daddy's truck engine rolling up the dirt road. You turn your head and there they are, behind Joel and the crooked fence, the headlights cutting across the yard like a warning.

You shove forward, scrambling out from under him, hands slipping in the dirt as you try to push yourself upright. Your nightgown is still bunched up, hair half pulled loose, breath uneven as you drag the fabric back down your legs, fingers clumsy, not working fast enough.

As Tommy stared at the piles of FEDRA bodies scattered across the street, he felt the familiar sickness rise in his throat again. He couldn’t count how many uniformed bodies lay on the ground now. And he didn’t want to.

He kept wondering exactly when this had become his real life. When had blood stopped meaning anything? When killing stopped feeling like murder and started feeling like another Tuesday?

“Come on, Tommy! Help me out, goddammit!” Joel shouted across the street, flipping over one of the corpses to rifle through its pockets.

Tommy leaned slowly on the trunk of the car beside him and lit a cigarette with shaking hands.

“I’m not looting them, Joel,” he said, voice flat. “You got what you wanted. Let it go, for fuck’s sake. We have more than enough.”

Joel shot him a sharp look, still limping but moving with purpose. “The road ahead is only gonna get worse. We take every goddamn resource we can. Stop acting like a fucking child.”

Tommy ignored and took a long drag from the cigarette, eyes distant as he watched his brother move from body to body. Joel was still weak, still limping, but apparently strong enough to keep committing atrocities without blinking.

The last two days had spiraled into hell. After leaving the house, they had made decent progress at first. But the closer they got to the outskirts of New York, the worse it became. Multiple waves of infected. Raiders. Ambushes and constant paranoia. And now this.

They could have hidden. They could have waited it out. Tommy had pleaded with everything he had. "We don't need this fight. We can just avoid them."

But Joel had other ideas. They've got supplies. Better to be prepared. And the worst part was — Joel wasn't entirely wrong. They had burned through ammunition faster than planned. The road ahead was only getting harder.

And then there was you. The little revolutionary he was carrying who had been completely out of her mind the moment she saw FEDRA uniforms. Your rage had only poured gasoline on Joel's decision. Tommy lost the argument. So he did it. He helped his brother kill them all.

A sudden loud bang came from inside the car trunk, followed by a muffled, furious voice calling him a motherfucker and demanding to be let out.

Tommy stayed leaning on the trunk, smoking, staring at nothing. But the devils in his head wouldn’t stop tormenting him until they eat him alive.

Everything kept crashing together. The blood on the pavement was a distraction for a few minutes, and now hearing your voice cursing him brought the memory its way back. It had been doing that for days straight now. Every quiet moment, every pause between dangers, every time his hands weren’t busy trying to stay alive… it came back.

The way your body had felt under his. He wanted it again. Not the violence. He wanted your hands on him. He wanted your voice in his ear, soft and breathless. He wanted to pull you close and hold you there until every horrible thing he had done in the last four years disappeared.

But wanting you was both salvation and sin. And he couldn’t afford that. He wasn’t the man who got to love anymore. He had buried him a long time ago. There was no solution here. He couldn’t just abandon the job. He couldn’t convince Joel to walk away. And he sure as hell couldn’t join this delusional Firefly dream you kept talking about—

Tommy’s thoughts stuttered to a sudden halt.

For a second, the idea didn’t feel ridiculous. It felt… good. He hated how seductive this idea was.

Then your voice cut through again, cursing him from inside the car trunk, calling him every name under the sun, demanding to be let out.

The sound snapped him violently back to reality, and now here he was again: Hands covered in other people’s blood, pretending he was fine while his stomach kept twisting violently and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Tommy took another long drag from the cigarette, the smoke burning down his throat. And he did what he always does: He got his shit together.

He threw the cigarette away, then he turned toward the car trunk and knocked faintly three times.

“Can I open it already,” he drawled, “or am I gonna find you touching yourself and saying my name again?” He smiled like he was proud of the joke, the corner of his mouth tugging up in that cocky way he used when he was trying to convince everyone, including himself, that he was fine. Then he popped the trunk open.

“Ha-ha. You’re so funny,”

You sat up immediately, red-faced with rage, sweat clinging to your skin. The joke was humiliating… but it was also the warmest Tommy Miller had been with you in the last few days. You quickly climbed out, squinting hard as your cuffed hands came up to shield your eyes from the sunlight. The fresh air felt like a blessing after being trapped in that metal oven.

 “You idiot. You absolute idiot.” you spat, shoving his chest with your left hand. “Why you did that?! Why lock me?!”

Tommy caught your hand before you could pull it back. He pressed it flat against his chest, holding it there.  “Because my name is not Thomas,” His expression shifted from teasing to serious in a heartbeat. “You keep calling me that and this is what you get. And because that was dangerous. You were about to bite their necks with your own teeth. So… I protected you from yourself. You’re welcome.”

You flared your nose and dug your nails slightly into his chest through his shirt. For a second, the two of you just stood there, your hand trapped against his heartbeat, eyes locked in silent war.

Then your gaze drifted past him.

Bodies. All in FEDRA navy uniforms, scattered across the street like broken dolls. Most of them torn apart by a nail bomb’s brutal work. You analyzed the scene with cold clarity and couldn’t avoid the harsh truth: These brothers were no joke.

They had killed an entire squad without getting a single scratch. If your Firefly crew was still coming for you… you weren’t sure they would survive the Millers.

“Happy?” Tommy asked, gesturing with an open palm toward the bodies scattered across the street. “Is that what you wanted? Does the uniform make them worth less than the rest of us?”

You lifted your chin, eyes burning with defiance. “All FEDRA are shit,” you said coldly. “They’re corrupted and rotten. Whoever puts on that uniform is already dead inside. They deserved exactly what they got.”

Tommy let your hand go, a bitter, mocking smirk pulling at his lips.

“Wild, feisty little rebel. How noble.”

“It is noble.”

You stepped closer, looked up at him, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“And by the way, to your question… I don’t need to touch myself anymore. I have a big, angry, brooding asshole who does it for me every time I need.”

Tommy leaned in slightly, voice dropping into a dangerous whisper.

“Ooooh yeah?” A slow, challenging smirk crossed his face. “We’ll see about that.”

The silence surrounded you both, heavy and awkward. Both of you were suddenly aching for that moment again, and at same time not knowing how to act about it.

For two days now, that moment had been haunting both of you. Neither of you had known how to act in the aftermath. So you hadn’t. You had both retreated into silence and distance, pretending it hadn’t changed anything.

Tommy kept staring at you, remembering exactly what he had said that day. That’s convenience sex. Just fulfilling basic human needs. Don’t expect anything else from me.

But now that couldn’t be further from the truth.

He wanted to feel human again in the way only you could make him feel.

---

Eighteen days now.

That was how long you had been on the road since the Millers dragged you out of Boston.

You had expected your Firefly crew to have found you by now. The lack of any sign from them was frustrating. The constant push and pull with Tommy was also frustrating.

Whenever the desperation threatened to swallow you, you forced yourself back to the silver lining: traveling with the Miller brothers was bringing you closer to Baltimore. Even if you couldn't convince them to join you, you could use their strength until you reached central Pennsylvania, then escape and find your own way. It was risky. It was the only plan you had.

Tommy will come with me, you told yourself firmly. I’ll convince him. I know I will.

Those had been the hardest days of your life. There wasn’t a single stretch of a couple of hours without some threat appearing. The outskirts of New York were brutal.

And yet… you felt strangely safe. As much as you hated to admit it, the Miller brothers were terrifyingly competent. They moved like one single unit, communicating with nothing more than glances and hand signals. Every close call had been handled with cold precision. Joel was ruthless and efficient. Tommy was quieter, but just as deadly. Between the two of them, they had killed every threat before it could truly reach you.

Time had blurred together these past days, and the main reason for that blur had a name: Tommy Miller.

It felt strange. You had spent nearly five days in that house while Joel recovered, somewhere between fighting with Tommy and getting close to him. But ever since you left that place, he had become… numb. Distant. He barely looked at you. Barely spoke, even with Joel. The man who had held you so tightly, who had whispered against your skin like he would finally allow himself to feel again, had shut down completely.

And the silence between you was slowly driving you insane.

Your heart pounded every single time the memory flashed behind your eyes. A confusing, traitorous heat bloomed low in your belly, mixing with frustration and longing.

Tommy would always do this: be mean, regret, show softness, let you in, then become cruel again. The same exhausting circle you already knew by heart.

But this time felt different.

Tommy wasn’t angry or regretful. He was just… Hollow. Like something inside him had switched off. He walked ahead in silence, rarely looking at you or Joel, rarely speaking.

Walking in silence was both the greatest friend and the biggest enemy of a strategist. It gave your mind space to plan, to calculate, to look for weaknesses… but it also let every dark thought run wild.

For once, you weren’t taunting them. The situation had grown so chaotic, so dangerous, that you chose to stay quiet and let the brothers focus. Their alert radar was at its peak, nerves stretched thin, and you knew they needed every ounce of concentration to keep all three of you alive.

Maybe that was why the silence between all three of you felt heavier than usual. Not just tension, but pure fear and worry.

You had tried, more than once, to listen in whenever Joel and Tommy stopped to open their maps and discuss routes. But they always shut you out quickly.

Now the sun was sinking low, painting the ruined streets in deep orange and blood-red. And all three of you were absolutely exhausted, looking for a safe place to spend the night.

Eventually, you finally found an old gymnasium that looked relatively safe. You followed the brothers inside. The large space was dim and dusty, filled with overturned bleachers and forgotten sports equipment. Tommy and Joel moved, checking every corner. After a few minutes, they confirmed the building was clear.

They began settling their things in a corner of the court. Joel lowered himself onto an old bench with a heavy grunt, stretching out his bad leg. Even though he tried to hide it, the limp was still noticeable. He was clearly not fully recovered.

Joel had been complaining most of the afternoon about how far behind schedule they were. Now, as he massaged his thigh, the irritation spilled out again.

“We’re losing too much time,” Joel grumbled, voice rough with exhaustion. “At this pace we’ll take double the time we planned. We should’ve been further along by now.”

Tommy’s knee was almost fully healed, and you and him had both been slowing your pace to match Joel’s for the last days.

“You’re still healing, Joel. Pushing it too hard isn’t gonna do us any favors.”

After a few minutes of tense silence, you spoke up softly, almost hesitant.

“Do you think there’s… a shower in the changing rooms?” you asked, looking between them. “Maybe I can use it?”

Joel let out a tired, raspy chuckle. “Why the fuck are you so obsessed with showers, girl? Every single time.”

“It’s called basic hygiene. You should try it sometime, Joel. For real.”

Joel paused, staring at you with a flat, unimpressed look. For a second it seemed like he might snap back, but he was too drained to argue. He just shook his head and muttered:

“No. Go to sleep.”

“Tomorrow,” Tommy said simply, “let’s rest now.”

Joel’s head snapped up. “Tommy.”

“She’s been behaving fine for the past few days. We should give her that much.”

Joel stared at his brother for a long moment, clearly displeased, but eventually just exhaled through his nose and went back to his pack. “I’m gonna keep watch. You sleep for now.”

“You sure, Joel? You might need to rest more than—”

“I said I’m fine,” Joel interrupted sharply, his tone laced with irritation at being pitied. “Don’t start.”

Joel grabbed his rifle and moved to the far side of the gymnasium, settling down near the main entrance.

Tommy laid out his sleeping bag in silence. You lowered yourself onto yours, the metal cuffs clinking softly in your wrists. The adrenaline from the past few days was still surging through your veins, making sleep feel impossible despite the bone-deep exhaustion.

For a while, you both just lay there in the dim light, side by side, the silence thick and uncomfortable.

You tried small talk but Tommy replied in flat answers. Eventually you couldn’t take it anymore.

“What’s wrong?” you asked quietly. “Why have you been ignoring me for the past days?”

Tommy stayed silent for a long moment, staring up at the dark ceiling.

“I’m not ignoring you,” he finally said. “I’m just tired. And I need to stay alert while we’re out there.”

“Bullshit, Tommy.” Your voice faltered, growing smaller. “Ever since we… made it, you just shut down. Do I… disgust you or something?” You swallowed hard, the insecurity creeping into your tone. “Have I done something wrong?”

The guilt crashed over him so violently it was almost suffocating. All the devils in his head were screaming at once. He had done nothing but hurt you. Hurt every single person that crossed his path in the last years. And you were wondering if you did anything wrong.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t have this conversation. Not right now, not when every word you said made him want to both pull you close and run as far as possible. Not when his mind was a war zone and he was barely keeping himself together.

“You’ve done nothing wrong. Please… let’s just go to sleep.”              

“We have feelings for each other, Tommy,” you pushed, your voice cracking with frustration and hurt. “You know it. I know it. Why are you pretending this isn’t real?”

He sat up sharply, breathing hard, running a hand over his face like he could wipe the exhaustion away.

“Jesus Christ. You really don’t know when to stop,” he growled, voice breaking with rage and fatigue. “Real? You were the one who said it was just human necessity. Just sex to cope. Now you’re acting like it meant something?”

In the dim lantern light, he saw your eyes go glossy. That look hit him like a gut punch.

He exhaled shakily, softer this time, but no less exhausted.

“What’s the fucking point?” he asked, voice raw. “Tell me. This is never going anywhere. I’m not giving up this job. I’m not bringing you to Baltimore.”

You opened your mouth, but he cut you off before you could speak.

“And you better not start your preaching again. I’m fucking done with it.” His voice cracked with exhaustion. “I don’t know what the hell you think you saw in me… but it’s not there anymore.”

You stayed quiet for a long second, then spoke, barely above a whisper.

“I saw the trail you left for me,” you said, voice trembling. “you kept leaving pieces behind, so I can find you in the darkness you lost yourself in, Tommy.”

You turned your back to him, curling tightly into the sleeping bag, the metal cuffs cold against your chest.

“I knew I was meant to find those signs… since the first time you told me your name.”

“My name? What’s with my name?”

You kept your silence and Tommy let out a heavy sigh. After a few seconds, he turned over as well, putting his back to you.

Eventually the exhaustion pulled you both away, but every half hour or so, one of you would jolt awake, body tense and ready for a threat that wasn’t there. The last few days had been so overwhelming and full of close calls that your nervous systems refused to shut down.

At one point, you woke up to the sound of Tommy’s breathing turning sharp and ragged. You turned your head slightly and saw his face twisted in a nightmare, brow furrowed, jaw clenched, one hand twitching like he was reaching for a gun that wasn’t there.

A little later, you started slipping into your own nightmare, hands grabbing you, the feeling of being dragged away, the metallic taste of fear. You whimpered in your sleep.

Tommy noticed and shifted closer, gently shaking your shoulder.

"Hey," he whispered, voice rough with sleep. "You're having a nightmare."

Your eyes flew open, chest heaving. For a second you stared at him disoriented, heart slamming against your ribs, before reality settled back in.

Neither of you spoke for a moment. The silence said enough: you were both too exhausted to function and too wired to sleep.

Tommy shifted quietly, moving from his sleeping bag to yours. He settled on his side, propped on one elbow, and looked down at you.

You looked back up at him.

In the weak amber light, the freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks were barely visible. You had memorized them without meaning to. A small, private map of the man beneath all the hardness.

Then your gaze dropped to his lips.

You had been denied them so many times now that the wanting had become its own kind of ache. He had given you everything else and kept that one thing back, like a last line he wasn't ready to cross. Like kissing you would make it real in a way nothing else had.

Carefully, you raised your injured hand and rested it against his chest.

Tommy's eyes dropped to it immediately. The swelling had gone down considerably over the past days.

"How is the hand recovering?" he asked.

The question came out quiet, as he couldn't quite look at you when he said it. That was just one of the things from the demons that were eating him alive. One more thing he had done. One more thing he couldn't take back.

"It's okay," you said softly. "Sore. Stiff. But okay."

He reached up and took your hand slowly and brought it to his lips.

He kissed your knuckles.

Your breath caught. It was barely anything, but it was the first kiss he had ever given you.

As if he'd only just realized what he'd done, Tommy lowered your hand slowly and pretended nothing happened.

There he was again. Leaving trails for you to follow… never with words. But with small, unguarded things he couldn't seem to stop himself from offering. You wondered if he even knew he was doing it.

"For how long do you have these nightmares?" you asked softly, not wanting to break whatever fragile thing was sitting between you.

He was quiet for a moment, thumb moving in a slow, unconscious stroke across the back of your hand.

"I don't remember not having them, to be honest," he said finally, voice low. "Probably started not long after outbreak day. You?"

"I usually sleep well," you admitted. "Tonight I'm just… Too much has happened these last few days."

Tommy shifted closer and pulled you gently against his chest, guiding your head until your ear rested directly over his heart. “Focus on this.”

His arm settled around your shoulders. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the beats anchor you.

"Did you mean it?" you asked quietly, against his shirt. "What you said before. That it didn't mean anything."

The heartbeat under your ear picked up almost imperceptibly.

Tommy exhaled through his nose. His hand moved to your hair, fingers threading through it once before stilling.

"Doesn’t matter," he murmured.

"That's not an answer."

"Yeah, well." A long pause. "Maybe I don't have one."

You lifted your head just enough to look at him. He was staring at the ceiling.

"Tommy."

"Don't," he said softly.

You pressed your cheek back against his chest and listened to his heart for a moment before speaking again, voice low.

"We can convince him," you said simply. “Let’s do this. Let’s convince Joel.”

Tommy let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "Convince Joel Miller of what, exactly?"

"To bring me to Baltimore. Or…" You hesitated for only a second. "Or to consider joining us. The Fireflies."

The laugh that came out of Tommy then was genuine, the absurdity of it was almost funny.

"Joel would rather walk into a hive of infected buck naked," he said.

You were quiet for a moment. Then you shifted, propping yourself up slightly to look at him.

"But would you, Tommy? Join us?"

He turned his head away from you. The look on his face was unreadable.

You let it go. For now.

The silence settled between you again, softer than before. Outside, somewhere distant, something moved through the dark — wind through broken glass, or something else entirely. Neither of you tensed. You were both too spent to be afraid of ghosts.

"I read about something once," you said after a while, voice quieter now, drifting toward sleep at the edges. "An art form… japanese, I think? I can't remember the name… it started with a K, I'm almost certain. Kint… Kintsu… something." You shook your head faintly. "I can't remember. But anyway, the idea was that when something breaks, instead of throwing it away or hiding the damage, you repair it with gold. You fill the cracks with gold lacquer. And the thing becomes more beautiful because of where it broke."

Tommy said nothing, but you felt his breathing shift slightly. Listening.

"I keep thinking about that," you continued, voice soft. "We're both broken. We're both ugly and cracked in our own ways. But the Fireflies… what we're trying to build… it's like that gold, Tommy. It doesn't erase what happened to us. It doesn't pretend the breaks weren't real." You pressed your palm lightly against his chest again. "And if we could even connect both of our pieces together… what comes out the other side is something more beautiful than either of us could've been alone and whole."

The silence that followed was long. Then Tommy laughed a soft, quiet sound. He found it painfully naive and painfully tempting in equal measure, and didn't quite know what to do with either feeling.

"You really believe that," he said.

"I really do."

He turned his head to look at you again. In the faint amber light his eyes were dark and unguarded, just for a moment.

"Kiss me," you whispered. “Please.”

Something moved across his face. His eyes dropped to your lips for one long, excruciating second.

Then he looked away.

"Joel could come back any time," he said quietly.

He shifted, creating a careful inch of distance between your bodies. "We should sleep."

You turned over, frustrated, pulling the sleeping bag tighter around your shoulders.

Behind you, Tommy settled back into his own space. Within minutes, his breathing slowed and evened out.

Yours followed shortly after.

This time, the nightmares didn't come. You both slept, not long, not deeply, but enough.

---

It was past the middle of the night when Joel's hand came down firmly on Tommy's shoulder.

"Your turn, lil’ brother."

Tommy stirred immediately, hand instinctively moving toward the rifle before his eyes had fully focused. He sat up, rolling his neck once.

Joel lowered himself onto his sleeping bag with a low grunt of relief, stretching his bad leg out carefully. He glanced between his brother and you, you were already sitting up, blinking the sleep from your eyes.

As Tommy moved, you asked before even being fully awake. “Can I come with you?”

He nodded.

"You’re both best friends now or what?” Joel muttered, pulling the blanket over himself and turning his back to both of you. " Try not to keep talking all night, I need to rest."

The words landed casual, but it made Tommy distressed realizing his brother had a faint beginning of a calculation. Joel missed nothing.

Tommy was already moving, irritated, rifle slung over his shoulder heading toward the entrance hall without looking back.

You grabbed the Hemingway book from your backpack and followed him quickly.

At the entrance hall, Tommy had positioned himself near the main doors, back against the wall. His face was closed. Looked he was locked behind seven different doors again.

You settled yourself against the opposite wall, a few feet away, and opened the book.

A moment passed.

"Did you sleep well?" you asked, keeping your voice low and even.

"Yeah," he said. Flat.

You looked at him for a second. He didn't look back.

"You know," you said quietly, "it's exhausting."

"What is?"

"This." You gestured vaguely between the two of you without looking up. "The circles, Tommy. You soften, then you regret it, then you shut down and act like I've done something wrong just by being there.”

"It's only exhausting because you keep wishing for things that can't happen."

You breathed in slowly through your nose. Then you dropped your gaze back to the page and said nothing else.

The hours passed like that, the space between you filled with nothing but the soft turn of pages and the distant sounds of the broken world outside. Tommy stayed alert, eyes moving steadily over the dark street, ears tuned to every shift in the silence. You read.

Somewhere past the third hour, you exhaled long and slow. You closed the book and set it in your lap, pressing your palm flat against the cover.

Tommy glanced over. His eyes dropped to the book, then back up to your face.

The bookmark was deep inside, past the halfway point.

"Have you gotten to the part of the cavalryman yet?” He breaks the silence. “Where he watches what his own people is capable to do?"

You opened your mouth to answer automatically, the reply already forming—

And then stopped. Your eyes lifted slowly.

He was still looking out the window. Still perfectly still.

Your heart did something strange and rapid inside your chest.

"You read it," you said.

"Hm?"

"You read it, Tommy. You told me you hadn't. You said 'do I look like a man who reads fucking Hemingway?'"

"I was just guessin'."

"Bullshit."

He said nothing. The muscle in his jaw moved once.

You stood up and stopped at his front. You could feel him very deliberately not looking at you.

"You chose that book on purpose," you said softly.

Still nothing.

"Tommy. You know what that story is. A man who has seen too much destruction, meets someone and chooses, for the first time, to protect instead of destroy." You paused. "To love instead of just survive. You gave it to me on purpose. Admit it."

The silence stretched. Outside, something moved distantly in the dark, wind, or leaves, or nothing at all.

Tommy shifted his weight almost imperceptibly.

"Sarah was a big fan," he said finally, voice even and quiet. "She insisted we read it together. That's all."

You waited.

And then, as if the memory had reached up and taken him by the collar before he could stop it, he continued.

"She was so damn smart for her age." The faintest smile touched the corner of his mouth. "Her friends were always watching whatever teenager stuff was on, reading silly love books. Not Sarah. She tried to get them to read with her and they wouldn't, so she just…" A soft exhale, almost a laugh. "She asked me and Joel instead. Said this one was her favorite story."

His face, in that moment, was something you had never quite seen on him before. The hardness was still there, carved in too deep to disappear completely, but underneath it something warm and aching moved freely. He looked like someone who had once been someone's favorite person in the world, and still carried that proudly.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, he caught himself. His expression shuttered. The warmth pulled back behind his eyes like a tide retreating, like the automatic reflex of someone who had been shut down every time that name surfaced.

"That's impressive," you said gently, and you meant it completely. "She really was something, wasn't she. A smart girl."

Tommy blinked. A small, almost imperceptible recalibration, the surprise of who had prepared for impact and found only open ground instead.

His eyes found yours briefly, uncertain, then settled back on the street. But the warmth returned to his face, softer this time.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "She really was."

Then you tilted your head slightly, a small, mischievous smile pulling at your lips.

"You know… Joel told she said the same about the book they read together. That ‘The Old Man and the Sea’ was her favorite story." You giggle.

Tommy turned to look at you slowly.

"No she didn't," he said, certain. "This was her favorite story. I’m sure."

You let out a genuine laugh. "Tommy. That girl had the two of you completely wrapped around her finger."

"God, she really did," he said softly, the words colored with a fondness so deep it sat somewhere between joy and grief. "She used to do that thing where she'd tilt her head just so and look at you like you were the most important person in the room, and suddenly you'd find yourself agreeing to things you had absolutely no intention of agreeing to." He shook his head slowly, still smiling. "Never even saw it coming half the time. Joel neither."

"Sounds like she was… the sweetest."

"She was," Tommy said simply.

You let it breathe for a moment before speaking, your voice soft and careful, like stepping onto ice you weren't sure would hold.

"You see, it's there."

"What?"

"Your sparkle." You said it simply, without performance. "The real you. It's right there, Tommy."

The warmth drained from his face almost instantly, replaced by something defensive.

"For fuck’s sake. Don't start."

"I'm not starting anything. I'm just—"

"I know what you're doing." His voice had dropped, quieter but edged. "You've been doing it since day one."

You looked down at the book in your hands for a moment, then back up at him.

"You gave this to me on purpose," you said quietly. You paused. "You read that and you thought of yourself. I know you did. These are the trails you keep leaving behind so I can find you, Tommy."

His jaw tightened. He said nothing.

"You can rely on me, Tommy. Whatever you're carrying, you don't have to—"

"What are you doing?" He took a step toward you, then another, and you felt the wall at your back before you fully registered that you'd moved at all. His forearm came up beside your head. Caging. "Why are you doing this to me? Why are you like this?"

"Like what?" you asked, breathless but steady, holding his gaze.

"Like—" He stopped. His free hand came up and he pressed his palm flat against the wall behind you. "How can you fucking still believe that? After everything we've seen since we left Boston? That alone should've been more than enough for anyone with sense to realize there ain't no hope left."

"Because I believe in you," you said quietly. “And I really like you.”

Tommy stared at you. Something worked behind his eyes.

"There's nothing to like, you understand that? There's nothin' here." He gestured vaguely at himself, the movement almost angry. "I'm not — I'm just a ghost, alright? Trying to get from one day to the next without dyin'. That's all I am."

"You don't have to be a ghost, Tommy. You are flesh and blood." You pressed your palm slowly, deliberately against his chest. "You deserve to be loved. You deserve exactly what I'm trying to give you."

The words hit him somewhere undefended. He felt something raw and starving rising up through all that carefully maintained damage like a man surfacing from very deep water. He stood there, suspended between the man he had been and the man Joel had made him, and for that one terrible, beautiful second it looked like it could go either way.

He stepped back, one hand dragging roughly through his hair.

"No, listen to me." He stepped back toward you, but close enough for the words to land properly. "You're a smart girl. Smart enough to know exactly what you've been doing since day one. So tell me… is this real? Any of it?" His eyes searched yours, angry and aching in equal measure. "Or are you just doing what you have to do to survive too? Using whatever you've got, saying whatever works, because you need me on your side and you know exactly which buttons to push to get there?"

You opened your mouth.

"Or maybe," he continued, quieter now, the cruelty more precise, "you've just been locked up with two men who've scared the hell out of you for weeks, and your head's so turned around you don't know which way is up anymore. Maybe that's all this is. Some kind of sick, twisted—" He stopped, exhaled through his nose. "You're not in your right mind. Because no sane person looks at a man who's done what I've done and decides she likes him."

"What are you saying?" Your voice was low at first, carefully controlled. "What exactly are you saying, Tommy? That I'm pretending to like you just to convince you of something?" A short, disbelieving breath escaped you.

"Or… or that I'm some kind of whore who uses her body to manipulate men?" Your voice cracked on the word and you hated it, hated that it cracked, hated that he could hear it. "Or are you saying I'm just some poor delusional girl with stockholm syndrome who doesn't know what's real anymore?"

You stepped toward him, eyes bright and dangerous.

"That my cause is worthless? That everything my family fought for, everything my uncle died for—" Your voice broke completely on that last word and you drove straight through it, refusing to stop. "That it's all just some pretty illusion I made up because I couldn't handle the truth? Is that what you're saying to me?"

Tommy opened his mouth. "All I'm saying is that I don't deserve—"

"Fuck you. Fuck you, Tommy!"

"Hey, keep your voice down, you're gonna wake—"

"Well fuck him too." You dragged the palm of your hand roughly across your eye before the tear could finish falling. "You know what? You're right. You're absolutely right and I've been the idiot this whole time." You shook your head, pressing your lips together hard for a second, fighting for composure and losing. "And I'm clearly not as smart as we thought I was. Because a smart person would've looked at this situation — being dragged across the country in handcuffs by two criminals who treat her worse than animal — and they would've stopped believing. They would've stopped looking for the good in it." Another tear. You wiped it away almost angrily. "But not me. No. I kept going. I kept believing you had something worth saving in there."

You pushed him. Both hands flat against his chest, a short hard shove that moved him less than an inch but cost you everything you had.

"I was fucking wrong." Your voice dropped to something raw and scraped clean. "You are beyond repair. I give up." The words came out one at a time, deliberate and final. "I just— I give up."

Tommy stood still, watching you. Something in his face had gone very careful, very quiet.

"You know what the difference is between you and Joel?" You looked up at him, eyes red. "He knows exactly what he is. He made his peace with it. He puts his head on the pillow at night and he sleeps, because he stopped pretending a long time ago." Your voice didn't waver. "But you? You are too much of a coward to walk away from it, and too much of a coward to make peace with it too."

The silence that followed was absolute.

Tommy didn't move or speak. But something happened to his face in those seconds that had nothing to do with anger. He had spent weeks listening to you build him up persistently an, infuriatingly. And some part of him had been holding onto it without meaning to. He hadn't even noticed how strong that was until right now, watching it collapse, watching you, of all people, finally say the thing he had been trying to convince you of since the beginning.

"Fuck you, Tommy Miller. You won."

It felt that something in his chest just imploded.

He knew it was better this way. He told himself that this is better for you. Better for both of you.

"Good," he said quietly.

You furiously threw the book at his chest and it felt to the floor. You spun on your heel, moving back toward the gymnasium court.

"Where the hell are you going?"

"To take my fucking shower."

And as you walked away, your back fully turned to him, you swallow the pain. Tommy just ripped all your hopes from your hands. The ones involving your beliefs, and the ones involving your feelings about him.

But then something complicated happened behind your eyes.

The moment you watched his face when you said you won. It had shattered him too.

And that told you everything you needed to know: a man who truly believed he was beyond saving didn't look like that when someone finally agreed with him.

Tommy Miller had been holding onto it too. Quietly, secretly, but holding on nonetheless. And you, in your frustration, had just accidentally ripped it out of his hands too.

And he would come back begging for it.

You began counting silently as you walked.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four—

His footsteps behind you.

You pressed your lips together to contain the satisfaction.

"You're not staying on your own," Tommy said, catching up to you, voice carefully neutral.

"Oh, of course." You let your tone sit somewhere between exhausted and bitter, not quite looking at him. “You just can't pass up another opportunity to watch me undress. You haven't missed a single one so far, have you?"

Tommy opened his mouth, something low and defensive starting to form on his lips, but as you both walked closer to the changing rooms, you saw Joel was already awake.

He sat cross-legged on his sleeping bag with the map spread open across his knees. He looked up when you both appeared.

"Hey, Tommy," Joel muttered, jerking his chin at the map. "Come look at this."

Tommy’s eyes moved between you and his brother, but went anyway.

You hesitated for only a second, then followed and sat down a short distance away. If Joel was looking at that map, you wanted to see it. You had been trying to get eyes on their route for days.

Joel tossed a pack of beef jerky at Tommy. Then, he tossed one to you.

You caught it, surprised enough that you almost forgot to look miserable.

Tommy lowered himself beside his brother, jaw still tight, processing written all over him..

"What's wrong with you?" Joel asked, not looking up from the map. “You look shit.”

"Nothin'. Couldn't sleep. Why are you awake already? You should rest a bit more."

“I will, just woke up to take the whole shit of medications and will take another nap. But I thought about a new route.”

Joel pressed his finger to a point on the map and began talking. You leaned forward incrementally, just enough to see.

Joel hadn't told you to move. Hadn't folded the map away or lowered his voice or angled his body to block your sightline. He was talking about the route openly, right in front of you, like you weren't there.

Tommy, beside his brother, nodded at the right moments and said the right things. But his eyes drifted to you once, briefly, when Joel looked down to trace a line with his finger.

"Can I say something?" you ask.

Joel didn't look up from the map. "No."

"The route to Columbus," you continued anyway, keeping your voice level and practical, stripped of everything soft, because Joel Miller did not respond to soft. "How long are you estimating? Realistically."

Joel's finger stopped moving on the map. He looked up at you slowly, with the particular expression of a man deciding whether something is worth his time.

"Why?"

"Because I've been doing the math," you said. "And I think you're about to waste a significant amount of time going in one direction when there's a better option sitting right in front of you."

"I don't need your—"

"Baltimore QZ."

Joel stared at you, while Tommy rolled his eyes.

"Hear me out," you said, before he could shut it down. "Just sixty seconds. That's all."

Something must have landed correctly because Joel leaned back slightly and said nothing. Which, from Joel Miller, was practically an engraved invitation.

"The road has been brutal," you said, keeping it clean and factual. "You know it, I know it. Columbus from here…”  you nodded toward the map, "…is still a long way. Weeks, if the roads ahead are anything like what we've just come through."

Joel listened, but not giving you anything.

"Baltimore QZ is half the distance from where we are right now," you continued. "We could be there in under two weeks. My contact there has resources. You liked what you saw on Lincoln’s hands? Good. Because all of that he got because of me. Because of my strategy. And I can guarantee my friend in Baltimore can provide the same." You held his gaze steadily. "You take me to Baltimore, you collect what's waiting there, and you still make it back home half the expected time."

Joel said nothing for a moment.

"Lincoln said Columbus QZ," he said flatly.

"Lincoln is an idiot, and if you’re greedy just kill him and take everything anyway."

Something moved in Joel's expression. Barely anything, a fractional recalibration behind the eyes.

From across the map, you felt Tommy watching you. You didn't look at him. He was watching you negotiate your way toward Baltimore with his brother, cutting him out of the equation entirely, and something about that was clearly working under his skin in a way he hadn't prepared for. For weeks you had looked at him like he was the answer to everything. Like he was the one worth fighting for. And now you were sitting across from Joel, calm and focused and completely self-possessed, like Tommy Miller was the least important person in the room.

Joel was quiet for another long moment, finger tapping once against the edge of the map.

"I'll buy it," he said finally. "But." Joel leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked onto yours with the full. "If I'm considering anything — and I mean anything — you're gonna tell me all of it." He held up a finger. "Why does Lincoln want you in Columbus specifically?" A second finger. "Who the hell is Kevin Smith and what does he actually want with you?" A third. "What is your friend doing in Baltimore, what resources are we actually talking about, and what is the real reason you need to get there so badly?" He tilted his head slightly. "And before you think about lying to me, I've been listening to you talk for weeks now. I'll know."

You looked at Joel for a long moment, at the flat, patient, utterly immovable certainty in his face, and understood that this was the threshold. Everything you had been protecting, Joel was asking you to put it all on the table.

You took a breath. Slow and measured. Then you began.

"My parents founded the Fireflies. That part you know." You kept your eyes level, your voice even. "Shortly after outbreak day, when it became clear that FEDRA wasn't salvation, but just another curse on top of cordyceps." You paused. "You were a parent, Joel. You know what it does to you, seeing that and knowing your kid is going to inherit it. They got inspired. Got emotional about it, maybe. But the idea was sound."

Joel said nothing. Watching.

" My parents. My brother. My uncle. That was the core of it at the beginning. We built the strategy together. My parents were both CEOs before outbreak. They knew how to build something from nothing, how to manage people, how to expand and how to strategy." A faint, genuine pride colored your voice. "We started gathering people in Denver QZ. Quietly. Fighting FEDRA in the background, never exposing ourselves directly. At some point we had enough people to think bigger."

You shifted slightly, glancing at the map still spread between them.

"We decided to expand to other QZs. Sent leaders out with trusted crews, people we had built from the ground up. My best friend was one of them. She lost her entire family on outbreak day. My parents found her, took her in. She became one of us." You smiled, briefly and privately, at something only you could see. "She was sent to Baltimore QZ. Kevin was designed as another leader, sent to Columbus with his own crew." You paused. "My uncle and I went to Boston together. My parents wanted him with me, protective as they are. We built Boston QZ's Firefly operation from nothing."

Tommy's voice cut in from beside Joel, quiet but pointed.

"You never mentioned a brother before."

You glanced at him. Just for a second, a flicker of something that moved too fast across your face before you smoothed it over. Your left hand, resting on your knee, curled slightly inward.

"Just because you never asked, Tommy," you said, your tone carrying just enough edge to discourage the follow-up. "…doesn't matter for this conversation, anyway."

You pushed forward before either of them could pull the thread.

"Lincoln was recruited early in Boston, and he was efficient, dedicated, one of our best people for a long time. We gave him trust and real power within the operation." Your jaw tightened, and that part at least was entirely genuine. "But at some point he decided the Fireflies should look a lot more like the thing we were fighting. Same brutal practices, same hierarchy of fear, just… under a different name. I refused. We disagreed, badly and repeatedly." You exhaled. "Then my uncle was murdered by FEDRA, and Lincoln saw his opening. With my uncle gone, I was exposed.”

You held Joel's gaze steadily, completely ignoring Tommy.

“The Columbus operation under Kevin wasn't performing, not growing the way Boston and Baltimore had. Kevin wanted me there to help rebuild it. I know how to do that. I'd done it before. And that was convenient for Lincoln. A clean way to move me out of Boston without it looking like what it was."

Joel's eyes hadn't moved from your face.

"That doesn't track," he said flatly.

You met his gaze without blinking.

"You've been screaming since day one that Columbus is a death sentence." He tilted his head slightly. "But what you just described sounds like a man who wanted you out of the way, not dead. And an opportunity to help your precious cause to grow somewhere else. What’s so bad about it?"

You held the silence for precisely one beat longer than was comfortable, your fingers loosening and re-curling against your knee.

"Because Kevin and Lincoln are aligned," you said. “Kevin will build the same model Lincoln wants to. If I go there and refuse to cooperate with Kevin's methods — which I will — hey'll torture it out of me. Every detail, every technique, every trick and operation intelligence. And once they have it…" you lifted one shoulder in a small, precise shrug, "—there's no reason to keep me breathing. Because I will warn everyone back in Denver QZ that they are disrupting the movement the moment I get a radio."

Joel studied you for a long moment. Somewhere behind his eyes, something was turning over slowly and carefully, the way it always did when he was deciding how much of something to believe.

Tommy said nothing. You didn't need to look at him directly to feel it - You had spent weeks in close proximity to him. And in all that time, through every argument and every moment of fragile closeness, you had never told him most of this.

Not about your brother. Not the real shape of what the Fireflies were or what was actually waiting for you in Baltimore.

You could feel exactly what that was doing to Tommy without looking at him once. The particular, specific sting of realizing that the intimacy he thought existed between you had a ceiling he hadn't known about.

You pushed on.

"Baltimore QZ is where I need to be. My friend is there. And I need you to understand, she is not just competent. She is the best operational leader the Fireflies have ever produced. Better than me, and I don't say that easily." A small, real smile. "She has built something extraordinary in Baltimore QZ. I need her help to take back the Boston operation from Lincoln before he dismantles everything we built. Before he turns it into the exact thing we created it to fight against."

You looked between them both. Joel's unreadable stillness, at Tommy's carefully contained expression.

"That's all of it," you said quietly.

"Is it," Joel said. Not quite a question.

He held your gaze for another long moment.

"You're lying."

You stared at him. "Lying? I just told you absolutely everything. I told you things I have never told anyone outside the Fireflies, Joel. What exactly—"

"I know you're lying." He reached for his water bottle, unbothered. "Couldn't tell which parts specifically. Don't need to." He took a sip. "Even if Lincoln didn’t warn us you’d spin whatever story got you closest to what you wanted, I’d notice it anyway." He set the bottle down. "Gotta say, you're good. But not that good."

The blood rushed to your face so fast it almost made you dizzy.

"Are you serious? You made me sit here, you made me tell you things I have spent my life protecting, and you were never going to believe a word of it?" The quiet evaporated. "You rotten son of a bitch."

Joel said nothing. His expression didn't flicker.

"You have absolutely no scruples." You laughed, short and furious. "None. Zero. You sit there with that dead face and those dead eyes and you act like you're better than everyone. But truth is you are the worst of them all, Joel, and the bizarre part is that you know it and you don't even flinch."

Joel reached calmly for the map, unbothered.

Something snapped loose inside you.

“You just want to be the worst human ever, so people don’t rely on you, and you don’t disappoint them as you did with your family. Right, Joel?

Tommy's head turned toward you sharply.

“Like Sarah.” You dared.

The name landed in the room like a stone dropped into still water.

Tommy was staring at you with wide, horrified eyes, shaking his head in a small, urgent motion saying Don't. Don't do this.

You did it anyway.

"Tommy talks about her, you know," you said, voice quiet now, almost gentle, which made it worse. "Not to you, never to you, because God forbid anyone in your presence acknowledge that she existed. But in his sleep. In unguarded moments. The way he looks at things that remind him of her." You tilted your head slightly. "He loved her. That much is obvious to anyone with eyes. The question I keep coming back to is… what kind of father wants so bad to erase the memory of his daughter?"

"Stop," Tommy said, voice urgent and tight.

You didn't.

"The man I've been traveling with for weeks is not a man who was broken by the world, Joel. He's a man who was broken by you." The words came out measured and precise, each one placed carefully. "He follows your orders and swallows your cruelty and shrinks himself down to whatever shape you need him to be.” You paused. "I think you were probably an amazing father, who would burn the world down for his daughter." Your voice didn't waver. "And I think when you couldn't save her, you decided the world deserved to burn anyway. And you dragged your brother into the fire with you."

The silence was absolute.

Joel stood up.

It happened fast. The map sliding off his knee, the controlled, deliberate way he rose to his full height, which was somehow more terrifying than if he had moved suddenly. His face was a blank, white mask, and his eyes were the eyes you had seen in the cabin when he had promised, quietly and completely, to end you.

Tommy was on his feet before Joel had fully risen, placing himself squarely between you and his brother with the automatic, practiced movement of who had done this too many times before.

"Joel." His voice was low and steady. "Let it go."

Joel's eyes were not the eyes of a man who was letting anything go. They were flat and white and absolutely lethal.

Joel moved. Not to you. Through Tommy.

His fist connected with Tommy's face so fast and so cleanly that the sound of it reached you half a second after the impact, a sharp, brutal crack that snapped Tommy's head sideways. Tommy staggered back a step, catching himself, one hand flying to his face.

"Joel!" you started.

"You’ll be the next," Joel said, without looking at you.

Tommy straightened. Touched his lip. Looked at the blood on his fingers with an expression that was more exhausted than surprised.

"Feel better?" Tommy asked sarcastically.

Joel hit him again.

This one drove Tommy back two full steps, shoulder colliding hard with the stacked bleachers behind him. The metal rang out through the empty gymnasium. Tommy's hand shot out to catch himself and he missed, going down to one knee on the dusty floor. He stayed there for a second, head bowed, breathing hard through his nose.

Then he got back up.

He came back swinging, not clean like Joel, but with the raw, desperate force of who had been swallowing something for a very long time. His fist caught Joel across the jaw, snapping his head back. Joel barely moved. He took it the way a wall takes a fist, unmoved, and then grabbed Tommy by the collar of his shirt and drove him hard into the bleachers again.

The structure buckled. Something at the top came loose and crashed down and it caught you across the shoulder as you scrambled back, the impact sharp enough to split the skin just below your collarbone. You hissed, hand flying to the wound, blood immediately warm against your fingers.

Neither brother noticed.

They had separated, both breathing hard, Tommy with his back against the bleachers and Joel standing a few feet away. Blood was running freely from Tommy's nose now, dark and steady, dripping off his chin onto the gymnasium floor. His lip was split. Joel's jaw was already beginning to swell on one side.

Joel looked at his brother for a long moment.

Then, slowly, the white fury behind his eyes receded. He exhaled through his nose. Rolled his jaw once, testing it.

"You had one mission, Tommy," he said. His voice was quiet and controlled again. "One. You said she was your responsibility. You said you'd handle it. You'd set limits.” He looked at his brother, at the blood on his face, at the particular expression Tommy was wearing. "Look at the shitty job you're doing."

Tommy said nothing. He pressed the back of his wrist under his nose, smearing the blood across his skin, and stared at the floor.

"I'm not gonna touch you," Joel said quietly to you. "Because if I do—" he held your gaze for exactly one second. "…I will fucking kill you as if you’re a rat."

He walked to the far corner of the gymnasium court, pressing two fingers briefly to his swollen jaw. "We leave at sunrise," he said. "Both of you get cleaned up and get your shit together. I want to be moving the second there's enough light to see by."

Tommy turned to face you. His eyes were not the eyes of a man who had just protected you.

They were the eyes of a man who was furious: at Joel, at you for the weapon you had just chosen to use, and most of all, at himself for having given you the ammunition in the first place.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" he said, voice barely above a whisper, low and shaking with barely contained rage. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

You held his gaze and said nothing.

Your hand was still pressed flat against your collarbone, your shirt soaked with blood. Tommy's nose was still bleeding steadily, a dark trail running over his lip and down his chin, dripping onto his shirt.

Tommy looked at you for another moment. Then he jerked his chin toward the changing rooms.

You moved without a word, cradling your shoulder, and he followed close behind. The corridor was dark and smelled of dust and years of disuse. Tommy pushed the door open and you both stepped inside.

Tommy pulled the door shut behind him. The lock clicked.

You turned around.

He was already moving toward you, and the look on his face in the dim light made your breath stop entirely. He crossed the distance between you in four steps and stopped close, and for one genuine second you were certain he was going to hurt you badly.

You held your ground and looked up at him and waited.

And he looked down at you. At the blood soaking through your shirt, at your hand pressed uselessly against it. At your face, pale, tired, still holding his gaze. At the eyes that had said I like you, Tommy Miller more times than he could count, in more ways than words.

Something went out of him. The anger was still there, but the violence he was just ready to commit disappeared.

"You have no idea who you're poking," he said quietly. The words came out low and serious, stripped of performance. "Joel is not me. You understand that? Stay out of his way. Don't look at him, don't talk to him, don't even breathe too loud in his direction." His eyes held yours. "And I don't need your pity. Whatever you think you were doing back there, don't. I've been handling Joel my whole damn life. I don't need you making it worse."

You nodded. Small and genuine.

"Are we clear?"

"Yes," you said quietly.

He looked at you for one more second. He took the cuff keys out of his pockets and released you.

"Check the lockers," he said, voice returning to something flatter and more practical. "Find new shirts for both of us, these are done." He glanced down at his own blood-soaked collar with evident disgust. "And find towels. You're getting your goddamn shower."

You rummaged through the lockers methodically, one after another. Halfway down the row you found what you needed: a faded denim shirt large enough to fit Tommy's frame. A few lockers down, a plain brown long-sleeved thermal, slightly too tight but clean and intact. You pulled both out, draped them over your arm, and found two towels at the bottom of the last locker.

You handed Tommy his things without a word and took yours into the nearest shower cabin, pulling the door shut behind you.

The shower worked, fortunately. Cold, but you had stopped caring about that years ago. You took your clothes off and let the shock of the water hit you full in the face for a second, washing the blood. The wound stung sharply under the water but the bleeding had mostly stopped.

From the cabin beside yours came the sound of the adjacent shower turning on.

You closed your eyes. Your mind, which had absolutely no business going where it went, went there anyway. The sound of him in the next cabin. The image of water running over his shoulders, his scarred chest, the loose dark curls clinging to his face. You pressed your fingers against your eyes and almost laughed at yourself. At the absolute, spectacular dysfunction of it. He had hurt your feelings tonight in a way that would take time to forgive. You had wounded him back in ways that would take longer. You both were bleeding. And your body was desiring his anyway.

You let the water run over you, it washed away the blood, the dried sweat, the accumulated weight of days that had been too long and too loud and too full of things that couldn't be unseen. You felt it all moving down the drain and you were grateful for it.

You sat down. The shower floor was hard and cold beneath you. You drew your knees up to your chest and wrapped your arms around them and let the water pour over your back and your hair and you stayed there, eyes half closed. Just existing for a moment without having to be brave or certain about anything.

The shower in the next cabin shut off.

A minute passed. The sound of movement, the soft drag of a towel, footsteps on tile. Then Tommy's voice, close to your cabin door.

"Hey. Enough."

You didn't answer or move.

"I said enough." A single knock against the cabin glass, firm.

Silence.

He opened the door.

And you looked up at him.

He stood there with a towel rolled around his waist, hair dark and dripping, water still tracking down his chest and shoulders. His nose had stopped bleeding, leaving a faint reddish shadow above his lip.

He looked down at you on the floor.

Your eyes were tired. He understood. He felt it too, the accumulated weight of everything these past days had asked of both of you. He was just better practiced at pretending he didn't.

He extended his hand.

You looked at it for a second. Then, instead of taking it, you shifted carefully and turned your face into his open palm. Your cheek rested against the warmth of his hand, your eyes closing, and you stayed there. Just that. Just the simple, unbearable relief of something gentle.

He should have pulled back. You could feel him thinking it, the walls going up, the reasons assembling themselves. But his thumb moved, slow and without permission, brushing once across your cheekbone.

"I need your kiss, Tommy," you whispered. "Please."

He turned the water off, reached down and took your arm, drawing you up from the floor with steady hands until you were standing in front of him.

"I can't. I can't give you the affection you need."

You looked up at him.

"What can you give me?"

The space between you was very small and very quiet.

“Don’t do that,” Tommy breathed, but you both already knew he had lost the battle the second the words left your mouth.

"I need you, Tommy. Whatever you're able to give, I'll take it. I just—" you swallowed, "…I need something real from the world. Just something real."

"I'm so goddamn angry with you," he breathed.

"I know," you whispered. "And I'm angry with you too."

He held your gaze for one more suspended second. Long enough for you to see exactly what it cost him.

"Good," he said roughly. "Hold onto that."

He pressed you gently against the cold tile wall. His mouth hovered at your neck, breathing hot and heavy against your skin as he pinned you there with his body.

“Spread your legs a bit, ok?” he ordered, surprisingly soft.

You did it immediately. He shoved his knee between your thighs and forced them wider, opening you up for him. You reached down and yanked the towel from his waist, letting it drop to the wet floor. His cock was already hard, heavy against your stomach.

Tommy dragged his fingers slowly up the inside of your thigh, teasing, before he slid them through your folds. He played with you for a moment then pushed one finger inside.

You moaned, and he instantly grabbed a fistful of your hair and hold your head back, forcing you to look at him.

“Shh,” his finger still moving inside you. “You need to be quiet, understand?”

You bit your lower lip hard and nodded, eyes glassy with need.

Your hand slid down between your bodies and wrapped around his cock. Tommy’s breath hitched sharply against your neck at the first stroke. He cursed under his breath and pushed a second thick finger inside you, stretching you open.

You both stayed like that for long, torturous minutes, silently pleasing each other, breathing slow and careful against one another’s skin. The only sounds were the wet slide of his fingers, your barely-contained whimpers, and his low, restrained groans whenever you stroked him just right.

Finally, Tommy pulled his fingers out of you with a wet sound. He grabbed your thighs, lifted you effortlessly, and carried you out of the shower cabin. Water still dripped from both your bodies as he laid you back on one of the old padded benches.

He positioned himself between your spread legs, the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance. His eyes burned into yours.

“You really want this?” he asked, voice low and rough.

You whimpered, hips rolling desperately against him. “Please, Tommy…”

He hovered there, teasing your entrance.

"Here's how this works," he said, voice dark and controlled, “Eyes on me. Mouth shut. Legs open wide. Got it? That’s all you do. No asking, no demanding, or I stop.”

You nodded frantically. “Yes.”

“Repeat it.”

You crossed your legs behind his back and pulled him closer, nails digging into his shoulders.

“You’re a fucking asshole,”

“No.” Tommy’s hand shot up suddenly, gripping your cheeks firmly with one large hand, squeezing just enough to make your lips part and purse under the pressure.

“I said repeat it.”

You stared up at him, breathing fast, the firm hold on your face making your voice come out smaller, more obedient.

“Whatever you say, Tommy…”

Tommy’s lips twitched into a little smirk. He pushed inside you slowly, inch by inch, letting you feel every thick ridge. He stared down at you. You stared back at him, just as hypnotized as him, lips parted in a silent moan as he filled you completely.

"See?" he murmured, thumb brushing slowly across your cheekbone. "Turns out you know exactly how to behave well." His eyes dragged down and back up with deliberate slowness. "Funny what it takes."

And for a few suspended minutes it was just his eyes in yours and yours in his, and the unbearable pleasure building up at each second.

"Tommy," you whispered.

"I know," he said roughly, his eyes not leaving yours for a single second. “…I know.”

His thumb found your clit, brushing slowly and making your thighs tremble around him.

“Tell me when you’re close,”

"Hm-hum" was all you managed.

You kept drifting to his lips, aching to kiss him, to beg for it, but you didn’t dare. You knew he might stop if you asked for more.

He kept thrusting, gradually speeding up, hips snapping harder as his thumb worked your clit with perfect pressure. Your pleasure climbed fast and sharp, coiling tighter and tighter in your core.

When the orgasm started cresting, when your walls began to flutter hard around him and your breath turned into desperate little gasps, you cried:

“I’m close Tommy, I’m close…”

His hand lifted away instantly. His hips slowed to something torturous, keeping you suspended right at the unbearable edge of it.

"Tommy—" you protested, the word coming out wrecked and furious, your hips chasing him desperately.

He looked down at you with an smug expression and irritating composure.

"Hm," His thumb traced a single, feather-light, completely useless circle at your clit that made you whimper. "Turns out the big, angry asshole is not giving you that today, sweetheart."

You took one slow breath and let everything in you go deliberately, beautifully still. He would just torture you in a different way today.

Fine.

You smiled. Small, irrational and private and not for him… except that it was entirely for him. Tommy noticed immediately and his rhythm faltered.

Then you planted both palms flat against his chest and pushed.

He was stronger than you in every measurable way and he still moved. Not because you could ever do that him, but because you surprised him.

You stood up and circled him, pushing him down. He sat on the bench with a muffled sound, and before he had fully processed what had happened you had swung your leg over and settled into his lap, knees bracketing his hips, hands pressing down on his shoulders.

You were aware of exactly how easily he could lift you off and take the control back with one motion. You were also aware, with deep satisfaction, that he wasn't going to.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Nothing," you said pleasantly, positioning him in your entrance. "You're in charge. Remember?"

His eyes narrowed. You rolled your hips slowly, deliberately sinking into him with excruciating patience — and watched every microexpression move across his face like weather. The jaw tightening. The breath leaving faster than he intended. His hands flying to your hips with every intention of stopping you and doing absolutely nothing of the sort.

"No," he said.

You rolled your hips again, sinking completely this time, taking every inch of him, and the sound that came out of him was quiet and involuntary and landed somewhere in your chest. You found your rhythm then, making him feel every movement, every inch, giving him nowhere to hide from any of it.

"Jesus—"

The sound he made was quiet and involuntary and you felt it reverberate somewhere deep in your chest. You kept moving and leaned forward, letting your hands slide from his shoulders up the column of his neck, fingertips finding his pulse and resting there, feeling it hammer. Then you brought your hands to his face. Your thumb found his broken lip first, tracing it with care. Then the rough mustache beneath your fingertips. Then the freckles. Those impossible, infuriating freckles scattered across his nose and cheekbones, and back to his lips, to his mustache. And God, somehow that was even better than the rest of it.

This man… with his freckles and his violence and his buried, stubborn heart.

His eyes were fixed on yours, fighting the admission, fighting the surrender. You could see it so clearly: he wanted to deny it, all of it, the way you lived in his chest and your face lived behind his eyes every time he closed them. But with every roll of your hips the grip loosened, just slightly, just a little more, while he tries so hard not to break completely.

"…Fuck, you need to stop," he said, his voice stripped of all steadiness.

"Hm. No. I don't think I do."

You shifted, up and down now, bouncing on him and watching his eyes lose focus for one unguarded second before he dragged them back to yours. His chest was heaving.

“Goddamn it… you feel too fucking good,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “You’re too fucking perfect.” His thumb brushed across your lower lip, trembling with temptation to devour them. You parted your lips and sucked it, swirling your tongue around it while keeping your eyes locked on his.

“Christ,” he praised, voice low and rough. “Such a good fucking girl for me.”

He was trying to stay in control of something that had long since left his hands entirely.

"Stop," he tried again.

"You keep saying that," you murmured. "And yet." You pulled back just enough to look at him fully, to drink in the sight of him undone beneath you. All that danger. All that careful, cultivated ruthlessness. Here. Exactly here. His control in pieces on the floor and his eyes looking up at you like you were the only God he would ever believe. "Here we are, Tommy."

He was trying so hard not to break. The effort of it was written in every tense line of his body.

His eyes were pinned on yours, helpless and furious about being helpless, which was the most Tommy Miller thing you had ever seen.

You held his gaze and moved, and moved, and moved, slow and purposeful and completely in control of every second of it, and watched the dangerous man dissolving beneath you.

And then, without meaning to, you failed.

"Tommy," you whispered. "Kiss me. Just once."

Something snapped behind his eyes like a circuit breaking. The spell broke across his face in real time.

In one motion he lifted you off his lap and set you aside on the bench. He stood, stepped back, and reached for his clothes.

"I told you," he said quietly, still not looking at you. "I told you I'd stop."

Denim shirt first, buttons done fast and sharp, then his underwear and jeans pulled on and fastened with one final, pained motion.

He stood there for a moment, one hand braced hard against the locker, waiting for his body to catch up with his decision until the bulge on his pants disappeared. It took longer than either of you expected.

Then he straightened. Rolled his shoulders once.

“Get dressed, we should move soon.”

You let out a short, furious sound and slammed your palm down on the padded bench. You dressed quickly and badly, fingers clumsy with frustration, every movement sharp and graceless.

Tommy left the room, and crossed the gymnasium floor with heavy steps, dragging his hands through his damp hair before gathering it back and twisting it into the bun. Joel had been attempting sleep again, his rifle across his chest, but the footsteps brought him upright fast, body tensing for whatever was coming.

Tommy grabbed him by the collar.

"You never lay your hands on me again," he said quietly. "You understand me? I won't hold back next time."

Joel reached up and removed Tommy's hands from his collar with a firm, wordless motion. He looked away.

Tommy stepped back.

"I'm done," he said. "I'm done with this."

Joel's eyes came back to him, flat and careful. "Done with what, exactly?"

"All of it." Tommy's voice was low and frayed at the edges, four years of compression finally finding a crack to push through. "The blood, Joel. The killing. Every single day another body, another line crossed, another thing I gotta live with." He shook his head, one hand pressing briefly against his eyes. "I don't sleep anymore. You know that? I can't remember the last time I slept without—" he stopped. Exhaled hard. "I'm suffocating. I am suffocating in this."

"We do what we need do to keep us alive," Joel said, voice low and even. "You know that."

"I know that's what you tell yourself." Tommy looked at his brother steadily. "But if staying alive costs this much, Joel, if this is the price, then I don't want it."

Joel was quiet for a moment. He looked at his brother, at the split lip, the swollen nose, the exhaustion carved into every line of his face, and said nothing. He recognized this. He had seen Tommy reach this edge before. It always passed.

He breathed deep. Let the silence settle.

"We're not taking her to Columbus," Tommy said. Final.

Joel's eyes sharpened. "Tommy—"

"I mean it.”

A pause.

"Why?" Joel asked, voice carefully neutral. "Why does this particular girl matter so much?"

Tommy didn't blink. "It's not about her specifically. It's every person we've dragged around, every person we've put our hands on just because someone paid us to." His voice stayed steady. "I just can't anymore, Joel. I can't keep doing it to people."

Joel studied his brother for a long moment. Then he nodded. Once. Slow.

"Alright," he said quietly. "Here’s what we’ll do. We evaluate when we get there. We deliver her, we see the situation with our own eyes, and if it looks anything like what she's been saying…" his jaw tightened, "we bring her back."

"And after this," Tommy leaned forward slightly, "…we stop. We find another way. Promise me."

Joel held his brother's gaze.

"Yeah," he said. "I promise."

He was lying. About all of it. They both probably knew it. But Tommy needed to hear it today, and Joel understood that much at least, so he gave it to him without flinching and looked him directly in the eye while he did.

Inside the changing room, you pulled your new shirt over your head, shoved your feet into your boots, and crossed the door still frustrated and restless and angry. Your body was still humming with unfinished want and you hated it.

You pushed through the corridor door and into the direction of the main court.

The gymnasium was different in the early morning. The darkness had thinned and weak sunlight was beginning to find its way through the high windows. It traced a long, quiet path across the dusty floor, sliding unhurried toward the wall until it found the corner where an old pole still stood, a school sports flag hanging from it. Whatever team it had once belonged to, whatever games had been played on this floor, whatever Friday nights had filled these bleachers with noise and life and the ordinary happiness of people who didn't know yet how lucky they were —

Your heart stopped when your eyes moved along the wall behind the flag.

You crossed the floor in quick, closing the distance until you were close enough to be certain you weren't misreading it.

A Firefly symbol. Sprayed directly onto the gymnasium wall at eye level, clean-edged and deliberate. This was fresh, the surface still held that faint chemical sharpness. Three days old at the most. Possibly less.

Your pulse was very loud in your ears.

You knew the code system the way you knew your own heartbeat, your parents had built it carefully. They had always been more strategists than fighters.

The color of a Firefly graffiti was key.

Black or white — propaganda. A public-facing signal, meant for sympathetic eyes, for people who might be moved to join or shelter or simply know they weren't alone.

Yellow — a temporary base nearby. A safe house. Come carefully, come soon.

Blue —

Blue meant they had left a message for a specific person, or that they had been looking for someone.

Your eyes were already fixed on the blue symbol before you finished the thought.

The air left your lungs completely.

They're looking for me.

Your people, they had been here. In this building. They had stood in this exact spot and left this exact message and they were out there right now.

They're actually here. They are here and they are looking for me.

Your hand came up and pressed flat against the symbol, fingers spreading across the paint like you could feel the warmth of the people who had left it.

They're looking for me.

----- Author notes: This chapter is a long one, I know, but there were a lot of things small things I needed to cover. (many, MANY hooks and tiny spoilers hehe. I would love to hear from you which ones you noticed.) It might not be the most thrilling scenes or move the story forward in a major way, but they were important nonetheless. The next few chapters, however, will have a lot more action and are the ones I'm most excited to write.

Tag list:

“You’re… giving this to me,” you ask, dragging the question out.

The Mandalorian stands at your doorstep. Unreadable beneath hard shiny metal and illuminated only by the entry light of your home above your door. The chilly night air bites your cheeks but he stands unfazed.

“As a thank you,” he explains. “You were a big help to my kid and this was the only thing I had that seemed like something you’d enjoy.”

All you did was give his little green kid some medicine. It’s not like it was even your first interaction with the infamous hunter. He’s stopped by your apothecary a couple times. Passing by so swiftly you hardly even knew he was there if it wasn’t for the lingering stares from other customers. If you recall correctly, he only ever picks up supplies to replenish a med pack or bacta spray for wounds.

Until you suddenly found him at your doorstep the other night with his adorable little green baby in his arms. The poor little guy was running a fever, coughing up a storm, and had even refused food for over a day. Any parent would be frantic. And so you didn’t even think twice to let them inside.

Luckily your small shop is attached below your home, so you were quick to find the right tinctures for his illness. The Mandalorian paced circles in your kitchen as you administered the medicine and blotted his kid’s little forehead with a cool damp cloth. It took some time and a lot of reassurance to a very nervous father, but after a few hours the fever broke.

You sent them home with some herbal tinctures and even some homemade hard medicinal candies for stubborn coughs and that was it. Hardly any words were exchanged between you that night that didn’t pertain to the child. Only a heartfelt thank you, goodnight, and a promise to pay you back somehow. You assured him that it really wasn’t necessary, that you were glad to help.

You’ve admittedly always been curious about the man. With his stoic demeanor and a reputation that preceded him like lightening preceded thunder. He’s somewhat of a local legend, menace, and hero all wrapped up in one. And now he’s at your door. With booze. Definitely a man of his word, this guy.

“You’re giving this,” you repeat with astonishment. “This whole bottle, to me?”

“Yes,” he answers again. “Is it a special one or something?”

“This is Andoan wine,” you emphasize, holding out the clear glass bottle. “You can only find these on Coruscant now. Very delicious, very rare, very expensive.”

“Is it,” he asks nonchalantly. “I’ve never tried it before. But I hope you enjoy it.”

“You really don’t have to,” you tell him.

“I insist. I didn’t know the first thing to do so I appreciate your help.”

You chuckle. With your limited interactions, you’re starting to see that he’s short and to the point with his words. Almost like he’s not entirely used to speaking with people.

“I…” You nearly argue it again but decide against it. He really didn’t have to give you such a lavish gift for something any good person would do in a situation like that. It was only natural. But at this point, refusing him might come off as rude so…

“Thank you very much.”

The Mandalorian acknowledges your gratitude with a tilt of his helmet, then turns on his heels to leave without another word. And for some reason, you linger at the door. You watch him go down one step, then another, then-

“H-hey, Mando?”

Your sudden call stops him in his tracks on the stair case and he turns to look back over his shoulder. The dim light gleaming over his steel.

“Yes?”

“I…. w-well…”

You’re stammering. Just come out and say it.

“If you’ve never tried it… would you like to share it with me?”

He stands there silently looking at you and the awkwardness crawls your skin.

“I’m not busy at the moment and it’s not really in my culture to drink alone.”

Culture your ass. You just want to drink with him. It’s unclear why in particular but… you’re curious about him. Other than the company of his kid, he seems alone. You wonder if he prefers it that way or if it’s for another reason entirely. Either way, the offer was worth a shot.

There’s more silence and the only noise in the air comes from the gentle chirp of some lava crickets and the breeze brushing the trees in the street. And it’s in that moment that regret starts to burn in your stomach

He’s gonna say no. A pause like that doesn’t necessarily mean yes. But it would be rude not to offer, right? A bottle this nice doesn’t come by these parts and it’d be a shame to drink it alone. It’s reasonable to offer the gesture. After all, he went out of his way to come here from across town. It’s the least you can do to show your appreciation in return.

“Alright.”

The word that falls out of him so effortlessly hits you like a punch to the chest. Are you nervous? Absolutely. But how many people can say they shared a drink with the Mandalorian?

A few minutes later, you find yourself standing on your tip toes, grabbing a couple earthenware ceramic cups in your kitchenette cabinet while Mando stands in your living room. His helmet follows the various potted plants, momentos and knick knacks from your travels littered around your home. Even tracing his gloved fingers over some of them.

“You have a nice home,” he says. “I didn’t notice before. Very lived in.”

“Lots of junk,” you joke. “You can say it Mando, I won’t mind.”

“My place is still new. Doesn’t feel like a home just yet.”

“That’ll change over time,” you assure him. “After a while, your home becomes a collection of memories.”

His attention gets drawn to a particular item on your wall. It’s an old worn down canvas satchel bag that hangs on the wall. At one point it was a life line. Now it serves as a reminder that no matter how hard life gets, showing a little kindness can go a long way for someone.

“What’s this memory?”

“That? That memory is what got me here.” You smile to yourself as you wipe down the cups with a clean kitchen rag.

“A few years ago, I was on Pantora with just some spare change and the clothes on my back. I was desperate to leave so I ended up hitching a ride on a freight ship. I worked on the ship in exchange for a ride to Corellia. Their language was difficult to learn and I had a rough time getting things done because for some reason everything was written in the native language and not aurebesh. On a stop to Tattooine, I accidentally labeled a pallet of coaxium as a pallet of scrap metal. That “scrap” was sold to some Jawas and by the time everyone realized my mistake we were already halfway to the next planet.”

“Was that before you came the Nevarro?”

“That was the reason I came to Nevarro,” you clarify. “It was their next stop so they dropped me here.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, ouch,” you laugh. “Anyway, I guess one of the workers felt sorry for me and left me that satchel with a couple credits and some ration bars inside. Buuut my mistake turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Nevarro turned itself around. I have my own little business. I’m even able to save a little bit of money now. For the time being, things are comfortable. I’ve hopped around the system a lot as you can see. But… this is a place I can always come back to.”

“Something reliable,” he adds.

“Exactly,” you say softly, smiling at the sentiment.

You look up at him. And you didn’t notice as you were cleaning those cups that he’s now completely facing towards you. His visor is trained on you. And it’s then that you realize how small your home really is. Because Mando is broad.

His crossed arms accentuate his wide shoulders. His chest plate follows the lines of his trim torso. Even those plates of beskar armor can barely hide the bulk of his biceps. Your eyes briefly, briefly take a tour at his waist line before you realize how incredibly rude you’re being.

He’s a guest. And a customer. Don’t. Check. Him. Out.

Heat starts to rise in your cheeks. Focusing back on the cups, you round the kitchen counter and walk over to him.

“I’m sorry. All this talking suddenly got deeper and I feel like I haven’t really introduced myself. We’ve only ever passed by each other before,” you chuckle, shaking away the nerves.

In hindsight you should’ve just introduced yourself the other night, but truthfully you were in care-taker-mode and it didn’t occur to you at the time. Plus you didn’t think you’d have an encounter with the man again other than seeing him briefly in your shop every so often. But he seems like a nice enough person with the limited knowledge you do have with him. And after tonight you’re bound to cross paths again. So you happily extend your hand out and give him his cup along with your full name.

There’s a couple beats of silence and you’re starting to see that’s his default. But it doesn’t stop you from second guessing your words as if you’re crossing an unknown boundary. There’s a slight tilt downward with his helmet and he responds with a regretful “I’m sorry, but-“

“You don’t have to tell me your name,” you immediately add. “I know there’s… principles you must have. I just wanted you to know me. That’s all.”

Another beat passes before he finally reaches out to take the cup in his hand. He repeats your name and the way it comes out of his voice holds a whole new flavor. Soft and curious even through the warble of his vocoder. It’s almost like he’s seeing how it tastes.

You like it. You like it a lot.

“It’s nice to meet you.” The voice wears the vocoder like a veil but you still catch a hint of a smile by his relaxed tone. No real logical way to know for certain, just a gut feeling.

“Likewise,” you smile back.

“So,” he exhales. “You want to know how two Mandalorians drink?”

“Sure. Sounds educational,” you joke.

With a tilt of his helmet, Mando steps further into the living room area and you follow behind, cup and bottle in hand. Walking over to the couch, his gloved hand reaches for the small round pillow resting there. His smokey grey cape flows over his shoulder and for a moment you’re mesmerized by the movement. As he turns on his heel, his fingers release the pillow. Letting it fall to the thin rug with a muted poof.

“Right here.” Mando gestures to the floor and you waltz over to take a seat on the cushion, crossing your legs. It doesn’t escape your notice how he doesn’t grab the only pillow for himself. Opting for your comfort over his own.

He takes a minute to look around the room. Probably checking for anything reflective. Then with a swish of his cape to the side, Mando settles in the floor behind you. When his back presses against yours, you expect a wall of cold hard metal beneath the cape. But instead there’s warmth. Strong and firm, but still warm and giving.

“It’s customary to sit on the floor when drinking with a war band. Usually outside around a fire. When it’s just two, it’s back to back.”

“Aaah,” you drawl. “Very practical. I like it.”

The top of the bottle comes off with a pop and the rich scent caresses your nose like a hug. After pouring about two fingers worth into Mando’s cup you pour one for yourself and settle in.

“Are we drinking to anything tonight ,” you ask him.

“Not sure. How about…,” he pauses for a moment before deciding. “To that Pantoran who gave you the satchel.”

That makes you laugh out loud. But you can’t help but feel a little pleased at that. If it wasn’t for him, you wouldn’t be on Nevarro, wouldn’t have a home. And you definitely wouldn’t be drinking with Mando tonight. For that you’re especially grateful.

“You know what, yeah,” you chuckle. “To the Pantoran.”

Mando extends his arm back to reach your cups and you meet him halfway. Letting them touch with a soft clack.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

There’s an unclicking sound and you sense that he’s probably tilting his helmet back to drink. You ignore the small tinge of disappointment that he didn’t take it completely off. But it’s understandable. He doesn’t know you well. Even drinking like this with an outsider is probably a big deal for people of his creed. His back presses a little further against yours as he takes his first sip and you take yours.

The wine is rich and dry, and a bit smokey. But the underlying taste of tangy fruit blends well with the flavor. Going by the color, it has to have been bottled for a decades. The alcohol runs warmly down your throat and settles like smoldering ember in your stomach. It’s like no other alcohol you’ve ever tried before. Not even close.

“Hoooh,” he hisses after that sharp bite of alcohol.

“Yeah,” you agree knowingly. Already sensing that this bottle is getting finished tonight.

The conversations flow pretty easily after the first drink. He tells you about how his boy came into his life and how he suddenly found himself being his father. You tell him that you can only dream of having a parent like him because you never got to know yours. You half expected he would cut the interaction short and only accept one drink. But when you offer a refill, he gladly accepted which warmed you from the inside.

Admittedly you ask a few curious questions about his creed and he indulges you a bit. And he asks about how you got into medicine making. But for the most part you both stick to easier topics like current events on Nevarro, work, and food. Eventually two drinks turn into three and somehow you’ve both dipped into topics like past relationships. Which is dangerous territory after drink number three.

“It was baaad, Mando. I’m telling you. I mean, really! Who gives two shits who makes more money than who? Or am I in the wrong here?”

“Nah, definitely not,” he replies. His speech now more relaxed but a little raspy from the alcohol. “Honestly, he sounds like a little bitch if that was his main concern.”

“Yeah! Like, what is it with these men and needing to feel superior in such bullshit, inconsequential ways?”

“You seem strong willed. Weak men are intimidated by that.”

“Yeah well, then every man I’ve met in this galaxy was weak,” you groan. “I mean, c’mon. Am I that intimidating? Is it the yapping? It’s probably the yapping.”

“I think someone who’d be deterred by something that trivial doesn’t sound worth a damn anyway.”

With that, you let out a deep sigh and slump against the man behind your back.

“Eh, you’re probably right,” you exhale. You toss back the last little sip in your ceramic cup, savoring the flavor.

“You know what, it’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll just be that shop girl around the corner who throws herself into her work, makes her little remedies, and stays happily independent. I think I can live with that.”

A pause streches between you.

“You don’t sound too convincing, Shop Girl,” he teases.

“Shit,” you tsk.

You both wheeze with laughter, your bodies rumbling against one another and it’s so… relaxing. He’s surprisingly easy to talk to. Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t say much. Or that what little he does say is said with a sincerity you’re not used to. Or you’re drunk. It could very well be that.

But in a galaxy full of deceit and unknown dangers, it’s refreshing to talk with someone as honest as him. He’s authentic, unapologetically so.

“Hey so… can I ask you something?”

“You’ve been asking things this whole time,” he teases.

“I know, but… it’s technically a helmet question. And you can tell me to fuck off if it’s too much.”

Mando hums and the rumble reverberates through your body, nesting warmly in your chest. He’s settled comfortably against you and it makes you feel close enough to ask what you want to ask. After thinking it over he gives you permission.

“Can’t wait to hear this,” he sighs with a little amusement.

You smile. To your surprise, he actually has a good sense of humor. A dry, blunt one . But humor nonetheless. You run a finger over the rim of your cup, finding a little more courage.

“Mando… Have you ever kissed anyone before?”

It’s a simple enough question, right? It’s within the ballpark of the topics you’ve been discussing. And you’re both adults. It’s not like it’s inappropriate…Right?

Oh god, you really are drunk…

Regret rises with each passing second and you wonder why you even brought it up. It’s probably some kind of insult to his creed to ask something like that. 

“Too much,” you broach gently.

“No,” he says softly. “You’re not exactly the first person to ask that. Doubt you’ll be the last.”

He pauses for a moment to find the right words. Then with a heavy exhale he gives you an answer to your insanely intrusive question.

“I was pretty young when I took the creed,” he states. “Ten, twelve maybe? Too young to be interested in those kinds of things. Never looked back since. To be completely honest, it’s not even something I really think about in adulthood. Never understood the hype.”

“Sooo, I’ll take that as a no.”

“No,” he breathes. “Never kissed anyone.”

Never kissed anyone? Never felt a person’s soft lips against his own or graze his skin? Does that mean he hasn’t gotten to experience more than kissing? Licking? Biting? Or…

Do not finish that thought…

“Huh… Well, that’s a shame,” you say without thinking, quickly adding “-but at the same time, I completely understand it too! I mean, it shows a lot of self discipline, you know? To resist that kind of… temptation. Most people don’t have any reason to be disciplined enough to stay chaste. I can admire tha-"

“I said I’ve never kissed anyone, I didn’t say I never fucked.”

Thank… the Maker… you’re not face to face. Because the way your eyes bulged just now would’ve been downright embarrassing had it been caught. He didn’t just say sex or even screwing. The Mandalorian fucks. The alcohol in your blood seems to conjure a brief glimpse of what that might look like before you find enough coherence to shew it away.

“…oh,” you breathe out, effectively stopping your rambling. “I-I guess I just assumed…”

A deep exhale blows out of his nose. He hums, seemingly entertained by the foot you’ve put in your mouth. But also making the air light between you.

“Well, you assumed wrong.”

The humor in his voice settles your nerves a bit. Thankfully there isn’t an awkward air at the sudden change to such a topic despite hardly knowing each other. And oddly enough, it feels easy to talk about it for that very reason.

“You’re rather chatty when you drink, Mandalorian. I feel like I’m learning all sorts of things about you tonight.”

“You’re right,” he breathes. “I spoke without thinking, I apologize.”

“No, It’s fine. I don’t mind at all. It’s a relief to know there’s a man under all that armor and not solid metal.”

He hums again and the noise stirs something in your chest.

“Well, even so… It’s late… Probably best if I stop drinking.”

You look into your empty cup. Then glance over to the bottle with barely a drop left inside. Something inside you wilts. There’s nothing to keep him here any longer…

“Yeah… Me too.”

You’re not sure if you wait for him to move first or if he’s waiting for you. But both of you remain still for nearly a whole minute. Silent and hesitant to end the night. As comfortable as it is, you feel Mando’s back lean away from yours and you miss the warmth. You turn on the floor to find him standing up as he adjusts his helmet clasp and places his empty cup on the table.

“You were right. It tasted better shared,” he admits. A satisfied smile curls your lips.

“If you learned anything about me tonight, Mando, it’s that I am always right when it comes to liquor.”

“I appreciate the hospitality.”

“I appreciate the company.”

You place a hand on the table as an anchor in an attempt to stand up and follow him to the door. But as you try to stand straight, the room spins and your knees buckle.

Nope. Not doing that.

You sit your ass right back down on that cushion before you make an even bigger fool of yourself. Quick to respond, Mando catches your free arm. Making sure you land back down safely.

“You ok,” he asks, concerned but with a hint of humor.

“Pfft. Yeah, I’m good. I think I’ll just stay down here for a minute,” you chuckle, running a hand through your hair and closing your eyes for a moment.

For sure you’ll have a hangover tomorrow. Shit. You work tomorrow. There’s a couple things you’re running low on, too. You’ll have to request an order through the trading guild. That’ll cost credits. Maybe if you get that Chiss man again you can manage a trade and he can throw in those dried flower buds for that tea that keeps getting sold out.

You know you’re already a bit dizzy. But behind closed eyes you feel like your head is swaying. Or rather… that it’s being moved. Something warm and firm holds your jaw up and when your eyes flutter open again you’re met face to face with dark silver.

The Mandalorian stands barely a foot in front of you. Visor fixed down on your face. Maybe the wine has made your brain slow but it’s only when you follow the path from his shoulder and down his outstretched arm that you realize what’s holding your jaw… is his hand.

With a subtle pass of his thumb along your cheek you can feel warmth starting to pool in your face. Awareness pricks the hairs on the back of your neck when you realize your position. Sitting on your knees, face barely level to his waist as a wall of steel and muscle towers over you.

“Your cheeks get flushed when you drink,” he mutters.

When I drink. Suuuure.

“Now you know,” you mumble without thinking. It grants you a satisfied hum from his helmet and you feel it travel through your ears and under your skin.

“Now I know…,” he repeats.

There’s no movement, no words. But there’s something thick in the air. It’s heavy and enticing. It’d be so easy to get wrapped up in it with any sudden movement. You look up at him through half lidded eyes and you get a gut feeling that they’re meeting his. You’re not sure what his are giving away. But yours have to be hinting something you’ve been trying to hide all night.

With a sharp intake of air, Mando steps back and releases your face. Your head drops a little at the loss of support and it follows his direction as he walks towards the front door with quick, heavy steps. With a press of a button on the wall panel, the door panels slide open and just before he steps outside… he stops. Not looking back, just standing there at the edge of your home with his stand still resting on the doorway.

“Don’t invite me in again.”

And then he’s gone. The door panels shut swiftly, leaving you alone and more confused than when he showed up at your door.

…what?

•

Din wishes he could say that the first thing he thinks about when he got home that night was his sleeping kid safe in the crib. Or at the very least about how incredible that wine tasted. But after he undressed and collapsed down onto his bed half drunk, the only thought he couldn’t stop thinking about as he stared at the ceiling was…

Damn… it’s been a while.

For the past few years, Din’s life has flipped around a number of times. Between barely scraping by as a bounty hunter, saving an orphan kid from an imperial psychopath, losing said kid, then having him return and be by his side to reclaim the Mandalorian home-world, there’s not much time to indulge those kinds of needs. But just because Din found himself being a busy father later in life doesn’t make certain things dead.

No. Everything felt very much alive and kicking by the end of that bottle.

Behind closed eyes, his room feels like it swirls. After that wine, his body feels loose and relaxed. Something he rarely gets to experience these days. Images dance across his closed lids. Delicate, slender hands around a handmade cup. A pink flush on smooth skin. Plump tinted lips between his fingers, softly parted and begging to be touched. The intrusive impulse to dip a finger between those lips was so strong he could feel his hand move into the action before he could even think to do so.

All thanks to that one question. That simple, innocent question activated a deep part of his brain that lay dormant. And then he decided to shatter the care free atmosphere by with a crass remark about sex.

Never in his life has he regretted saying something so fast. You barely even know each other. Admittedly, Din isn’t exactly a refined person, far from it actually. But after his third glass, any semblance of manners flew right out the window. His mouth did the walking with little thinking involved.

Yet, you didn’t get uncomfortable. You handled the slip up with humor instead of getting offended or something just as bad. Using humor to make the air light again. It surprised him how easily you did it. How easy the conversation was all night, really. It’s not everyday he’s able to let his guard down with another person.

Once he was aware of that, he became aware of everything. How late the hour was, how drunk you both were, and how your bed was right behind where you both sat. Only separated by a simple room divider. Even when he tipped up his helmet, there was a heady herbal scent from you that kept swimming in his nose and it was just as intoxicating as the wine. He couldn’t trust himself to stay any longer. And now, in the safety of his own home, he finds himself preoccupied with a mountain of questions.

What kind of person are you? What’s your daily life like? What other places have you seen? What troubles you? You seem to be rooted here in Nevarro for the time being. But from what you’ve mentioned about your past, you have a kind of nomadic life. What happens if he… if the kid gets attached and you decide to move on to another planet? But then again, it’s not like he’s not one to talk though is he?

Loyalty. Solidarity. These are things that have been etched to his core since childhood. But giving those things to something that could be fleeting? That’s a risk he’s avoided for most of his life. Those kinds of wounds never heal.

But as much as he tries to distance himself, it’s not always in his control.

Three weeks go by and they couldn’t end soon enough. When he offered to work with Teva (or Blue as he usually calls him) on a case-by-case basis, he figured they’d be more involved than the bounty hunting trade. He’s spent up to a month off planet at times in order to capture a quarry so it’s not exactly new to him.

But that was when he had the Razor Crest. With a cot to rest in, a weapons locker, and supplies readily at hand. In that regard, the N-1 leaves much to be desired. Plus Din’s back isn’t what it used to be and long rides in that ship are killer. And to add insult to injury, this last case with Zeb was especially complicated to resolve. It left him and the kid completely drained.

After finally landing back in Nevarro with fresh credits, there is absolutely nothing Din wants more than to just go home, bathe, and sleep for at least a day. But he’s got a very hungry green mouth to feed and there’s no way Din is fixing up any dinner tonight.

Street food it is.

“Alright, we’re making this quick. In and out. I’ll get you as much food as you want and you can pick out one sweet. Not five. One. Got that?” Grogu tilts his head at Din curiously from where he follows behind on the cobblestone street and he’ll just take that as a yes.

Dozens of food stalls are gathered at the main square in town as he approaches. Adorned with all sorts of neon signs, string lights and colorful banners. It’s a busy atmosphere filled with people laughing, vendors calling out for customers to stop by, and sounds of clanking and sizzling as they cook.

Din gravitates towards the skewers stand. He knows Grogu is going to down ten of them by himself so he opts for something easy, filling, and cheap. He catches sight of those spicy chunks of fatty meat searing over lava coals and his mouth waters.

“Okay, which onesss-“

Din reaches down to pick up his son only to find the street bricks.

“-Sssshhhhit,” he hisses under his breath, glancing around. This fucking kid. He knows better than to run off.

The crowd is thick and it’s getting dark. He scans through the sea of people and vendors but doesn’t find that familiar pale green.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

With a tap of his helmet side panel he switches to the tracking beacon screen. After enough scares like these he’s learned to have a tracker sewn into his clothes at this point.

Blinking red arrows come into his view and he follows the path. Not caring whose shoulders he budges or what food he knocks out of someone’s grip to get through. The red arrows turn yellow. He’s getting close but there’s still no visual of the kid and he’s starting to panic. He pushes through, scanning side to side and calling out his name in an orchestra of noises without reply.

Yellow turns to green and he’s still out of sight. He’s tiny and easy to miss. Grogu could be anywhere, he could be in any one of these stalls. What if he’s taken? What if someone else is tracking him? He could be picked up by a total stranger and taken away again.

Just as that thought crosses his mind, there’s a small separation in the crowd. Big floppy ears come into view and he’s definitely been picked up. But it’s no stranger that holds him.

“And here comes dad~” A voice soft as silk rings inside his helmet.

Relief floods his body as well as caution when he taps his screen clear. Only him. Situations like this only happen to him. It could’ve been Karga. It could’ve been anybody. But it had to be you that found him.

It was barely two minutes. But within those two minutes Din’s head flooded with every worst case scenario possible. And here he is. Happily babbling in your arms like he didn’t just give his dad a fucking heart attack.

“I know, I know,” you assure him like you can already tell where his head’s at, trying to speak over all the noise. “Don’t be too hard on the little guy. I already gave him a bit of a lecture for running around at night.”

Din wants to. It’s honestly his first reaction. But a cooler head prevails and he decides against it after a second thought. He reminds himself (once again) that Grogu is still young and that getting angry would only make things worse. What matters is that he’s safe and that he managed to find you.

“At least he won’t have to hear it twice,” he exhales, pushing out the stress sitting in his lungs. “Sorry about him.”

“No, no sorry needed. He’s smarter than he lets on. At least he ran to someone he knew. I’m glad I was around.”

Din opens his mouth to speak but ends up falling short with his words. Now that some of the stress has left his body, his eyes take you in at a second glance. Unclouded by the adrenaline.

Your hair is tied up with a pin with a few loose pieces falling at the nape of your neck and around your face. With the heat persisting into the night, you decided to wear a thin strap tank top that hangs low on your chest. It exposes miles of smooth skin, from your shoulders all the way down the arms wrapped around his kid. A dusty blue apron wraps around your waist over some baggy cargo pants so you must’ve came here right after work. There’s a glow from all the neon lights that adorns you and he has to will his mouth to move before he gets caught staring.

“Here.” He extends his hands to you. “I can take him back. Thank you for catching him. C’mon, bud. Let her get back to shopping.”

“It’s no problem,” you assure him with a smile. Your hands hooks under Grogus tiny arms and start to pull him off your torso. “Back to dad you go.”

But the moment he’s barely lifted, he cries out in protest with a shrill whine. Refusing to leave your side. You pull him back in instantly and run a soothing hand on his back.

“Oh! Okay, okay. You can stay with me for a minute,” you giggle in a sugary voice to Grogu. Bouncing him on your hip.

You both exchange a look of surprise (as much as his visor can give off anyway). What kind of person are you that Grogu prefers your embrace over his own father? He doesn’t know whether to be jealous or impressed.

But it’s getting late, they need to eat and get home and you probably need to get back to your own errands. Din’s hands extends again to take Grogu but you shake your head with a little smile. Letting him know it’s not an inconvenience to you.

“Here, wanna help me pick out some sweets?”

Grogu coos at your request, toying with the glittering silver chain pendant on your neck. You rest his kid on your hip effortlessly and the motion of it pinches something deep in Din’s chest. Turning to the assorted trays of sugared fruits on skewers, you list the various kinds for Grogu to pick out. Talking back with him like you can actually understand his little babbles. You answer him with “ooh, that’s a good choice” and “these are my favorites”. 

Din just stands aside, watching the way you both interact and it’s admittedly a bit pleasing to see how natural you are with him. Most people think he’s a pet at first glance. Karga treats him like a newborn. Talking gibberish and doting on him despite him handling a 50 year old. You, on the other hand, just treat him like a regular kid. And it’s refreshing to see.

His son’s head spins back at his father with the biggest set of sparkling inky eyes and Din can see the pleading question in them. He tilts his helmet at him and reminds him “one”. Those large ears deflate a little and you giggle at the interaction. Din offers to pay for your skewer along with Grogu’s as another thank you for looking after his son (again). The vendor gathers the treats in paper wrappers to take to go.

You turn to ask Din something, but it’s covered by the noise of yelling and cooking. He tilts his head a bit lower to try and catch what you’re saying. Then, without hesitation, your hand finds purchase on the pauldron on his shoulder. Prompting him to lean in closer to you so you can speak within earshot.

“It’s been a minute since I saw you last,” you remark with a raised voice. “Everything good?”

Shit.

For a second he freezes. Partly at the lack of distance between you, but mostly because the last time he saw you he stormed out of your place like it was on fire without so much as a goodnight. You’re probably wondering what the hell that was about and he honestly can’t answer that himself. Although your expression seems more cheerful than troubled. He crouches closer to your ears and replies with caution, hoping to avoid the direction of that conversation.

“Yeah, we’ve been um… traveling a lot lately. I get contracted by the new republic pretty often these days. Leaving him behind with someone whenever I’m off planet for too long doesn’t seem fair to him so he’s always by my side no matter what.”

“Ah, that makes sense. You usually stop by for medkit supplies so when I didn’t see you last week I figured you were away.”

Din mentally smacks his forehead. Right. Of course you meant the shop. Because what else would you be implying to a fucking customer? You’re just making small talk. Something he has never really gotten the hang of. Seems pretty damn easy when he’s drinking though…

“We actually just got back. Too tired to fix something up so I figured I’d grab us something quick and easy before heading home.”

“Ugh. I feel that. When I get home I’m crashing on the first soft surface I see,” you groan, still bouncing Grogu on the curve of your hip. Those hips…

No. Stop it.

“Busy day,” he asks and your eyes roll upwards.

“Busy week,” you exclaim. “I swear I think about quitting at least once a day. But I like it too much. Plus it’s the only thing I’m any good at. Otherwise I’d probably be some kind of criminal.” You pause then laugh at the thought before adding, “then you’d probably have to hunt me down, huh?”

That… is a scenario that he already knows is going to stick in his brain for a while. It’s such an enticing thought that he doesn’t bother to tell you he’s not in that business anymore. A tiny part of him would much rather have you think he’d chase you. Obviously you’re not serious, but he can’t help but lean into the joke.

“I don’t know,” he says unconvinced. “Might be pretty easy to find you. All I have to do is look wherever there’s street food.”

A laugh bubbles out of you and there’s a strange feeling that radiates in his chest at being able to make you laugh. Pride maybe? No, more like… satisfaction.

“Don’t underestimate me, Mando. I know my way around the outer rim. I’d make you work for it,” you say. Taunting him with a knowing smirk.

A smile tugs higher on his hidden face. The thought of you making him work for anything will no doubt be food for thought later. And instinct tells him that might’ve been your intention. But two can play at this game.

You’re already nearly face to face but he inches even closer, almost close enough for metal to meet skin. Ensuring you catch every word right into your ear.

“I’d like to see you try, Shop Girl.”

Your eyes grow a little wider at the sound of your nickname and he takes pleasure at just how effective it is. It’s another reminder of that night. A name that was spoken within an intimate atmosphere that only the two of you occupied. And by your expression, that same thought crosses your mind too.

You bite your bottom lip in a smile. The same lips that were between his hands. The only lips he can’t seem to forget. The shape, the color, and how fucking edible they look. He’s even noticed how they pout a little when you’re concentrated on a task. More questions surface.

What do they feel like? What do they taste like? What makes a kiss so good that everyone can recall their first?

The bubble created is suddenly burst by the outside world. The stall vendor gleefully hands over the candied fruit over the counter in their wrappers and you take them with your free hand. Handing the mixed one to Grogu because he couldn’t decide on just one flavor. Reality returns to Din’s head and his thoughts immediately sober up.

What the hell is he doing?

He tears his eyes away. Even if you can’t tell, looking at you like that for too long feels wrong. You’re a good person, you’re trying to live a normal life, and what you’ve told him you’re not looking to get involved in any drama. He has to keep reminding himself of those things.

That same instinct to leave hits him again. Because that urge to do something he can’t take back flares up again and it’s best to not give that feeling any more energy. For both your sakes. He gestures his hand in a hand-him-over motion, signaling to you and Grogu that it’s time to go.

“Alright, time to go kid. Say goodnight.”

Grogu whines with a mouthful of sweets and a face covered in sugar and it makes him chuckle to himself. Din would normally find the defiance a little cute, if it wasn’t for the stunt he pulled earlier. You carefully hand him over with both arms leaning in close and again he feels another pinch in his chest at how carefully you exchange him.

Your bare arms graze against his clothed ones and he pulls away the second he has hold of his kid. He ignores the small current of electricity from the contact and maneuvers Grogu into the crossbody bag to his hip. Which, of course, makes him protest.

“Nope. You had your chance. Now you get the bag.”

“Aw c’mon,” you scold “He was just playing around. Now he’s in bag jail?”

First the kid and now you? He can tell his son no, but it might be a little harder to tell you that.

“Yeah, yeah. Maybe next time he’ll think twice about running off in a crowd,” he groans.

Once the kid is settled in the bag, you follow him down. Crouching down, you sit face to face with Grogu as he stuffs his face with the candied fruit. Resting your free hand on his fuzzy head as the other holds your own skewered treat.

“Kay, little rebel. Go stuff your face with some good food. And take it easy on your poor dad, alright? He’s not built for that kinda stress.”

“What’s that supposed to mean,” he asks, kind of amused by your ribbing. He can count on one hand the people who are undaunted enough to make playful jabs at him.

Your lips twist and your eyes take a tour up to your brows as you think of your reply.

“Hmm… just the way you get a little impatient sometimes. You were like that when you brought him over and paced my living room for an hour,” you chuckle. “You seem like the kind of man who gets antsy when something’s not in your control.”

A smile threatens to crawl his face. Pretty presumptuous. But he can’t deny how true that statement rings. Especially nowadays when it’s not just himself he has to worry about.

“Maybe so,” he replies with a hint of humor in his voice. “Patience isn’t really my strong suit. Although this one seems to enjoy testing it.”

“Patience is bitter,” you muse as you rub the top of Grogu’s head with your thumb. He coos with delight and the softest gaze glows on your face. Then from your crouched position, your eyes glance back up at Din and add, “…But the fruit is sweet.”

His jaw flexes beneath his helmet, and heat now courses through his veins.

That can’t be a good sign. He already enjoys your banter too much as it is. But that look just now was dangerous. It dredges up thoughts he shouldn’t have about you. Thoughts like kissing someone he barely knows. Feeling skin on skin. Showing you what a man like him can do to you compared to the boys of your past.

He saw it all over your pretty face when he held it in his hand. That flush on your cheeks, your dilated pupils. Hell, he even saw your heat signature rising in his helmet screen for fuck sake. There’s an attraction and that’s fine (and not completely unreciprocated) but it can’t be anything more than that.

You and him live completely different lives. There’s no need to uproot your peace and get involved in his complicated affairs. Even if something happened, it wouldn’t be long before the allure of the suit and mystery people usually perceive of Mandalorians would turn into repulsion.

That’s how it’s gone before. That’s the way it is.

•

You’re a bad person. A horrible human being and a shameless lowlife. Downright beyond saving.

I’d like to see you try, Shop Girl.

The damn sentence won’t stop replaying in your head. It’s not just a nickname. It’s a nickname he gave you. One that’s covered in underlying context and memories that only the two of you share. One that peppers your skin with goosebumps when it comes out of that raspy modulated voice. It’s even worse when your brain starts intrusively placing it in all sorts of sentences.

That’s it, Shop Girl…

You’re doing so well, Shop Girl…

Bend over for me, Shop Girl…

That last one has crawled into your dreams more often than you’d care to admit lately.

You need to get a grip. It’s just an attraction. You’ve been alone for too long and you’re getting all wound up over a smidge of attention. He’s just a regular decent person with a kid to take care of who also just happens to have an amazingly muscular body and a voice of sin. Simple as that.

Right. Simple.

After that night at the food stalls, the Mandalorian and Grogu have been visiting your humble Clinic Shop on a more frequently. Usually you'll see them a couple times a week if they're not on one of their long haul trips. Missions? Jobs?

It's not like Mando has any reason to let you know ahead of time. But when a week or so passes with no sign of silver or green, you can't help but feel a little down. You've come to look forward to seeing your regulars. But they grown to being your favorite customers.

And if you're being honest, theres a growing part of you that feels tied to the man in silver beskar. When he's here, the part blossoms. And when he's gone, it feels... wilted. It's unexpected and confusing to say the least. The closest feeling you could label it is homesickness. And truthfully, you're not really sure if you want to feel such a heavy thing towards anybody right now.

There's a lull in the store this hot muggy afternoon. You've already finished your prescription orders, restocked your shelves, even watered all the potted plants outside the entrance. Since you finally have some down time, you figured you might as well get to making some of your popular tea mixes.

On the back counter, you have a variety of dried herbs, flower buds, tea leaves, and a few large mixing bowls. The scent in the shop is incredible right now. Swirling around on the wind propelled by the metal fans around the shop. Spiced and aromatic with a hint of fruitiness. You let the smell fill your lungs and relax your body as you place measured scoops of the mix into small paper bags. A bead of sweat tracks down the back of your neck. Even with pinning your hair up and the strapless wrap you chose to wear today, the heat of the day still clings to your damp skin.

A cool glass of that Andoan wine would be so good right about now...

Maybe it was instinct, or maybe there really is some kind of invisible tie. But something makes your head tilt to the side and glance at the open entrance. And it's then that a glint of sliver light reflects on the stucco walls. A flutter of anticipation strikes through your chest and your eyes are locked at the entrance. Then, that familiar Silver T-visor and a pair of floppy green ears peek around the corner.

The smile that spreads across your cheeks is so big it almost hurts.

"Hey," you exclaim from the back of the store. You leave your station and excitedly make your way across the store to the pair as they step inside.

“It’s been a whi-“

“Ah ah, sorry," you cut Mando off mid greeting, halting him with your pointer finger. "Grogu gets first dibs.”

Mando shakes his head but you can tell he's humored. Turning his hip to the side and giving you access to the canvas crossbody where Grogu resides.

“Even though I'm a regular customer," Mando retorts.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that sounded a teensy bit like jealousy. You smirk, giving eyes only to the little green baby.

“Not when you’re as cute as him.” You say, placing Grogu on your hip and giving him little scritches on his wrinkled head.

“Isn’t that right, Kid. Mando wishes he could be half as cute as you.” The child coos at you and Mando shakes his head. But you can tell by his body language that he's at least a little amused.

You walk back to the back counter with the kid in your arms and Mando in tow behind you. And the feeling you have in this moment is oddly... domestic? You're not entirely sure if that's the right word. In your life you've never experienced domesticity. But you figure it's similar to that homesick feeling you get.

You place Grogu on top of your station and pull out an herbal lollipop from your apron for him. You like to keep a few handy for kids and they also help with coughs. The kids inky eyes gleam as he babbles and plunges the sugary candy in his mouth. 

"Any chance that delivery for those new Pharmakits arrived yet," Mando asks, leaning a hand on the counter next to you.

"They did," you nod. "Any chance you're planning on taking on an army on your next trip?"

He shrugs, tilting his helmet to the side in that way he does when he's being aloof.

"Doesn't hurt to keep one on hand. You never know."

You hum in acknowledgment but inside a pit forms in your stomach. The danger he faces whenever he goes on these "jobs" isn't lost on you. Lately, it's been on the back of your mind more often than not. On his last visit, when he asked about ordering stronger meds and triage supplies, it hit you just how much his long absences affect you. And just the thought of never seeing him or his little boy again stirs up something vile inside.

“You seem to be busy today,” he remarks, pointing out all the open jars and mixing bowls with various dried leaves and herbs.

His remark takes you out of your thoughts. You must've been silent a second too long for him to change the subject like that. With a deep inhale and slight embarrassment you shrug off the negative thoughts and ground yourself back to reality.

“Yes and no. I’ve been restocking while it’s dead to keep busy.”

He leans in a bit to get a closer look at the contents of the bowl. Close enough for you to catch the scent of smoke and musk on his clothes.

“You’re mixing… tea?”

You hum a yes and nod.

“Tea can be used for lots of medicinal purposes. Many people prefer natural remedies to pharmaceutical ones. I try to have a mix of both.”

“So this is medicine?” You sway your head to the side, trying to think of the best way to explain the purpose of the tea.

“Kiiind of. You could say it’s preventative.”

“What does it prevent?”

“Pregnancy.”

A clearing of his throat follows your answer. You turn toward him with a smirk and a raised brow but his visor has now turned away your face.

Most fearsome bounty hunter in the outer rim, everybody.

“You asked, man,” you chuckle with a shrug.

“Guess that’s on me,” he says.

“This is actually one of my best sellers,” you tell him. You grab the wooden scoop and raise up the floral mix, letting the various petals and herbs rain back down into the bowl. The motion makes the sweet scent drive up in the air. “I have customers tell me they don’t leave the house before their daily brew.”

“I’m glad business is going well for you,” he deflects, making you fold your smile in your teeth. And suddenly your brain sees a prime opportunity.

“You know, Mando…,” you drawl as you mix the petals. “If you’re ever in a pinch and you need some, I could give you a sample.” The way his helmet jerks to face you almost breaks your nonchalant smile.

“That’s um… very generous but it’d be wasted on me.” His body straightens stiffly and you can tell the topic makes him a bit uneasy. But you press on anyway.

“You sure? You can never be too safe. I’m sure any visitors would appreciate it.” He sighs deeply and turns away, shaking his head in annoyance.

God, this is too much fun. Teasing him is so easy. If it wasn’t for the helmet you bet he’s sweating right now. He might look cool and collected. But after drinking with him, you know there’s in fact a man under all that metal.

“I’m sure,” Mando confirms. “I'm not seeing anyone at the moment.”

And there’s the answer you’re looking for.

Was it a bit sneaky? Yeah. Yeah, it was sneaky. But it rules out the theory that reason he told you not to invite home again was because he’s currently taken. It’s still an enigma as to why. But honestly there’s still the gut feeling that you did something to make him uncomfortable that night.

Maybe you crossed a line with one of your questions. You tend to ask a lot of questions. Your filter also isn’t everybody’s flavor. Even so, you had a great time talking, even joking around with him. You’ve come to cherish that night in your memory. And the thought that you obliviously might’ve said something to offend Mando in any way makes your chest ache.

But if that was the case then why has he been stopping by your store more frequently since then? He always says he’s restocking his med kit but you get the feeling there’s more to it than that. Almost as if he’s checking up on you. Making sure you’re doing ok. And above all, that’s what scares you.

It’s scares you how good that thought makes you feel.

“Picking up an order!” An unfriendly voice bellows from the entrance where a Trandoshan man in fine robes stands waiting. “Name’s Samir T’ar.”

It takes a second to snap back into action. But you slap on your best customer service smile and leave your task for later. Rounding the corner past Mando and the kid and walking to the Medicine Cabinet. Wiping the non-existent dust on your hands on your waist apron.

“Hi, yes! I’ll grab that for you right now.”

The Trandoshan stands waiting at the counter as you sort through the assorted orders in the glass case. Looking for the right name tag and plucking the tied linen bag. You dont turn your eyes toward him, but Mando’s pressance is all your body is aware of. You can tell he’s miandering through the shop, looking at various items on the shelves. Which, to you, is a bit funny since hes been here plenty of times by now.

Is he playing the curious customer right now because there’s someone here?

You rest the tied bag next to the register as you run the total. All while the Trandoshan taps his clawed fingers impatiently on the check out counter.

“‘Kay with the compounded medicine and the herbal soak salts, that puts you at… fifteen credits today.”

“It was twelve the last time.”

“Yyyeesss, some of the ingredients for the meds were hard to come by this time around. Outer rim shipping routes, and all that,” you smile, trying to humorously reason with the man.

“And that’s supposed to be my fault? Just make it the same price as before and I’ll be on my way already.”

Ugh, great. One of those.

“I understand where you’re coming from, really. But fifteen is pretty fair considering the initial cost of acquiring ingredients of this high quality. Can’t beat the price compared to those New Republic clinics-"

“Nonononono," he waves with both hands in disapproval. “I’m not paying a single credit more for something I can make myself.”

That’s kind of the point of it buying here, right? To save yourself the trouble of making it?

“Sorry. Price is firm," you say confidently but kindly. "Buuut, how about if I throw in a couple sample heating pain patches. Free of charge,” you chirp, unfazed by his condescension.

Work with me, guy. There’s a man packing heat in the back…

“How about I give you ten for the order and leave? I don’t need you to peddle your-“

It’s a hand that shuts him up. Not yours, as much as it twitches to swipe that bag and toss in it the trash. No. This hand is big. Leather clad. And planted firmly on the counter between you and the customer.

“You can pay the fifteen or you can leave. But what you won’t do,” Mando leans in towards the Trandoshan for effect. “-is talk to her like that again. Make your choice.”

With his chest pressed to the back of your shoulder, you struggle to not squirm. You can feel his heat on your body. His frame eclipses yours from behind. The smell of gun smoke and musk caresses your nose and you die a little inside. But it’s his words that make you want to melt into a puddle.

He didn’t just ask, he demanded for you to be treated with respect. Not that you can’t hold your own when it comes to defending yourself against snarky customers. But the way Mando didn’t even hesitate to intervene on your behalf. It stirs up all sorts of thoughts.

Oh maker, you really are a shitty person. The man stands up for you and all you can think about is how hot he sounded.

The Trandoshan swallows hard. Mando might as well a knife to the guy’s throat with the look of silent terror on his reptilian face. Without even breaking eye contact with Mando, he stuffs his clawed hand in his pockets, and pulls about 20 credit chips without counting. Letting them clatter on the counter as he tosses them.

“H-here,” he stutters. “Fifteen is fair.” With that he snatches his order from the countertop and makes a hasty exit.

“Have a nice day~,” you sing-song as he scurries out onto the street.

You shift your eyes up to Mando, his palm still pressed flat against the counter with his other hand thumbing his belt. His visor follows the customer as he leaves and you can tell that his body language doesn’t relax until the he’s completely out of sight.

“Fucker…,” he mutters under his breath. When he finally turns his visor to you, he finds a knowing little smirk on your face.

“What?”

“You know, if you really wanted to scare him, you could’ve just pulled out your blaster.”

His visor turns away and he takes a step back as if he’s been caught doing something out of character. And if it wasn’t for his confident stance, you’d almost say he got a little flustered just now.

“I didn’t like the way he spoke you,” he grumbles. Which only makes you giggle.

“You’re right,” you agree with a serious tone. Slamming your palms on the counter. “That’s the last straw! I’ll have to close and resort to a life of crime after all!”

Although you can’t read his face, his body language says it all. He tilts his head to the side in a way that can only mean “are you fucking kidding me” and it only makes you smile harder.

“C’mooon, it’s funny,” you say. But he’s still not charmed.

“Does he always treat you like that,” he asks like he needs to know for certain.

You fold your lips between your teeth to hide your smile. He’s concerned for you and you can’t help but bathe in it. At least for a little bit.

“And if I said yes?”

“I’m being serious.”

“It’s fine, Mando. It’s really not a big deal for me. Look, if I let every snippy customer get to me, I wouldn’t have a business. I’m a big girl. I can fight for my honor all on my own, don’t you worry.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Yeah? What is your point then?”

He steps in closer. Forcing you crane your neck to face him. Your backside unconsciously presses against the back of the counter and you’re pinned. He’s impossibly close. Close enough to see your eyes reflected on the inky black screen. Knowing he’s captured your full attention, he hits you with a bombshell that devastates you.

“I wouldn’t let anyone disrespect you when I can do something about it,” he says crystal clear, lowering  his voice. “If someone gives you trouble, they’ll deal with me before they mess with you... Understand?”

That shuts you right up. Your playful expression falls, now replaced with silent astonishment. He keeps saying things that reach deep inside you, making your chest tight. Words like that make it hard to breathe.

You feel utterly captured and it’s no wonder he was the best hunter in the outer rim. Because even though he’ll defend your honor and call you sweet nicknames… all he has to do is stand his ground in front of you to make you feel like prey. And fuck, do you wanna be caught…

“Ok,” you breathe when you find the courage. “I understand now.”

“Good…”

Silence streches between you and it feels as though you’re both waiting for something to happen. Something that feels like it’s been teetering on the edge since the night you drank together. It’s connected and deep in a way you’ve never experienced before. You can tell it’s something he’s afraid to say out loud.

What you’re both afraid to say out loud.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t add anything to his statement. He’s got you locked in his gaze with no escape. And for a moment you wonder if he’ll take hold of your jaw again. Goosebumps rise to your skin because it wants so badly to close the gap.

Suddenly, a call rings from the vambrace on Mando’s forearm, abruptly breaking the tension. At first he hesitates to address it, still locked onto you. But after the second ring he lets out an aggravated sigh and steps away to check the incoming call.

You walk back to your work table and mixing bowl of tea to give yourself something to do while your breathing returns to normal. Scooping a measured cup from a large jar of dried leaves before adding it in.

Grogu sits with his little feet dangling over the table, now finished with the lollipop and looking at the candy-less stick with droopy ears. And before Mando turns to look, you sneak his son another herbal lollipop from your apron.

"Don't tell your dad," you whisper, pressing your index finger over your lips. Which earns you a happy little "Batu" in understanding.

Mando is pacing around now. Conversing with a gruff sounding Lasat. You don’t eavesdrop per se, but words like “new lead”, “investigation”, and “high-risk” get your ears to perk up.

“Shit,” he sighs deeply once the call is done. Planting his hands on his hips.

“Work call?”

“They like to keep me busy, that’s for sure. Best not keep them waiting.”

“R-right! The pharmakits."

You walk towards side of your shop in the back closet where your new inventory sits in their delivery crates. Grabbing one case but then after a second thought grabbing another before turning back and handing them to Mando. When you return Grogu is already back in his father's tote still nursing his treat.

“Couple things," you disclaim, handing the cases to him. "Keep these in a dark cool place if you can. Heat can spoil some of the medicine. And if you ever find yourself needing the epibacta, I’d advise you to take in a safe place. This dose will knock you out cold for a while. Emergencies only.”

He takes the cases by the handles and gives you a nod of understanding.

“I appreciate it. I’ll try to avoid needing it.”

“Just… be safe.”

“I will…”

Another beat of silence. At this point it's starting to feel like you're waiting on the other person to break the ice. But after a moment, he clears his throat.

“Well... Until next time, Shop Girl.”

“Until next time,” you repeat.

He really should stop calling you that. But you just can’t bring yourself to stop him. What do even tell him if he asks why?

You turn to the holopad on the front counter and check the inventory list to give your hands something to do. Chewing your bottom lip as walks towards the exit. One step, then another…

“And thank you,” you quickly add before he steps out. His foot stalls just before reaching the street and you tap on the screen pretending not to notice. Your eyes glance up to him, catching his helmet peer at you over his shoulder “…for stepping in.”

“Anytime,” he says softly. He step out into the street and you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You lean on the counter with your chin propped in your palm, now free to watch them go without notice.

Grogu turns back to look at you one last time, his tiny arm fighting against the fabric of his bag before popping out and waving at you. The adorable gesture makes you giggle. The little guy must know exactly how stinking cute he is. You wiggle your fingers back at him from behind the counter. Mando takes notice of his kid, turns his head back, and finds your gaze.

For a moment, everything’s frozen. People cross and mix in the street between you. Life seemingly goes on like any other day for everyone in town. But in your eyes, there’s only him. Only bright silver fills your vision. After a moment, Mando raises a hand for a final farewell, and in the next, he’s gone. Blended into the crowd.

An ache spreads in your chest, and that confirms it. You can’t deny that what you’ve been pushing down for months isn’t just an attraction. Strangers can be attracted to each other but he feels like anything but.

You like him. You like how you feel when he’s around and how safe his presence feels. You like that little skipped beat you get when something you said earns even the smallest chuckle from him. You like that he trusts you around his kid.

And you love that he keeps coming back.

You’ve tried to rationalize as just a simple customer acquaintance. But you can’t keep kidding yourself. Its always felt more than that. And you want to know more about him.

At the end of the day, you roll down the metal doors of your humble apothecary and walk the same 15 steps up to your home as you do everyday. You bathe, put on your most comfy shirt and sleep shorts, make yourself a simple meal, and wind down for the night. It’s been your routine everyday since you made this place your home.

Only tonight, despite all your trinkets, all your memories, and all your comforts, tonight your home feels a bit empty. Like something important has been removed and you can’t place what it was. With your dinner bowl in hand, you almost take your seat on the couch before thinking twice on it and choosing the floor of your living room instead tonight.

You actually find it to be pretty comfortable. More grounding. You only wish you had something warm to lean back on.

•

Din thought Guild Master Greef Karga had an inflated ego. But High Magistrate Greef Karga makes that Karga look like a Jedi monk.

He finds himself sitting on a leather chase with his legs propped on the window ledge in Karga’s high tower office. He watches him spread and maneuver a 3D hologram model of Nevarro and the town. His voice filled with ambition as he explains all his new projects for the upcoming year.

“We’ll put the lodges here, here, and here. They’ll have access to the hot springs in the crawling canyons and docks will be built around the water edges. I’ve spoken with that lovely Twi’lek bathhouse owner and she’s spending her best architects to Nevarro as a personal favor to me. It’s going to be the jewel of the rim I tell you!”

Much of the dialog goes over Dins head. Mostly because he’s dead tired and currently operating on less than four hours of sleep. They only landed a couple hours ago from another grueling mission. He partly listens to Karga’s plans, partly watches Grogu quietly sit on the hologram table as he stuffs his mouth with blue cookies his “uncle” has given him. But mostly, Din gazes out one of the many windows in his 360 degree office. Watching the sun set over the canyons and turn the sky a dusty pink.

The shiny bronze protocol droid shuffles around the office with a silver tray with two crystal glasses of spotchka. He offers a glowing glass to Karga who gladly takes it. Then the droid starts to approach Din with the platter, offering him a glass as well.

“Uh no no, he doesn’t drink,” Karga quickly corrects, taking a momentary pause from his plans. The shiny droid fumbles a bit, flustered, then offers an apology before scuttling away with the tray.

Mando doesn’t even bother to correct them. Too much energy. It’s true, he’s never accepted alcohol in front of Karga. Especially in those early guild days when trust was low. But even to this day, Din doesn’t drink around people.

Well… most people, that is.

An image of last time Din saw you pops into his head. That thick, slightly mussed hair tied up with a hair stick. Dewy skin. All smiles and laughter. You wore a deep blue torso wrap that time, His eyes kept following the lines of your collar bones and all that exposed skin seemed to glow in the reflected sunlight in the shop.

And those lips. Those goddamn pink tinted lips that he can’t get out of his head. If that’s not the definition of beauty he doesn’t know what is.

Your teasing is something he’s growing used to. But that day you pushed too far. You weren’t taking him seriously and you shouldn’t be the only one who gets to tease, right? When he cornered you against the counter, he made it known just how serious he was about defending you. That flush came back to your cheeks and your breathing had picked up. You had no idea, but your eyes had found his and it made heat pool in his lower abdomen as he got lost in the color of them.

In that moment, Din wrestled back the impulse to lift you up on that countertop, spread those perfect legs and-

“-Right, Mando?” Karga’s voice interrupts just as that train of thought was getting good. Din turns his visor over to him.

“Hmm?”

“You just agreed to let the kid spend the night here.”

“Right. Yeah,” Din scoffs. “Was that before or after I sold my ship to the Jawas,” he replies in a gruff tone. Karga doesn’t find the sarcasm amusing.

“Alright, alright.”

“Maybe I’ll sell them my armor while I’m at it.”

“I get it,” he exclaims. “You weren’t even listening! I was talking about the space port proposal and I can’t even tell where you clocked out. That's not like you, Mando.”

“I’m tired. I just got back from a long trip.” Kargas eyes glance between Din and the window he's been looking out from.

“I wouldn’t say tired. More like… Distracted.”

He says the word with an insinuation Din would rather do without.

“It’s nothing,” he deflects.

“Hey, you know me, Mando. I’m not one to judge,” Karga says, throwing his hands in the air. “If there’s anything on your mind I’m all ears. Money, politics, work, women-“

“There’s nothing to discuss. I’m fine," Din deadpans.

Kargas covers Grogus ears, who is too preoccupied by his munching to mind.

“Sounds like you need to get laid.”

Maker...

“You’re sordid,” he grumbles, shaking his head and turning back to the window. Karga just laughs. Amusement written all over his wrinkled face.

The arguments were one of the main things that changed between them over the last few years. Now they bicker like two old friends instead of two business associates. But one thing that has never changed is the way Karga tries to pressure him into revealing things out of him. Imperfectly human things.

He’d offer Din all sorts of things like spice or Twi’lek bathhouses just to see if he was capable of being tempted. And right now… there’s only one other person Din can think of capable of doing that.

“You know what I think? I think you’re starting to outgrow this lone wolf lifestyle of yours,” he speculates. “You’re a father now. Don’t you think the little one needs a mother?”

Dins helmet swivels back to Karga.

“Don’t you think you should stick to governing your town?”

“I was just getting to that," Karga exclaims excitedly. "You know we really should consider moving a few of the-“

“Here we go…,” Din sighs to himself.

What should’ve been a quick visit has turned into a one sided yap session. It’s been a couple weeks since he left and he’s eager to re-supply for his next run with Zeb. He’ll need to head to the square at some point as well. His home is in desperate need of a re-stock. And of course, a visit to the clinic probably wouldn’t be a bad idea if he’s already in the area.

Even from up here, your store can be seen at the far corner of the plaza. And every couple minutes, he can see you. Popping in and out of the small store and rearranging some of the potted plants outside. People greet you from the street and you turn to wave back.

It’s getting harder and harder to find excuses to go there that sound necessary. Last time he was there he picked up two new pharmakits, even though another two regular medkits sit unopened in his home. He’s been buying that energy tea you make, despite him being a kaf drinker his whole life. He keeps going back for shit he really doesn’t need. But if he was pressed to give a better reason, it’s mostly because he feels a need to check on you.

True, Nevarro has become significantly safer, but that doesn’t make it safe. Especially for a woman living completely on her own. You’re a kind hearted, giving person in a galaxy that does nothing but take. And someone like that should be protected. He’s looked the other way too many times in the past and he doesn’t want to be that person anymore. And plus the kid enjoys the visits.

Sure, the kid. Keep telling yourself that, Din…

A chiss man with a floating pallet of goods approaches your shop entrance and your attention turns from watering the plants to greet the vendor with a bright smile. You speak animately. And it would normally be endearing, if it wasn't directed towards another man. In the privacy of his helmet, Din grimmaces.

He shouldn’t be surprised. You’re well traveled, knowledgeable. It’s no wonder you’re able to buy products from so many places. But this particular vendor is getting a bit too close for Din’s comfort.

As usual, you talk with much enthusiasm. Sparking a conversation with the man. It’s clear you’re familiar with each other by the body language you both give off. And he’s not sure if it’s because you regularly get inventory from the man, or something beyond that.

You turn around on the balls of your feet to dip back inside the shop and as you do you’re completely oblivious to the way the Chiss’s head tilts to the side so his crimson eyes can roam your backside. And the only reason Din caught it was because the binocs in his visor seem to have unconsciously been turned on by his finger on his vambrace.

You return to with a small wooded box and open the lid to show him mineral salts, the kind he’s seen you make herbal soaks with. The vendor offers a large lidded glass jar of some kind of dried purple flower buds from his cart. With the added exchange of some credit chips, there’s more talking and smiling. Something he said makes you laugh as you sign his holopad and Din has to flex his fingers to stop them from clenching into a fist.

Enough. Stop watching.

The mental check forces Dins attention to shift back to whatever Karga keeps droning on about. You can associate with whoever you damn well please. It’s none of his concern who you do business with or what your personal life is like. Din nearly turns his visor away. But out of the furthest corner of his eye, he catches something he can’t tear away from.

The distance between the Chiss and you has suddenly shrunk. The moment unfolds in slow motion as his eyes chew on every second. The Chiss steps closer to lean down then…

Din’s arms uncross when the Chiss leans in close to your face. And before he knows it, the fucker plants a quick peck on your cheek. And you return it! The whole exchange lasts less than a second before you wave each other goodbye and he goes his separate way. You return inside with the product like nothing and Din sits there, completely rattled.

What… the fuck?

Was it a casual kiss? Did you even know that he was checking you out? If you did, was that a friendly goodbye gesture or was it flirtatious? That son of a bitch gets to walk around with bliss on his cheek all day now. Oddly enough, that’s what puts Din over the edge. A complete fucking stranger knows how your lips feel and he doesn’t.

Never in his life has he harbored thoughts like these. It’s downright pathetic. He feels corrupted.

“Fuck it,” he growls to himself beneath his breath.

“-Anyway, back to my point. I was considering having a port built for- hey!”

Before Karga has a chance to monologue further, Din has picked up his son from the edge of the desk—grubby hands still clinging to the bag of cookies—and has placed him right into Karga arms.

“I need you to watch over him for the night. I’ll come back for him in the morning.”

“Okay then? Fine by-.” Din doesn’t bother to listen because there’s no ending to that sentence that matters to him in this moment. He makes his exit, the slide doors opening as he nears them.

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going all puffed up like that?”

“I need to settle something,” he tosses back before letting the doors shut behind him.

The sun is getting low and a few other vendors are starting to take down their signs and close their doors. You’re probably getting ready to close up for the day yourself. Hopefully he’s able to catch you before then.

Each step on the cobblestone is heavy with purpose. And it's not unoticed the way several people on the street see an armor clad Mandalorian and scurry out of his way with a petrified look on their faces. But right now he doesn't particularly care. Right now everything in his head is clouded with the exception of one objective.

From a couple stores away, you catch him approaching from your peripheray. And he's not sure how to describe it, but it's like something in your body language softens when you see him. Your shoulders become less tense, your eyes gleam, and you cast him that bright toothy smile that could stop any man's heart.

“Ah! Hey! It’s been a while, Mando! How’s-“

“I need to have a word with you.”

Both your expression and your hand freeze momentarily in place, minus a suspicious quirk in your brow.

“Okaaay, you have my attention,” you chuckle, but there’s a nervous tone riding on it. “What can I do for you today?

“I need to speak with you," you tells you bluntly. "Privately.”

Confusion paints across your face and your smile falls a bit. Understanding how serious his request is.

“Like, right now,” you ask hesitantly.

“Preferably, yes,” he answers.

“Ok, yeah sure. Um… I’m just about to close up and we can head upstairs in a minute.” You start to turn away but then quickly turn back to him and immediately add “or we can go somewhere you’re more comfort-“

”It’s fine,” Din quickly interjects, stopping that train of thought. “This won’t take long anyway.”

You blink at him a couple times and give him a quiet “ok then” before turning around and preparing your shop to close.

Seems that Din’s command from his last visit was taken seriously. Regret over those words washes over him. If he’s being honest, being inside your home again sets off several red lights in his head. But he’s already on the verge of blurting out something teetering on the edge of his brain. Better to wait until he’s behind closed doors and away from any prying eyes. Or flirtatious vendors. This shouldn’t be complicated. He’ll make it quick.

He decides to wait around the corner of the shop where the stone steps meet your front door. He leans against the wall with his arms crossed and his finger nervously tapping his arm brace. After a few minutes you round the corner with your bag over your shoulder and lead the way into your home. Instinctively, he looks around for any eyes before entering and closing the door behind him.

“So where’s your boy,” you ask, tossing your bag on the couch and walking towards the kitchen. “I have to say I’m kind of surprised not to see him on your hip. You seem inseparable.”

Your voice is chipper but he can tell by your stiff body and lack of eye contact that you’re not entirely comfortable. For a moment Din reconsiders this encounter. But no. The sooner he this bug out of his system the better.

“He’s… spending the night with a friend,” he answers. Grabbing one of those ceramic cups from the cabinet, you fill it with water from the sink and he’s starting to think that you’re only doing that to keep your hands busy.

“Aaww, a sleepover? Is it his first-”

“If you don’t mind,” he cuts off. “I’d like to get to my point.”

“Oh… Y-yes, I'm sorry. I’m rambling,” you say sheepishly. “I’m just…,” you take a deep breath, rest the cup of water on the counter, and lean back against it. Eyes fixed to the floor.

“…it’s just what you said the last time you were here. And the way you approached me earlier, you seemed kinda… I don’t know, upset? I know you don’t wanna be here so I’m wondering what I did to upset you that you’d come here.”

Damn it… He’s such an asshole.

He should’ve never said that. You've been thinking this entire time that you’re at fault for his shitty social skills. Truthfully, with the way that wine had his head so deliciously foggy, he had to leave before his body did something it was aching to do, begging him to do. But how does he even begin to explain that?

“You didn’t do anything,” he answers immediately. But thinks on it once more. “Well… technically you did. But I’m not upset with you.”

“You’re not,” you ask him sheepishly.

“I’m not,” he assures.

A beat passes in silence as you chew over his words.

“Okaaay,” you say with a smirk, “now you really got my attention.”

That mischievous tone travels through Din’s helmet, in his ears, and settles warmly in the pit of his stomach. Something about the combination of your sweet voice and relaxed shift in your body language makes this whole interaction even more nerve wracking.

“Sooo, you wanted to talk to me about something I did?”

“Right.”

“Okay, sooo...” He feels you urging him to continue but now Din finds himself more cautious of his words now. If you’ve been silently worried about offending him the last thing he needs is for this to come off wrong way.

“It’s… a bit hard to explain,” he exhales. If he could pinch his brow right now he would. “To put it plainly, the night we drank together, you said something that’s been… stuck in my head.”

“Was it the thing about the name?”

“N-no.”

“Was it the Pantora story?

“No.”

“Was it the comment about knowing my liquor? Because I like a drink from time to time but I don’t have like a problem or anything-“

“No- Can I finish,” he asks impatiently.

“Okay, okay. Sorry. Go ahead.”

“When we were drinking, and talking… we said a lot of things and got into some deep conversations. And at one point, you asked me if I ever kissed anyone before. I said no back then because… I've never given it any thought in the past. But now it’s got me… curious.”

Your quirk your brow at him.

“Curious how?”

“I want to know what it’s like,” he answers plainly.

“… Sorry, what?”

“I need this… curiosity out of my head. It’s driving me crazy and I need it out of my system. So I figured… since you’re the one who mentioned it in the first place, you can help me kill it.”

“You’re… Okay so, hold on…,” you say with a shaky breath. “Are you… asking me to kiss you?”

“That’s… an oversimplification. But yeah.”

“You’re asking me to be your first kiss? Am I understanding you right?”

Maker, you ask a lot of questions. Are you always like this? You did the same exact thing when he gave you the wine. On any other day it would’ve been endearing but he didn’t anticipate the conversation lasting longer than a minute. Now his request sounds more and more lecherous with each passing second.

“I won’t bother you again after this. You have my word. It’s completely casual. Just killing a curiosity.”

“There’s a preeetty common phrase about curiosity and loth cats that goes differently.” A giggle tumbles out of your mouth on the tail end of that sentence and humility crawls under his skin.

“Sorry to waste your time.” He starts to turn towards the nearest exit when you step in to stop him. Placing a hand briefly on his arm in the space between his armor and the contact sends a current of electricity up his spine.

“No wait, don’t be like that,” you toy with him.

“I’m not laughing,” he spits. But you still have the nerve to giggle.

“It’s okay, Mando,” you laugh assuredly.

“No, it’s not. It’s ridiculous. I hate it. I hate that you put this in my head.”

You fold your lips between your teeth to try to hide your amusement. But you still can’t help but crack a smile a little at his frustration. He basically just confessed to having this obsession for months and he can tell by your smug expression that you’re enjoying how incredibly uncomfortable he is about this.

“You’re right. I’m… sorry,” you say under your breath. Trying to fix your face.

There’s a beat of silence. Stepping in closer, he tilts his head down to you. Locking you in his gaze. He takes pleasure in being nearly a full head taller and the way your breathing picks up before he says in a low gruff voice…

“No, you’re not.”

You smile behind your hand as your eyes dance across his visor, unknowingly locking eyes with the man beneath. You know you’re not sorry, just like he knows he’s not particularly sorry either. It’s not just this moment. It goes back to every interaction you’ve had together. The banter, the nicknames, the visits. He’s as much to blame as you are. And then… you slowly you shake your head, agreeing with him and confirming his suspicion.

Fuck, you’re cute. He hates that he loves how cute you are. He hates himself for not being stronger.

“Ok,” you nearly whisper. Looking up at him with the sweetest eyes. “I’ll help you.”

•

“Is all this really necessary?”

Din currently sits on the floor of your living room. The same spot as last time in fact. Your were the one that insisted on it and honestly he couldn't bring himself to tell you no. Since he sat down in the soft carpet, you've been flitting around your home turning off lamps, closing blinds, and covering any reflective items. Which, admittedly, he's greatful for. But the more time he spends here, alone with you, the more he's not going to want to leave.

“It’s not everyday you get your first kiss, Mando. I wanna make sure it’s a good one. I wish I could re-do mine.”

Gloves fingers flex and stretch restlessly on his knees as you approach the last lamp sitting on a side table in the living room and pause.

“Are you sure about this?”

Fuck no he’s not. But the sooner he does this, the sooner he can find some normalcy in his head again.

“Flip the switch," he says in a low modulated voice.

You fold in a growing smile before taking a deep breath and flicking the switch. Bathing the entire home in inky darkness. The silhouette of you through turns to hues of thermal green and red, carefully maneuvering through your living room by memory before finding your seat in the floor in front of him. And with slight hesitation, Din reaches up to remove the last barrier he has.

“Can you see anything?”

“Not a bit,” you answer.

With that confirmation, he unclasps the chin strap and slowly lifts the helmet up and off. He blinks several times to adjust his vision before finding the outline of the table and placing his helmet there. On the return, his head bumps into your outstretched hand. Not knowing that you had moved.

“Agh.”

“Sorry sorry,” you pull away. “Give me a moment, I’ll find you.”

Your hands search in the dark for him. He can’t see much but he can tell your hands land on nothing by the way the air between you moves and he doesn’t feel any contact on his person. So he reaches out, bumping into your arms and taking hold of them. Following the line of your forearm until he reaches your hands.

“Here,"  he murmurs. Gloved hands wrap around your wrists and gently lift them up. He guides your hands forward until…

You let out a small gasp when your hands find the warmth of his bare face. Soft and giving as opposed to the cold, unyielding beskar. Their movements are slow and explorative. Running your thumbs over his stubble. Surprisingly his hands don’t release their grasp. His leather clad digits press against the racing pulse in your wrist as his thumbs run over the back of your palm.

“This help?”

“Yes, thank you,” you whisper.

From sound of rustling on the rug, Din can sense your body leaning in. Your breath brushes over his skin for a moment before something warm presses against his chin and it takes a second to register that it’s your mouth. You ease him into the build up and he’s greatfull for it. Jaw. Then cheek. Then just grazing the furthest corner of his mouth.

And then… contact.

At first it doesn’t feel like much. Just something soft and warm pressing against his mouth. What most people refer to as a peck, he assumes. But it’s when you barely pull back and return for another that a shiver wracks his skin. Your lips lock in the return, molding together in perfect unison. And it’s fucking electric.

Just by feel alone, he senses that your lips are slightly open. So he mimics you. Giving his jaw just enough slack to respond as you go in again. The sensations have his mind in a thick fog. The soft flesh, the sweet taste, the faint suction. His skin feels like there’s live wires going off underneath. Giving in completely, he finally returns the kiss. Pressing into it with more confidence.

You hum against his mouth, and he dies a little inside.

That’s when the real hunger builds. There’s a slow simmering heat rising between you now. Without thinking, his hands grip your wrists a little harder. Pulling you in closer. The kiss grows a bit stronger with each return back into each other with no loss of contact. Lingering longer and breathing against one another.

He feels your head tilt more to the side and again he mimics your movement. The break only lasts a fraction of a moment. But in the re-entry, the tip of your soft tongue happens to brush his mouth. Sweet wetness coats his bottom lip and it’s in that instant Din feels all restraint leave his body.

Taking your face in his hand, he kisses you open mouthed, inviting you in. Your tongues slowly graze one another and if he fucking died in this moment he’d be ok with it knowing that he got to know how you taste.

The hunger becomes unbearable. Soon enough the breathing becomes heavier and the air becomes hot. Your arms end up wrapping over his shoulders, pulling him deeper and he’s more than happy to dive further. Another small noise escapes your throat and the vibration travels through his entire body.

He needs to feel you. To taste you. Devour you. He needs you.

A break for air is the only thing that throws him back into semi-consciousness as you pull away. The heat built up between you makes him dazed. Hot breaths fill the small space between your lips as you lean your forehead against his.

“Mando?”

“Yes,” he responds in a raspy whisper. A few moments pass as you collect your words and catch your breath.

“Is this really just about curiosity…?”

Your words lean more towards a statement than a question. There’s no point in denying it now. As much as he tried to convince himself or rationalize his strange request, he does feel a pull towards you. Much more complicated than just attraction. The more he sees you, learns about you, and talks with you, the more… inevitable you feel to him. There’s a gravity to you that he can’t escape from. Nor does he want to.

“Yes and no.”

“What does that mean?” The breath of your question brushes the heated skin of his cheek. And right now, he can't think of any answer that wouldn't give him up.

So he lets it fly.

“It’s not just the kiss I’m curious about.”

The silence in the air is thick. The only thing between you are the sounds of both of you catching your breath. It’s possible he might have ruined everything with that one sentence. But it’s the truth. It had nothing to do with the kiss and everything to do with you. Your kindness, your banter, your hospitality. All of it.

There’s no way of telling what you’re thinking at the right now. It’s in this moment that he wishes the lights weren’t out so he can at least read your expression. But then after what seems like an eternity, your forehead nudges against his and you blow a deep sigh of relief. Arms still draped over his shoulders.

“Oh good… I thought it was only me,” you confess with a skittish laugh.

And that tightly pulled restraint finally snaps inside him when he hears that.

Without any hesitation, he dives back in. Kissing you like a man starved. Just like that night, he feels drunk. Only this time it’s on the taste of you and the feeling of your hands finally on him. It’s that thought that drives him to rip off his leather gloves and toss them aside without breaking contact once. His bare hands find your waist and the strip of bare skin between your shirt and linen pants.

“Is this what you meant,” you pant. “When you told me not to invite you in again.”

“Yeah... it is.” He pants the confession as his mouth trails down the line of your jaw and finding your neck in the dark.

“That’s a relief,” you chuckle. “I was worried I offended you.”

“The only thing that’s offensive is that I can’t see that pretty pink flush on your face right now.”

“Should I get a blindfold,” you tease.

What a fucking woman. The mental image of you in a blindfold, only a blindfold, pours fuel on an already blazing fire. But for now, he’s more than ok feeling his way around tonight.

“Next time.”

It comes out of his mouth confidently and without hesitation. Because you both know there will be a next time. He’s bitten into the forbidden fruit and now he’s addicted to the taste.

With a simple shift, his hands dip beneath the thin fabric of your shirt and find the delicious heat of your soft belly.

"Lay down for me."

With your arms draped over his shoulders, you eagerly comply. Slowly dragging him down with you. He careful not to press all his weight on you—being crushed by beskar would definitely kill the mood—but it doesn't stop you from pulling tighter. Craving connection. All while Din rains wet kisses and soft bites upon your pulse.

So this is what your skin tastes like. Slightly salty, sweet, and smooth between his teeth. He might eat you whole if he’s not careful. He nips at the skin of your exposed collar bone and you writhe. Arching to press your chest to his. So he decides to give it some attention.

“Take it off," you pant with an neediness that drives him pull the damn shirt off in one swift motion.

His bare hand crawls up your sternum. Exploring the valley of soft skin free of any restricting fabric. The moment his fingers find the stiff peak of your bare breast he pinches eagerly. Earning the sweetest little whimpers from you as his mouth works on the other nipple. Biting and sucking the soft point. He can’t see a thing in the dark, but what’s lacking in sight is made up by sound with the delicious breathy moans you let out for him.

“Mando…”

Fuck, does he love the way you call out for him. Every touch, kiss, and  suck he gives elicites the most gorgeous sounds out of that perfect mouth. The sounds to straight to his cock, now painfully stiff. It's tempting to just dive into you right now. But he's waited this long. So why not take his sweet time with you. With his face still burried between your breasts and you fingers raking through his hair, Din feels a press of your hips against his armor. And he needs more.

“Shop Girl…”

The nickname doesn’t catch your attention. You’re either too lost in the moment or too breathless to answer. It’s only when he uses your given name that your body perks up and you give him a raspy “yeah?”.

“Do you want this," he asks.

His right hand has found its way to the waist band of your work pants. Ready and waiting for your answer. You try to grind against his hips but he presses your hips down firmly. He knows damn well neither of you want to stop. But he needs to hear it. There's no going back after this.

"Is this ok?"

He doesn't know if you're unsure. Or if maybe your trying to meet his eyes through the darkness. But there's a long pause. Only the sounds of heavy breaths and the pulse beating hard in his ears. And every second that passes has him hanging on the edge of madness.

"Yes...," you finally breathe. "I need you."

She needs me.

The words leave him winded. Months of questions and pining suddenly feel well worth the wait just to hear those words. They not only affirm going further, but the bond that's been steadily growing between you. Not a single ounce of hesitation survives after he hears that. And with one hand, Din loosens the tie of your pants and dives in beneath the fabric of your underwear.

By feel alone, Din manages to pull your pants down to your thighs and you kick them off your feet. His hands roam over all the smooth exposed skin and he can only imagine how perfect you must look if you feel this good. The tips of his fingers finds the dampness between your legs, running along the seam, and he slowly pushes inside until his knuckles meet your entrance.

You release a soft gasp and he swallows it with a deep kiss. You both sigh into each other's mouth. As if you need the other to even breathe. Din's lips never leaves yours as he does an experimental curl against the fleshy part of your walls and you arch your body against his.

“This where you need me," he huffs against your lips. "Right here?”

“Right there... Perfect..."

"I wanna taste you." The confession comes out before he can even think about it.

"Then taste me, Mando."

He can hear the smile in your voice. The taunt. And he's more than happy to reciprocate it.

He rises above you and you whine from the lack of contact. But the loss doesn't last long. Because before you even can register what he's doing, his head has already lowered between your legs.

"What are you- ah."

That gasp you let out when his mouth envelops your pussy is downright tortured. Good too know you were just as desperate as he was.

"Fuck! I thought you meant... You were gonna... Shit..."

No fucking way would he be satisfied tasting you on just his fingers.  The sweet tangy flavor explodes over his tongue and he groans. Fucking hell, you taste good. He doesn’t even know what the hell he’s doing but that’s sure as shit not stopping him. He drowns in you. Lapping and sucking on your swollen little bud and loving the way it makes you cry out. Two thick fingers pump into your wet heat as you melt in his mouth. Such a fucking treat.

You writhe beneath him. Squirming and clawing at anything to hold on to as he works you up. Eventually your hands finds his hair again. Taking a fistful and pressing his face further against your cunt. The sting on his scalp makes his cock twitch in his flight suit and he groans.

“You want me to make you come, Shop Girl," he mumbles against you.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“Make me come, Mando... Please…”

He doesn't break pace, doesn't falter, doesn't change a damn thing what he's doing because he can feel close to the edge you are. You tighten around his digits as the pump in and out. And with a firm suck on your clit you let out a strangled gasp.

"Oh Fuck! Fuck! Mando!"

Your breathing becomes short and shallow. Panting so hard right before holding your breath and tipping over the edge with a strangled cry. You come long and hard. Trembling so much he has to hold you steady by the hips.

Through the waves of your climax, Din continues to eat you. Lapping at your perfect pussy like it's wine and he doesn't waste a single drop of you. Even sucking and licking his fingers clean as you lay breathless before him. They come out of his mouth with a wet pop and he can’t help but let out a small breathy laugh.

“I’ve always wanted to try that…” he confesses.

You let out your own exhausted little laugh and he can already tell he wants more. More laughter, more of those pretty sounds, more of you.

It's with that in mind that Din starts pulling his cape off.

Piece by peace, he silently removes his armor. And after a few moments, a second pair of hands joins in. You fumble in the dark with his chest piece first. Helping him out of his armor one section at a time. They fall to the carpet with a soft thud along with the crumbling pieces of the restraint he’s built since that first night.

There’s no signs of stopping. You keep giving him more. More heat. More yearning. More questions.

What makes you laugh? What gives you pleasure? What makes you feel good and whole and satisfied? He needs to know.

And now that he’s gotten a taste, there’s no way he’s leaving here tonight until you’ve both had your fill.

•

If this is what happens when you invite the Mandalorian into your home, let your door never close.

Getting to your bed was easier than you thought it’d be in pitch black darkness. The only thing keeping your ‘bedroom’ separate from the rest of the home is a wooden lattice divider from the ceiling to the floor.

He lays you down on the soft futon on the floor and you open for him like a flower. Two strong palms drag and paw all over your body as his mouth works magic on yours and it makes you dizzy with desire.

Maker, he’s so good with his hands.

His body separates from you only to remove his flight suit and you whine at the loss of contact. Naked and panting for him. Within seconds he’s back on top of you and the feeling of his bare skin against yours makes your head spin. With everything so dark you wonder if this is even real. Maybe this is all a fever dream.

“Are you gonna show me how Mandalorians fuck this time,” you tease against his lips. Calling back to when he showed you how they drink. With your bare legs around his hips, you tease his resolve by running your inner thighs over his sides and you’re rewarded with a low hum. The hand supporting your neck slowly drags forward to find the base of your throat.

“You don’t need to know how Mandalorians fuck.” His wide grip gently squeezes the sides of your throat, just enough for you to feel the power in those hands. “Just how I fuck.”

Holy shit. You thought him gripping your jaw was hot. But this? This might’ve awakened something you didn’t even knew you wanted.

A whimper escapes you only to be muted by his mouth again. His tongue swirls with yours with a hunger you’ve never knew was there these past months and it’s such a relief to know that you weren’t the only one pining.

Mando’s mouth travels to your cheek, then jaw, finally finding purchase on your neck. Biting and sucking as his body presses into yours. He’s insatiable right now. There's no doubt that you'll find yourself covered in marks when the lights come back on.

You’re so lost in the moment that you almost don’t notice when something hard and warm presses against your inner thigh. Out of nowhere, a thought you haven’t even considered before decides to pop into your head at the very last minute.

“H-hold on!”

Your hands find his shoulders, urging him to pause. His lips unlatch themselves from your neck the second you blurt it out. Instantly propping himself above you with his hands on either side of your head.

“You want me to stop?,” he pants.

“No… Hell no. It’s just…”

How do you even begin to ask this?

“Um… I know I probably should’ve asked earlier but… you’re human, right?”

Mando blows out a low chuckle, understanding your underlying meaning. He feels human, from what your hands can tell anyway. He could be like his kid for all you know. It’s not that you’re not willing to go Inter-species, but your experience is mainly human. Plus with the lights off it’d be pretty difficult to figure out fitting things.

Taking your hand from his shoulder, he presses it against his chest where you can feel a dusting of hair. His skin is hot, damp with a thin layer of sweat and his breathing is heavy. He continues to lead your hand further down his torso so you can feel every hill and valley of his muscles. Eventually your hand hits a trail of hair down the middle and then…

Oh shit.

His hand guides you along the length of his cock. Encouraging you to explore every ridge from the thick base all the way up to the damp tip. He’s stiff and hot in your palm. When you give him a firm squeeze he groans and twitches in your grip.

Oh shit.

“Does that answer your question?”

The human part, definitely. Fitting is still debatable.

He lets you handle him. Giving you free rein to tug and tease as he bucks into your hand. He groans with pleasure and the power trip you feel knowing exactly how you affect this fiercely disciplined man makes the pulse between your legs throb harder. After a minute, his hand snatches yours to a halt, making your grip around his cock tighter.

“Show me where you want it,” he demands in a gruff breath. And you do just that. Pressing the damp tip against your clit. The contact sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine.

“Inside,” you plead. “I need you inside me.”

With an impatient huff, his hand comes down to take hold of your leg behind the bend of your knee. Spreading you wide and teasing your entrance before pushing himself inside. You gasp at the initial stretch, digging your nails into his shoulders. Mando curses under his breath and as he pushes you worry for a moment if there’s an end to him.

It’s slow, deliberate. Feeding his cock into your tight cunt until he’s pressing the limits of your walls. You shudder together when he’s completely sheathed and his hands grip your hips so hard his fingers dig into your flesh.

“Mando…” You throw your head back. Arching your whole body, waiting it to adjust to him. “Fuck!”

“I knew it,” he pants. “Fucking knew you’d feel good…”

He splits you in half and before you’re even ready the first hard thrust hits you. You whimper from impact and he thrusts again. Pinning you down by your hips to keep you at the perfect angle. Soon he sets a steady pace as he fucks you into delirium. It’s too much, he’s too much. Yet you moan and whine for more like each thrust might be the last. He feels incredible and you can only claw at his trim waist as it moves for you.

“That’s it… Good girl… Taking me so well… I wanted this… I want you to know every part of me.”

His words plunge into your chest like a dagger. Laced with a meaning that goes far beyond sex. Because you feel it too. You wanted him to be closer. You wanted him to know your name, know you. Even if it took this long to get here.

You feel one hand find your leg. Hiking it up so the back of your thigh lays flat against his chest. His hand drags up and down, caressing the soft flesh without losing a beat with his thrusts. A kiss presses on your calf and your head feels like it’s spinning. One moment he’s rearranging your insides and the next he’s giving your body sweet affection.

Tension builds in your core. Growing tighter and tighter with each hard thrust. Usually the second orgasm is more elusive to chase on your own. But this man is about to push you right into the next one not five minutes after the first one.

“Don’t… Stop…,” you pant. “Don’t stop, I’m so close, Mando…”

“Come for me... Let me feel you."

Then it comes. Tensing your entire body before coming down like a crashing wave. It’s spreads through every inch of your body, making you pulse and shake beneath his frame. You cry out in the midst of the euphoria, clinging to his shoulders, and everything feels so right. He moans along with you, feeling every tight pulse around his cock and letting you ride out the remaining waves.

“That’s two now, Shop Girl. You gonna give me a third?”

You let out a breathy laugh, still coming down from the clouds.

"I... I'm not sure I can," you chuckle.

"Yeah, you will," he pants. Amusement lacing his raspy voice.

Without out warning, Mando takes both your legs. Placing your calves over his shoulders as his leans forward. Folding you in half. And with one hard thrust, his cock drives back into you at a deeper angle. Your back bows and you swear you see stars in the blackness of the room. His lips land on the corner of your mouth and kiss their way to your lips. Offering a soft apology after the roughness. His strong arms are propped around you and you feel eclipsed under his broad body.

Soon his rhythm picks up. Becoming more desperate as he chases his own release. The room fills with the sound of your bodies meeting and you don't think you've ever heard anything more perfect. His panting picks up, his moans become louder, and the quivering breaths he makes when he finds a particularly deep spot will no doubt live in your mind rent free forever.

“You wanted me bare, didn’t you,” he huffs, pressing his damp forehead to yours.. “When you offered me that tea? You thought about me coming inside this perfect cunt, didn’t you.”

Caught red handed. Sure, you wanted to know if he had a partner as well. But the thought did cross your mind when he cornered you against the counter. You wanted to know how he felt bare, with nothing between you. Even dreamt a few times about it.

“Yes… Fuck, yes! Please! I want it!”

“You gonna come with me, Shop Girl? Hmm?”

“Maker, Mando! I’m right fucking there, please! I… I’m… ah-“

His firm hand grips your jaw. Whipping your face back to him so he can cover your mouth his. He kisses you deep, open and messy. No technique, just raw desire as he eats you alive. You moan and whimper against his mouth with each debilitating thrust he makes. He drives into you faster, harder. Relentlessly pushing you closer to the edge.

When it arrives, the orgasm hits you at full force. Wracking your whole body in convulsions as you scream, actually scream against his mouth. Your toes curl, your nails dig into his back and your cunt squeezes on to him for dear life like he’s never allowed to leave again.

Mando hisses through his teeth and he's right there with you. Ramming into you with relentless force as he chases his own release. His face dives into the crook of your shoulder and his arms scramble to take hold of you and he loses control. Letting out a sharp groan as he comes.

“Fuck.. Fuck,” he shudders in your ear. “Agh!”

His hips jerk against your body, driving himself as deep as you can take him. You feel his cock throb as he pumps into you again and again. Filling you to the point of spilling out and it’s... everything. Connected in such a profound way you’ve never felt before. In this moment, it’s hard to tell your bodies apart. You’ve melted and mixed and you never want to separate.

You ride it together, mold together, lose control together because you both knew it’d come to this. In the end this was inevitable. And in a galaxy filled with unknowns, in this you can be certain. A connection like this is few and far between. It’s real and raw and rare. Resisting that feeling was never an option, so why try?

Even in the climb down he doesn’t stop. Those hard demanding thrusts slow to a gentle drags as if he doesn’t want to finish yet. Hands glide all over each other’s bodies, soothing the other. All along his tense shoulders, you pepper soft kisses to his skin. Easing you both down from the clouds. He hums in the decent and it lulls you into an exhausted bliss.

Everything feels hazy and soft. You’re not sure how long you stay melted together like this. Minutes? Hours? But it’s needed. After a while, the breathing becomes steady and a soft, drowsy satisfaction settles between you.

“That’s the first time someone's come inside me,” you quietly confess. For a moment, Mando absorbs what you just said. Then you feel him prop himself in his elbows above you.

“Really?”

“Yeah…,” you breathe. Running your hands up the sides of his neck and resting them on his stubbled face.

“You know… since we’re sharing firsts tonight.”

He smiles and this time you’re able to know for certain by the feel of it in your hands. Leaning down, his forehead finds yours in the dark and you don’t think you’ve ever felt so whole before.

“I’m your first, huh,” he breathes. “I like that.”

There’s so many layers to this man. Quiet and withdrawn. Rough and demanding. Soft and caring. Each one is a trait you’ve come to cherish. You’re not sure if you love this man. But you’re definitely starting to fall for him. You can explore that treasure box later though. For now, you’ll take tonight for tonight and let whatever comes next between you arrive in its own good time.

“Me too, Mando...”

•

•

•

💕 THANK YOU FOR READING 💕

You walked a few steps behind Tommy in a suffocating tension. Every footstep felt heavier than the last. The weight of what had just happened pressed down on both of you, crashing.

You felt like a failure.

You couldn’t pinpoint exactly what you should have done differently, but you knew one thing: you had only reinforced Tommy’s darkest beliefs. That softness was dangerous, that happiness was a luxury no one could afford. That every time he let himself feel even a flicker of hope or humanity, the world immediately punished him for it.

Ahead of you, Tommy’s shoulders were rigid, his limp more pronounced now that he wasn’t trying to hide it. The image of the boy begging for his life kept flashing in your mind, the terror in his eyes, the desperate pleas, the way his body had jerked when the bullet hit. You knew Tommy was replaying it too.

That single gunshot had killed more than just the boy. It had murdered the small, fragile spark you had seen in Tommy earlier that day and you hated yourself for that.

The real Tommy, the one who laughed with you minutes ago, had been dragged back into the dark.

He didn’t speak the entire way back, and neither did you.

When you both reached the house, he pushed the door open and stepped inside without looking back at you.

As if the day wasn’t heavy enough, it just got a lot worse the moment you both entered.

Joel was on the floor.

“Joel!”

Tommy dropped his pack instantly as he rushed to his brother’s side. He fell to his knees beside him, hands moving frantically over Joel’s face and neck, checking for a pulse, for breath, for any sign of life.

The guilt hit you like a lightning for the second time.

“Joel? Hey, Joel, can you hear me?” Tommy’s voice was tight with panic as he gently shook his brother’s shoulder. “Come on, man. Wake up.”

Your throat felt tight, your hands trembling at your sides.

“Is he alive?” you blurted out, voice cracking. “Tommy- is he alive?!”

Tommy kept checking Joel’s pulse, pressing two fingers to his neck, his own face pale with fear.

The sight of Tommy this desperate, terrified for his brother, tore everything that was left deep inside you. Here you were… convinced this man deserved a second chance, deserved happiness, deserved to be saved.

And you had done nothing but drag him deeper into his torment.

“Joel? Wake the fuck up!” Tommy kept shaking Joel’s shoulder, his voice growing more frantic. “Don’t you do this to me. Joel!”

You stood frozen a few steps away, heart hammering in your throat, too scared to move closer. The silence between Tommy’s pleas felt suffocating.

Then Joel’s head tilted slightly. His eyes fluttered open, confused and unfocused, landing on his brother’s face.

The relief hit you like a wave. You snapped back to your senses and rushed to Tommy’s pack on the floor. You dumped everything out in a frantic mess, scattering across the floor. There were all kinds of medications. You had no real medical knowledge, but you thought practically: keep him hydrated, manage the fever, the pain and nausea, try to settle his stomach.

You got one of each. You spotted a small bottle of activated charcoal and grabbed it too, along with one of the energy bars. You ran to the kitchen for water and brought everything over just as Tommy was helping Joel lay down on the couch.

Joel was weak, but responsive. He looked irritated and frustrated, clearly ashamed of being seen like this but too sick to fight against. He disguised it with his usual gruffness, muttering complaints under his breath, but he took the pills and water from your hands without hesitation, swallowing them down in one go.

Tommy hovered close, one hand still resting on Joel’s shoulder. “What happened? You almost gave me a fucking heart attack, man.”

“Got up to eat something,” Joel rasped, his voice weak and exhausted. “And everything went black.”

You quickly handed Joel the energy bar. He took it without protesting, tearing the wrapper with shaky fingers and eating it slowly.

Joel finished the energy bar in silence. A few moments later, he shifted irritably on the couch, waving his hand weakly.

“Both of you… give me some damn space,” he muttered. “I’m not a damn invalid.”

Tommy hesitated, but eventually stepped back. You followed his lead.

Joel leaned his head against the back of the couch, eyes half-closed. Then, in a groggy voice, he asked:

“Is it raining?”

Tommy frowned. “No. Why?”

Joel stared at both of you for a second, his gaze unfocused. “Why do you both have wet hair?”

Your stomach dropped. Tommy went rigid beside you.

Before either of you could come up with an answer, Joel’s expression shifted again. His eyes narrowed, irritation cutting through the fever haze.

“Why the fuck is she without cuffs, Tommy?” he snapped, voice raspy but sharp. “For fuck’s sake… I gave you one responsibility.”

You and Tommy both exhaled in quiet relief at the change of subject. Tommy didn’t want to add any more stress to Joel right now. Without a word, he reached into his pocket, pulled out the cuffs, and stepped toward you.

You held your wrists out without objection. The metal clicked shut again around your skin.

You both knelt down to gather the scattered things from the floor together. Your hands brushed against each other more than once, and each touch sent a spark through both of you.

Barely a minute after you finished, Joel had already blacked out again, breathing heavy and uneven in sleep.

“Do you think he will ask again? Do you think he suspects anything?”

“No,” Tommy said, voice flat. “If he did, he’d already be on his feet breaking my face.”

He paused, then added bitterly, “… it won’t happen again. Ever.”

It hurt more than you expected.

“Tommy, can we talk about it?”

“We’ve talked enough for today,” he replied, still not looking at your face. “It’ll be dark soon. You should get back to the basement.”

He wasn’t demanding, but it still stung. Like he wanted to get rid of you and every memory, every shame, every reminder from your presence.

You didn’t want to, but you felt that whatever Tommy was dealing with right now deserved space.

You stared at his face. He looked hollowed out on stress, sorrow and exhaustion.

You walked defeated toward the basement stairs. You stopped at the top of the stairs and turned back to him.

“Have you been sleeping at all?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“You don’t need to be rude, Tommy. I just want to help.”

“Yeah, you’ve helped enough for today.”

“Wait a minute,” you said, getting nervous. “I did help. I was the one who risked going back into that bunker for medication for your brother. I’m sorry you had to go through that with the boy. I was just trying to do what’s right... We’ll never know if there are people who can resist the fungus if we just kill everyone on sight.”

Tommy’s expression remained hollowed.

“Tommy, It’s not my fault the world is shit… I’m just doing my part on what I can help.”

“It’s not your fault the world is shit,” he said quietly. “But you choose to ignore reality. And you can ignore it… but you can’t ignore the consequences of ignoring reality.”

The words landed heavy. It felt pointless. Like every step you took forward so far caused immediately three steps back. You turned and stepped down the basement stairs in silence.

Behind you, Tommy closed the door.

You tried to drown your thoughts in Hemingway.

For hours you read by the fading daylight, then by the thin silver moonlight slipping through the small basement window. You squeezed your eyes, forcing them to focus. The story pulled you in. It worked for a few hours, but then the words blurred and your sight began to ache.

You close the book, and Tommy’s face would push through immediately.

His rare, boyish laugh from earlier that day. His warm hands all over your body and how they felt they belonged there. The low, wrecked sounds he made when he came undone because of you, because you could make him feel good.

No matter how hard you tried, sleep refused to come. You lay there restless, heart heavy with guilt, longing, and confusion.

It must have been around 3 a.m. when you heard low noises and muttered swearing from upstairs.

You sat up. The basement door… you realized you never heard the lock.

Quietly, you grabbed the book and crept up the stairs. You pushed it open carefully and stepped into the living room.

Only a single lantern cast a weak glow across the space. Tommy was the only one there, fumbling through the medications.

“Hey,” you said softly. “You good?”

He jumped at the sound of your voice. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard something… came to check if you were okay.”

Tommy exhaled through his nose, running a hand over his face. “It’s nothing. Just can’t sleep.”

“You in pain or something? What are you looking for?”

You stepped closer, setting the book down on the table and going beside him to help sort through the pills.

He huffed. “Just… looking for anything that might knock me out. I really need to sleep.”

“Nightmares?” you asked gently, but got no reply.

You both kept looking through the medications in silence.

After a moment, you picked up a strong painkiller.

“Maybe this one?” you offered, holding it out.

Tommy took it from your hand without a word, popped two pills out and swallowed it dry. His eyes were bloodshot, his face drawn with deep exhaustion.

“When was the last time you slept well, Tommy?”

“I honestly can’t remember,” he muttered.

“And…how is Joel?”

“He’s out cold.” He paused, sounding a little relieved. “But he stopped vomiting. Fever and sweating’s gone down too.”

He stood up and walked to the kitchen cabinet, pulling out a bottle of some alcoholic drink. You couldn’t read the label in the low light, but it looked old and half-empty. He sat heavily on the couch and took a long pull straight from the bottle.

You hesitated for a second. You reached for your book on the table, thinking about retreating to the other couch to lose yourself in its pages again. But after everything that had happened today, all the stress, the closeness, the raw moments you’d shared… there were too many unspoken things between you, too much left unsaid.

So you sat down beside him.

“Can I have some too?” You nod to the bottle in his hand.

Tommy glanced at you, one eyebrow slightly raised, before handing it to you. You took a small, careful sip. The burn was immediate and harsh.

He let out a low, mocking huff. “That all you got?”

“Just a little is enough to me.” you admitted, handing it back.

Tommy looked you dead in the eyes and took several long, deep swallows, like he was proving a point.

“Gosh, Tommy… take it easy.”

You sat in silence for what felt long, passing the bottle back and forth. The alcohol slowly loosened the knot in your chests. Tommy eventually lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his tired face. He offered you one.

You shook your head. “No, thanks… Alcohol and cigarettes? That’s a terrible combination for the heart. I can’t afford.”

Tommy nodded once, but his brow furrowed slightly as he took another drag. He was quiet for a moment, staring at the glowing tip of the cigarette.

“What’s with the heart?” he asked, trying to sound casual. “You keep talking like you’re one step away from dropping dead.”

His fingers tightened around the bottle just a fraction too much, and his eyes flicked to your chest for half a second before he looked away.

“What do you mean?”

You knew what he meant, but you asked anyway. Seeing him concerned, even if he was trying to hide it, felt warm.

Tommy exhaled smoke through his nose, shifting uncomfortably on the couch. “What’s your actual problem? And why do you talk like that device of yours is gonna stop any day now?”

You paused, tracing the scar on your chest absentmindedly.

“Well… I was born with a congenital heart condition. Arrhythmias, my heart just… stop working properly. So I have this device, an ICD. It works like a defibrillator, to restore the right rhythm when it goes wrong. But batteries don’t last forever. Normal ICDs give you five to ten years. That’s why I had so many surgeries. To replace them.”

“When we moved to the US, we heard about this experimental device. Promising longer battery life and more efficient. I was a perfect candidate. In a good scenario, it could last fifteen to seventeen years... It’s been seven now.”

Tommy took another long pull from the bottle, then asked, a little too quickly:

“So you’ve got at least eight years left.”

You gave him a small, sad smile.

“Not necessarily. I knew a girl my age in the same experimental study. Her device failed after only three years. She had to go through emergency surgery to get switched back to the common type.” You looked down at your hands. “I’m stuck with something that could fail any day. Or it could give me the best chance I’ll ever have. There’s no way to know.”

Tommy was quiet for a long moment. He stared at the bottle in his hands, his thumb rubbing the label distractedly. His shoulders were tense, he looked… bothered. Like the idea actually hurt him, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

“I’m sorry,” he finally muttered, voice rough. “That sounds like a shit hand to be dealt.”

The quiet stretched again until you couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“About what happened earlier… with the boy,” you started carefully.

“Don’t,” Tommy said immediately, voice low. “He was bitten. End of story.”

“Tommy, I can’t just pretend it didn’t happen… We shouldn’t be playing God. I’m against killing people like that. We can’t decide someone’s fate unless we’re sure they’re turning. If even the worst people deserve a chance to prove they’re different… let alone a scared boy we didn’t even know. I still have hope that someone out there can be immune, or resistant, or—”

Tommy cut you off, voice sharp. “How many times did your precious Fireflies try that? Waiting. Hoping.”

“…Plenty.”

“And how many times did it actually work?”

You twisted your mouth, suddenly losing the argument and feeling ridiculous.

You both kept drinking. The distress in the air slowly softened, the alcohol dulling the sharpest edges. Conversation started flowing more freely with small things, nothing too heavy.

After a while, you gathered your courage.

“Can we talk about what happened before? In the shower.”

Tommy immediately stiffened. He took another long drink and looked away.

“No,” he said flatly. “It was a mistake.”

You shifted closer on the couch, your thigh brushing against his.

“It wasn’t a mistake, Tommy,” you said softly. “We can’t keep pretending we don’t feel things for each other.”

He let out a bitter, broken laugh, shaking his head.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

You watched him carefully. His shoulders were less rigid, his eyes a little glassy, his usual walls seemed thinner than usual. You felt bold, maybe too bold, and hoped that the painkillers and alcohol had loosened him enough to allow vulnerability again.

Before you could stop yourself, you swung your leg over his lap and straddled him, settling your weight on his thighs. His breath hitched sharply. He slowly set the bottle aside, then stubbed out his cigarette with reluctant movements, as if buying himself a few extra seconds to think. His hands finally moved to your hips, brushing softly like he didn’t know whether to push you away or pull you closer.

Both of you stared down at his hands on your body, as if hypnotized by the soft movements.

You could feel how hard he was fighting it, the war raging behind his eyes, the way his body wanted you while his mind screamed at him to stop.

“You always do this, Tommy.” you whispered, your cuffed hands resting on his chest. “Every time we get close, you regret and suddenly find an excuse to blame me. Then you get rude and push me away like I’m crazy. Like you’re terrified of letting yourself feel anything real… and then you need to punish me for it.”

Tommy’s breath shuddered. His eyes were dark, conflicted, and full of pain. But he had already lost the internal battle. His hands slid slowly up under your shirt, rough palms brushing against the warm, bare skin of your waist. His thumbs traced gentle, almost reverent lines along your sides.

“And you always do this,” he rasped, voice rough and pained. “You push my limits every time. You either make me so fucking angry that I act like a monster… like you want me to hate myself and regret it later. Or you do this… manipulate me to lose control.”

You leaned in closer, your forehead almost touching his.

“I’m not manipulating you. I’I like you, Tommy,” you whispered. “Even after everything.”

He let out a hollow, disbelieving sound, almost a laugh, but closer to a wound.

“How?” His voice cracked. “How the fuck can you like a man like me? Who keeps hurting you? Who is dragging you around against your own will?”

You spread your hand across his chest, palm pressing gently over his heart. You could feel it hammering beneath your touch.

“Because I understand about hearts,” you whispered. “I’ve spent my whole life learning to listen to it. To pay attention when they struggle.”

You leaned in until your foreheads touched.

“And I can feel your heart, Tommy.”

Your eyes stayed locked on his. Tommy drew in a deep, shaky breath, then squeezed his eyes shut tightly for a few seconds. When he opened them again, the conflict in his gaze was devastating.

You took his hand and brought it to your own chest, pressing his large, rough palm right over your scar.

“Can you feel mine, Tommy?”

He held it there, silent. His fingers were warm against your skin. You could feel the slight tremble in his touch. Slowly, you guided his hand a little lower, until his fingertips brushed over the hard edge of the implanted device beneath your scar.

“This is the device,” you said softly. “It’s been working harder lately… I’m sure my heart skips a few beats every time I get this close to you.” A shy laugh escaped you. Tommy let out a low, reluctant chuckle too.

Your noses brushed and the smiles faded. Your lips hovered dangerously close to his.

Before your mouths could touch, Tommy turned his head abruptly to the side, exhaling sharply through his nose.

“We can’t do this,” he whispered.

You stared at his profile, frustration and hurt flaring in your chest.

“Why?” The word came out impatient. You grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look at you. “Why can’t you kiss me? Why can’t we have proper sex, Tommy?”

His throat worked as he swallowed. His eyes were glassy. When he spoke again, his texas drawl was thicker, slower, the edges softened.

“What kind of man would I be if I took you while you’re my prisoner? You’re not in your right mind…. Besides, what’s the fucking point?” He let out a bitter, tired laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “I use you, feel good for some minutes, then hand you over in Columbus like none of it happened? Leave you there and never see you again? That ain’t fair. I won’t do that.”

His hands stayed on your waist, thumbs unconsciously stroking small circles under your shirt like he couldn’t stop touching you even while refusing you.

“You’re not dropping me in Columbus,” you said softly but firmly. “I know you won’t. You’re going to help me get to Baltimore.”

Tommy huffed, the sound impatient.

“If you start with that stupid Firefly preach again—”

You cut him off, voice urgent.

“My friend found the doctor. The one who did my last surgery. If there’s anyone who can still do something about this,” you pressed a hand over your scar, “it’s him. They’re waiting for me in Baltimore. We have real plans, Tommy. Plans that could actually save the world. You could be part of that. You could have purpose again instead of just… surviving like this.”

He got visibly nervous. His breathing picked up, eyes darting away from yours. The drink made his movements loose, but the fear in his expression was sharp.

“You know what, I’ll lock you back in the basement,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

He tried to stand up with you still straddling his lap, hands sliding under your thighs to carry you. But the moment he pushed off the couch, the world tilted. He lost balance, staggering sideways before dropping heavily back onto the couch with a grunt, you still firmly in his lap.

The sudden movement made him huff, dizzy. He closed his eyes for a second, head falling back against the cushions as the room spun around him.

You stayed right where you were. Your thumbs brushed slowly over his freckled cheeks.

Tommy kept his eyes closed, breathing uneven, but he didn’t push you away. His hands stayed on your thighs.

“Okay, fine,” you whispered. “I won’t talk about the Fireflies anymore if it makes you so angry.”

But of course you would. Just not with words.

His head stayed tipped back against the couch cushion, eyes still closed.

“Remember I told you I’m kinda obsessed with the Chernobyl story?”

He let out a tired, mocking huff. “Please. Not now. Not your theories about super radioactive fungus.”

“No, that’s not what I’m gonna say.” You leaned closer, your voice soft. “It’s proven scientifically that sex helps people cope with pain.”

Tommy raised abruptly, blinking at you through the haze. “What?”

“I read a lot of books,” you continued, thumbs still stroking his jaw. “There was this Russian scientist who wrote things nobody else had the guts to write. She visited the families of the firefighters who worked that night… the ones who died months later from radiation. Many of the widows were pregnant. You know why?”

“Jesus Christ,” Tommy muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Exactly. Sex was the only thing that brought some relief. The only comfort they had when everything else was pain.”

Tommy stared at you for a long moment. “That’s an awful fucking way to try and convince me,” he said, voice low and rough. “That story’s sad as hell.”

You gave him a small, tired smile.

“Come on, Tommy. Look at what we’re living in.” Your voice grew more serious. “This is way worse than Chernobyl. We’re already dying slowly. Every single day. Except this torture is lasting years instead of days or months.”

“So what’s your conclusion, smartass?” he asked, the words slightly slurred now. You could notice that the alcohol and the strong painkiller was finally pulling him under now.

“We need to do plenty, plenty of sex to forget our pain,” you said, deadpan. “We’re only humans with needs. Let’s admit that.”

For a second he just stared. Then a low, surprised chuckle rumbled out of his chest. It turned into real laughter. You laughed too to the absurdity of it.

“Enough,” he said, still chuckling, shaking his head. His voice thick with exhaustion. “You know what my need is right now? Sleep. I can’t stay awake a single fucking minute longer.”

You lifted yourself off his lap. Tommy shifted, lying down fully on the couch and tapping the narrow space in front of him. It surprised you, but you didn’t hesitate. You lay facing him, bodies pressed close in the limited space.

“Just one kiss?” you whispered, eyes pleading. “One kiss goodnight.”

“No,” he said quietly.

You kept looking at him, waiting and wanting.

He swallowed hard. “If I do that,” he continued, voice soft, “I won’t be able to stop kissing you anymore.”

Your breath caught.

“I wish I could lie, tell you we can make it work.” he whispered, voice breaking slightly. “I like you too. But I can’t be the man you think I am… You need to stop to hang your hopes on me.”

Before you could respond, Tommy turned you gently in his arms, trying to spin you until your back was against his chest. But you resisted gently, placing your hands on his shoulders.

“No,” you said softly. “Let me sleep hearing your heart.”

With a defeated sigh, he shifted slightly, pulling you with him until you were curled against his chest.

He fell asleep almost immediately. His body relaxed completely beneath you.

---

When the sun was already up, you woke with Tommy carefully lifting himself from the couch. You blinked awake, still curled where he had been lying moments before. He looked distressed, running a hand through his messy hair as he sat on the opposite couch.

“… we can’t let Joel see us like this,” he muttered, voice low and urgent.

“Is he up already?” you asked softly.

“No. But he should be soon.”

“Do you want me to go back to-?”

Tommy shook his head. “No.”

You smiled shyly. “Thanks for not locking me down there, Tommy.”

He blinked at you. For a brief second, that sweet, rare smile returned to his face.

You both tried, but neither of you could fall back asleep.

You stayed lying on the couch, and he remained on the other, but your eyes kept finding each other across the small space. The silence was thick, heavy with everything you had shared in touches and words. Every glance lingered too long. Your breathing grew shallower. You could see the way his chest rose and fell faster, the way his fingers flexed against his thigh like he was fighting the urge to reach for you.

The wanting was growing again, slow and undeniable, pulsing between you like a living thing.

Eventually, you broke the silence, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Did you sleep well this time?”

“Yeah,” he answered, his gaze dark and intense.

“Oh. Nice. The painkillers helped, then.”

Tommy’s eyes dragged slowly down your body and back up, heavy with heat.

“Maybe it wasn’t the painkillers.”

The unsaid hung thick between you.

You both got up from the couch at the same time. You met halfway. Without hesitation, you raised your cuffed arms and wrapped them around his neck, pulling him close. Tommy dodged your kiss burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, like he needed your scent to survive.

“Let’s go to the basement?” he whispered against your skin.

You whimpered softly. “Yes.”

He turned you around in his arms, pulling your back against his chest. His cock was already hard, pressing insistently against your ass. He wrapped his strong arms tightly around your waist, holding you there as you walked together, your bodies glued and every step making you feel him more.

“I fucking need you so bad.” His breath was ragged against your ear. “I’m so tired to pretend I don’t.”

Before you could reach the corridor, you heard Joel storming out of his bedroom, footsteps heavy as he headed toward the bathroom.

“Fucking shit,” Tommy cursed angrily under his breath, freezing behind you.

You split quickly.

You rushed back to the couch, burying your flushed face in the book, pretending to read while your heart hammered and your core still throbbed with unmet need. Tommy adjusted his painfully hard cock in his jeans with a sharp, irritated tug. He stormed toward the kitchen like he wanted to punch something.

A moment later, Joel came out of the bathroom. The motherfucker looked almost brand new. You felt a sharp stab of anger. Couldn’t he be sick just for a bit longer?…

Tommy forced an awkward smile. “How you feeling, Joel?”

“Better,” Joel grunted. He grabbed some water and food, then sat at the table. “We leave in a few hours. We’ve wasted too much time already.”

Tommy’s face tightened. “Are you crazy? You might still be too weak. We should wait at least until tomorrow.”

Joel shot him a sharp, irritated look. “I said I’m better. We’ve been sitting on our asses long enough. We move today.”

Tommy didn’t back down. “We won’t find another place like this if you start feeling bad again on the road. Please, man. Just wait one more day.”

Joel stared at him for a long moment, clearly unhappy, but eventually gave a reluctant grunt.

“Fine. One more day. But that’s it… And Tommy. Can you get me more of those meds?”

Tommy looked in your direction. You pointed silently at the coffee table.

Tommy walked to grab it, and stared down at the pile: the antibiotics he found before. Then the painkillers, fever reducers, nausea medication…

And activated charcoal.

His expression shifted for a split second. He gathered everything without a word and handed it to Joel.

---

The rest of the day passed inside the house. At first, nothing seemed particularly unusual.

Joel had claimed the armchair near the window, his injured leg stretched out carefully while he worked on cleaning his gun. The fever and stomach discomfort appeared to be gone now, leaving behind only exhaustion and a lingering paleness. Every so often he paused to massage his temple or shift uncomfortably, but compared to yesterday, he was clearly better.

Tommy paced restlessly from time to time, his limp was also better, almost unnoticeable now. Joel eventually looked up from where he was.

“What’s wrong with you?” he grunted.

“Nothing,” Tommy muttered, not stopping his pacing.

You kept your head down, pretending to read the same page for the tenth time, the words refusing to make sense. Tommy eventually stepped outside for a while. You had the distinct feeling he was avoiding you. You had no idea what was happening.

Well, you did.

You both had been so close, just a breath away from finally crossing that line. A moment where the walls had started to crumble, where Tommy had let himself want you openly, and you had felt truly desired. And then it was brutally interrupted.

Tommy must be relieved his brother was fine, awake, and stable. You felt that same wave of relief too. But you both were frustrated to be interrupted.

The heat still lingered low in your belly. Your body was still humming, sensitive and aching with a deep want to be alone with Tommy. To finish what you had started, before he regretted being soft again.

Maybe he was already. Maybe that’s why he looked distressed.

You tried speaking a few times, harmless comments about anything, but both brothers barely replied.

At one point, you got up to use the bathroom.

When you returned, Tommy was quickly going through all the backpacks, checking their contents with sharp, focused movements.

“Are you already packing everything?” you asked, surprised. “I thought we were only leaving tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow,” he said bluntly without looking at you. “Just checking.”

Before you could sit back down on the couch, Tommy spoke.

“Put your boots on and grab your backpack. We’re going for a walk.”

He walked toward you and uncuffed your wrists.

Yes. Your heart leapt with sudden hope. We’ll finally have a moment alone. It’ll finally happen.

Joel immediately started complaining from the couch. “Where the hell are you going, Tommy? Why are you uncuffing her?”

Tommy answered flatly, giving as little as possible. “I found a house with a tight, wrecked space when I was out looking for your antibiotics. She’s small enough to get through. Might be something useful in there.”

“Don’t take too long,” Joel muttered.

You followed Tommy outside. The silence between you felt strange, but not entirely bad. Maybe he was just being shy again, his walls slamming back up after the vulnerability feels too much. Or maybe he was nervous about taking you somewhere private.

“Where are we going, Tommy?”

He didn’t reply. You both keep walking in silence.

“I wasn’t expecting Joel to get better so fast after we found him passed out.” you said, trying to fill the quiet. “Glad he’s fine.”

Tommy let out a short, sarcastic laugh.

That’s when you realized something was very off.

You probably weren’t going to do what you thought you were.

You walked in silence behind him through the familiar same path you had taken yesterday.

After a few minutes, Tommy stopped in front of a house.

The one with the bunker and the clickers.

Your heart slammed to a brutal stop. Fuck. Did he suspect something? Had you slipped up? Would he ask how you managed to move around those clickers unnoticed?

He nodded toward the door. “Inside.”

You swallowed hard and climbed the small porch steps. He followed right behind you. Your hand had barely touched the doorknob when he moved: he grabbed you, spinning you around and slamming your back against the front wall. His forearm braced beside your head, caging you in completely. He was so close you could feel the heat of his body, his breath ghosting across your lips. His dark eyes locked furious and burning onto yours.

“I just wanted to clarify something before we get in,” he said, voice low and rough, that Texas drawl thick with barely contained rage.

He leaned in even closer, his body pinning you harder against the wall, his thigh pressing between your legs.

“You said you were glad Joel was fine.” He shook his head with a bitter, dangerous laugh. “And you know what’s weird?”

You noticed this probably had nothing to do with the Clickers.

“It took me some time to realize,” He continued. His eyes flicked to his own hand flexing near your face, as if he were deciding exactly what to do with it. “…But I kinda felt something was off. Isn’t it funny how Joel got way worse right after I left the two of you alone? Yeah. Just a coincidence, right?”

“But it was also funny how that coffee was perfectly fine for Joel to drink… until I was about to take a sip. And you decided to yank that mug right out of my hands.”

Oh no.

You knew exactly where this was going.

“I thought you were just being a brat to get on my nerves,” he continued, his breath hot against your ear. “Later that night, when I was cleaning your mess, the liquid on the floor looked weird. I didn’t think much of it.”

With his free arm, he slowly caressed your side, his rough fingers trailing deliberately down your arm. The touch was almost gentle, which somehow made it even more terrifying. You swallowed hard, heart hammering, waiting for the moment the gentleness would snap into violence.

“Then,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “you gave him activated charcoal. When everybody knows that’s only used to reverse poisoning.”

“Tommy, I didn’t mean to—”

“Do me a favor, darlin’,” he said, voice soft but deadly. “Open the left pocket of your backpack.”

That’s it.

He had found out.

“We know exactly what’s in there, Tommy. You don’t need to play these games.” you said, voice steady despite the fear clawing at your throat. “And yes. I did it.”

Tommy’s hand shot forward like a snake. He grabbed you by the throat, pinning you harder against the wall. His grip was strong enough to make your pulse hammer against his palm, but not enough to completely cut off your air. Just enough to remind you how easily he could.

“You poisoned my brother?” he snarled, voice low and lethal, eyes blazing with fury. “You fucking poisoned my brother? And you were ready to fuck me yesterday while he could’ve just dropped dead right there?!”

You struggled to speak, his fingers pressing into your neck, making your voice come out strained and breathless.

“I was mad at him,” you gasped. “He ordered you to kill those three innocent old men… He… he shot that father in front of his son and left the whole family to rot. And then he threatened to sell me to the Gilead Crew like I was meat. I—”

Tommy’s nose flared, his eyes burning with pure rage. His grip tightened on your throat, pressing harder, making your vision flicker for a split second.

“You know what the Gilead Crew does to women, Tommy?” you hissed, voice defiant even as it cracked. “I’d rather be thrown in that bunker with those fucking Clickers.”

You stared straight into his eyes, refusing to flinch.

“I thought I was doing the world a favor. I thought I was doing you a favor. Look at you, for God’s sake. You’re consumed by guilt.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched and his voice came out with contained fury.

“I just find it very fucking bizarre coming from someone who’s been annoying me for days on all that bullshit about humanity, about not playing God deciding who lives or dies. Saying even the worst men deserve second chances.” He let out a bitter, hollow laugh. “Very rich coming from you.”

“But I regretted it,” you gasped. “You know why? Because I didn’t want to hurt you. Because I saw there was still a human buried somewhere in all that shit he is now. But mainly because I didn’t want to be like him.” Your eyes burned into his. “I tried to stop him from drinking that coffee, Tommy. You saw I did. And I went back into that bunker and risked my life to get him medicine.”

You searched his eyes and saw it: the hesitation, the deep, gnawing pain of a man who hated following his brother’s path but felt he had no choice. That was your cue.

You grabbed his wrist with both hands and pushed his palm harder against your own throat, forcing his grip tighter. Your voice came out strained, breathless and defiant.

“But of course. Blame me. Paint me as the villain here just because I’m trying to survive from the hell you both are dragging me.”

 Tommy stared at you for a long, agonizing second. “…I thought you were the one preaching that survival isn’t an excuse to do horrible things.” He let go your neck, but he didn’t step back.

His hands hovered near your shoulders, trembling with the effort of not grabbing you again. He wanted to hurt you. He wanted to pull you close and never let go. He felt deceived. Betrayed. And the worst part was that he still wanted you anyway.

“I can’t get rid of you,” he rasped, voice rough and broken. “And I can’t be around you either. I don’t know what the fuck to do with you anymore.”

His eyes scanned your face slowly. Your lips, your throat, the way your chest rose and fell with every shaky breath.

He paused, breathing hard, like he was fighting himself. “That bullshit about sex to ease the pain…” His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “You still up for that?”

You were confused. Any good sense you still had completely shattered at this same second. It felt strange. Risky, maybe even stupid. But the heat between you had been building for too long. You were craving him. Desperately.

You managed to nod, barely whispering.

“Yes.”

“Well… what a needy little slut you are for me.” Tommy murmured, his voice low and rough.

His eyes scanned the empty street on both sides. “Take your clothes off.”

He stayed right where he was, still framing you against the wall, his body heat pressing into you, making it impossible to escape his presence.

You hesitated, heart racing.

“Now.” He demanded.

“Here?” you whispered. “But we’re exposed—”

He pulled his gun from the holster with deliberate slowness. The cold metal rested against your hip as he held it loosely.

“I don’t see anyone,” he said, his drawl thick and dark. “And if anybody shows up…” he tapped the gun against your skin.

You swallowed hard, equal parts terrified and unbearably turned on. Besides, you knew this was exactly the kind of thing that would eat at him later: guilt, shame. And that only made the heat between your legs throb stronger.

“Fine,” you breathed, right against his lips.

You started stripping slowly.

You pulled your shirt and bra over your head, letting it drop to the porch floor. The cool air kissed your bare skin, your nipples tightening instantly under his hungry stare. Then you unbuttoned your jeans, sliding them down your hips with deliberate movements, bending slightly as you stepped out of them. Tommy’s eyes never left your body, drinking in every inch you revealed.

Finally, you hooked your thumbs into your panties and slid them down your legs, stepping out until you stood completely naked before him.

Tommy’s eyes darkened as he looked at you completely naked, back against the wall, breathing fast. He could see the hope in your eyes, the way you thought this was going to be tender again. The way you thought he was going to open up and give you everything.

He wasn’t.

He wanted you to feel exactly what he had felt: be vulnerable, tricked into hoping… only to have it taken away.

He steps back and laughs. Laughs.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice rough. “All bare and waiting for me like a good little whore. You really thought I was just gonna kiss you and fuck you sweet after what you did?”

He stepped closer again, towering over you. His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip almost gently, before he tilted your head to the side, forcing you to look away from him.

“You don’t get to look at me right now,” he said coldly. “You don’t deserve that.”

His other hand slid down your body deliberately avoiding where you wanted him most. He squeezed your breast, pinched your nipple hard enough to make you gasp, then dragged his palm down your stomach, stopping just above your pussy. He let his fingers hover there, teasing, never quite touching.

You whimpered, hips trying to chase his hand.

Tommy let out a low, bitter laugh against your ear.

“Pathetic,” he whispered. “You try to kill my brother… then spread your legs for me the second I look at you.”

He finally slid two fingers through your wetness, but only teased your entrance, never pushing inside, just circling, spreading your slickness, making you ache.

You were trembling. Naked. Vulnerable. Exposed in every possible way.

“If you’re just making me look like an idiot, we can stop,” you said, pushing weakly against his chest.

Tommy grabbed a fistful of your hair at the root and yanked your head back.

“Easy, darlin’,” he growled, voice low and venomous. “I said I wouldn’t kiss you and fuck you sweet. I didn’t say I wasn’t gonna fuck you.”

He suddenly moved, dragging you. He kicked the main door open and pulled you inside the house by your hair, his grip firm and unyielding. Without giving you a second to breathe, he shoved you roughly toward the old wooden table in the middle of the room, bending you over it. Your bare breasts pressed against the surface as he kicked your legs apart with his boot, spreading you wide open for him.

“You were so quiet down there with those clickers, weren’t you?” he taunted, leaning over your back, his voice right against your ear. “Come on. Wake them up. I wanna hear your sweet sounds.”

You felt completely embarrassed and yet the shame only made you wetter. Your core throbbed with humiliating need.

“That’s convenience sex,” he said coldly, unzipping his jeans behind you. “Just ‘fulfilling basic human needs’, right? Don’t expect anything else from me. Is that ok?”

He pressed the thick head of his cock against your slick entrance, holding it there, refusing to give you what you both needed. You tried to push back, desperate for him to finally be inside you, but his hand gripped your hip hard, keeping you in place.

“Answer me,” he growled. “You understand what this is?”

You whimpered, nodding desperately.

“I’m not listening to you!” Tommy snapped. He slapped your ass hard, the sharp crack echoing through the room. “Come on. Don’t you like running that fucking mouth all the time? Say it loud!”

“Tommy- We-, we’ll be in danger if something or someone hear us—” you tried.

He slammed his gun down on the table right next to your face with a loud bang. “I’m the only danger here!” he snarled. “I take care of anything that shows up. You be a good little whore and scream my name loud enough. Got it?”

You were shaking with a mix of fear and unbearable arousal.

“YES!” you cried out, giving away the last scraps of resistance and letting whatever was left of your sanity spill out with the word.

He gripped your hips with bruising force and thrust into you with no mercy, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. The sudden stretch and depth made you cry out, your body jolting forward on the table.

The feeling was amazing and everything your craved for. And, if that’s how he wanted to play, you would double the bet.

You pushed back against him just as hard, meeting every violent thrust with your own, clenching around him, daring him to break you first.

You let out a dark, angry laugh. “That’s all you got? Come on, Tommy. Do your worst.”

With a feral sound, Tommy shoved your head down hard against the table, cheek pressed to the wood. His hand came down relentlessly on your ass, sharp, stinging slaps that synced perfectly with every brutal thrust. You screamed and cried out, the pain blooming into overwhelming pleasure as he went so deep you felt like you were being split apart.

“Are you done being a fucking brat?” he snarled, hips snapping forward without mercy.

He slammed into you harder each time, grabbing your hips with bruising force, the old table creaking and shifting violently under the savage pace. You screamed his name, raw and broken, as he drove impossibly deep with every punishing stroke. From the basement below, you could hear the clickers stirring, the low, guttural growls responding to the noise.

“Good girl,” he growled, voice rough and mocking. “That’s it. You made it. Woke them the fuck up.”

Tommy was completely lost in pleasure. All the desires he had repressed for so long were finally flooding out in the most animalistic way possible, raw, desperate, and unrestrained.

He kept thrusting, deep and merciless, one hand fisting in your hair while the other dug into your hip. His words were a twisted mix of flattery and cruelty.

“Fuck… you feel so goddamn good,” he admitted through gritted teeth, almost like it pained him “Look at you… screaming my name. No self-respect or whatsoever... So fucking filthy... So fucking perfect.”

You were losing yourself in the violence and pleasure. There was a strange, twisted peace in letting him take you like this. Like his rage and desire were the only honest things left between you.

You laughed breathlessly, even as tears stung your eyes from the intensity.

“I thought you would fuck me harder, Tommy,” you taunted, voice shaky but defiant. “Where’s it? Is that all you got?”

That pushed him over the edge.

Tommy stopped abruptly, pulled out of you, and flipped you onto your back in one powerful motion. He shoved your legs wide open and slammed back inside you, burying himself to the hilt. His hand wrapped around your throat, choking you, holding you firmly in place as he fucked you with renewed, punishing force.

He smiled devilish and dangerous.

“Look how beautiful you are,” he rasped, his thumb pressing lightly against your pulse, feeling it race wildly under his touch. “Suffocating so sweetly in my hand.”

He leaned closer, eyes locked on yours, dark and mocking.

“Say it again,” he murmured, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Tell me how much you like me, darlin’.” He softened his grip just enough for you to grasp for air to speak.

You held his gaze for a long, charged second. The words formed slowly on your lips, almost purring as they melted into the air between you, sweet and defiant at the same time.

“I like you, Tommy Miller.”

Then you slapped him hard across the face. The sharp crack echoed through the room. You laughed wild, delirious, and just as unhinged as he was. “I really, really like you, Tommy.”

Tommy’s rhythm faltered for a split second, softening just enough for you to see the surprise. He looked at you like he couldn’t believe the words had come out so genuine.

“God… you look so pretty when you tell me that,” he murmured. His eyes dragged over your face. “So fucking pretty.”

You tried to speak again and he covered your mouth and nose with his large hand, cutting off your air again. “Enough. Shut up now,” he growled, still thrusting deep and brutal.

You arched forward into him, the lack of oxygen clashing violently with the overwhelming pleasure. The struggle only made everything sharper and more intense, your body burning brighter as your lungs screamed for air. You sank your nails into his chest until they drew blood, dragging red lines down his skin.

Tommy hissed in pain, but the sound was pure lust. He finally let your mouth go.

As you gasped desperately for air, his hand moved kneading your jaw and cheek. While you were still panting and pulling air, he gave you a short, playful slap on your flushed cheek.

You were both delirious now, fucking each other with pure, angry need.

The Clickers in the basement were going insane with the noise, snarling and crashing against the door. You looked at each other and suddenly found it funny. Two broken idiots destroying each other and laughing through the madness.

The genuine, breathless laughter that escaped both at same time shifted something deep between you. The rage cracked open, letting something warmer bleed through.

Tommy’s thrusts became less punishing and more desperate. He grabbed you, pulling your body up until you were pressed tightly against his chest. You sank your teeth into his shoulder. He held the back of your head carefully, almost protectively, still thrusting deep inside you.

You stopped biting. Instead, you slowly started kissing the same spot with soft, open-mouthed presses that grew gentler with every kiss.

You parted just enough to look at each other. Your hand came up to hold his jaw tenderly, thumb brushing over his flushed cheek. His hand stayed firm on your hip, the other cradling the back of your head with surprising gentleness, fingers threading carefully through your damp hair.

The anger faded. What remained was raw, aching need and you could swear it felt terrifyingly close to love.

Tommy pulled you flush against him again, arm wrapped tightly around your waist as if he couldn’t bear even an inch of distance anymore. Your foreheads pressed together, eyes locked. Neither of you looked away. The world narrowed to just this: his dark, stormy gaze, your trembling breath mingling with his, the slick sound of your sweaty bodies moving together. Pleasure built higher, tighter and unstoppable.

Your walls clenched hard around him as waves of ecstasy crashed through you. Tommy buried himself deep with a broken groan of your name against your lips, spilling inside you in hot, pulsing bursts.

You trembled in his arms, clinging to him. His warm scent filled your lungs like an intoxicating, addictive drug. You breathed him in deeply, dizzy with it.

“…I don’t know what to do with you,” he whispered against your skin.

For a long moment, you stayed with your bodies slick with sweat pressed together, hearts hammering wildly against each other.

Somehow, this walk had turned out to be the complete opposite of what you thought it would be… and yet, it had ended exactly the way you had hoped.

-----

Tag list:

“You know, the chickens have fled the roost so to speak,” Your father explains, slapping his sandwich together with an audible squelch as the mustard oozed out the side, “I ain’t dealing with your mother’s shit anymore either, there’s somethin’ for both of us to celebrate.”

“The girls moved out, just say that,” You translate, eyes rolling in tired amusement as you pick at your own sandwich and munch on the salty but mostly unflavoured chips, “ and it sounds like I’ll be intruding.”

“Couldn’t possibly, sweetheart,” He assures with a warm smile before taking a hefty bite out of the sandwich, sighing in delight.

He was laying it on thick right now.

“Don’t you ever think about how Joel is the catalyst to you and mom separating?” You ask curiously, “Or how you refused to believe me when I told you the first time?”

“I wasn’t being the best husband to your ma,” He admits, amongst other things, “I was tryin’ to make up for my own shortcomings, but with Joel—he was just wrong place, wrong time,”

“Or right time,” You counter, shrugging.

You hadn’t spoken to your mother since you left for college two years ago, making it through your entire freshman and sophomore year of school without a word and still, nothing. From one family to the next, the eventual expectancy that she would tire of the next one, but that wasn’t your business.

“I’m trying to make up for things,” He continues, ignoring your quip, “and I’m not wasting a week of nice weather inside.”

Things, you think with a flippant retort you bite your tongue over.

The countless days you had no one to rely on but yourself—but more obviously, Joel.

You watched Sarah and Ellie for months while he worked long hours, odd hours. It was like a sleepover, really. But, it lessened some of the burden knowing he had someone keeping a watchful eye on his girls and in turn, he picked up the slack where your dad had disappeared.

That was all it was—a genuine care for the well-being of one another and then when the situation between your parents grew more and more complicated, you disappeared.

He hadn’t spoken to you since you were seventeen, other than the few odd glimpses when he would catch you throwing out the trash while he was coming home from a long shift and an obvious absence of words or glances on your end.

Knock, knock, knock.

It’s so rhythmic and firm that you recognize it instantly.

“Joel,” You already knew, but your father confirms it.

You can hear the heavy step of his boots before you see him and your chest tightens, suddenly feeling claustrophobic as you pick at the flakes of bread on the napkin and listen to the quiet chatter of the two men before his voice creeps into the kitchen.

"Well, I'll be damned," he says softly. "Look who's back in town."

You force yourself to look up, meeting his weathered face and piercing eyes. 

He looks older than you remember, more lines etched into his features and his hair more grey than the last time you saw him and extending toward the edges of his beard, but still unmistakably Joel. 

He’s tanned from the kiss of sun, a slight sunburn to his nose from working outside as the grey fabric of his shirt stretches over his thick biceps, even thicker thighs filling out his jeans. And you realize as time drags on that you’ve never spent so much time examining so much of him, your gaze was lingering just as much as his own before your father tears the fleeting moment to shreds, clearing your throat to break the tension.

“I already packed my stuff in the car,” You tell your dad, before offering a dismissive, “Hey,” at Joel to mask how cornered you felt at the moment, avoiding his eyeline at all costs.

“Great,” He cheers, clapping his hands together once, “Joel, you ready?”

“Yeah ‘m all packed up in my truck and I’ll follow behind.”

“Oh, honey—did you wanna ride down in Joel’s truck? I know that little Nissan drives you crazy since you can’t sit still—”

“Well—he—he didn’t offer,”

He didn’t need to—you’d always been welcome. It had become a second home for a while. 

“I don’t mind,” He shrugs, arms crossing over his chest as he shifts to lean against the open frame of the kitchen, “and I got the good music, no silly ass showtunes.”

Sweetening the deal, isn’t he?

Fine, since he was dangling the line so enticingly.

You’ll bite.

–

The summer heat hits you like a wall as you step outside. Joel's truck sits in the driveway, a hulking beast of metal and chrome that breathes an air of familiarity into your chest. 

Late nights home from practices, missed buses on mornings when you were running late and Joel was on his way out the door for work and the many supplied meals when your parents were too busy arguing to cook dinner. 

He opens the passenger door for you, and you climb in, the leather seat hot against your thighs.

Joel never forgot to be a gentleman. It was a stark difference from the empty-headed frat boys you’ve become used to, all honk and no help. You had one good date the entire year you were at college and it was with a professor in a diner out of town with the reality that you could both be spotted and reported to the dean, but he’d been careful. He cared.

But, it was once. No more.

Though, it has cemented your taste in men.

Unfortunately for Joel, he was a perfect match for you now.

You ignore the way the gesture makes your heart flutter against your ribcage.

As Joel settles into the driver's seat, you're acutely aware of his presence beside you. The cab of the truck feels smaller than it should, and you press yourself against the door, trying to put as much space between you as possible.

Wordlessly, he grabs the box of old cassettes and presses them into your lap as he starts the truck and it coughs and sputters to life, pulling slowly out of the driveway as he follows behind your dad, watching as you filter through the old tapes like you used to, picking your particular flavor of tune for the drive.

“So,” Joel beings after a long growing silence and a chunk of time on the road as your cross one leg over the other and stare quietly out the window, feeling lost on how to approach the situation as you’ve clearly grown and changed, a similar pinched expression that both his daughter’s carried when they were bothered or annoyed, all in the brow and drawn together, your fingers scratching absently where you were gripping your bicep, “how’s college been treatin’ you?”

Your last conversation had been the weekend before senior year of high school, something nonsensical and forgettable, but it was amongst your life imploding and Joel was tied up with work more often that he liked.

He had only tried to remind you that his house was home too, even if it was just for an hour or a night.

“Fine. I’m not gonna sit here and bore you to death with astrophysics so don’t ask,” You quip with a subtle smile, “If my dad can’t keep up I know you sure as hell can’t.”

“Is that an age joke?” Joel asks genuinely.

“I dunno, gramps,” You shrug, “is the moon round?”

It was rhetorical, right? Joel chuckles at how easily you fall back into your old banter.

“It’s not,” You tell him, “just so you know.”

Joel's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "The moon's not round? Since when?"

You can't help but laugh at his bewildered expression.

 "It's actually slightly egg-shaped. Technically, it's an oblate spheroid."

"Well, I'll be damned," Joel mutters, shaking his head. "Learn something new every day. Guess they're teaching you all sorts of fancy things at that college of yours."

The tension in the truck eases a bit as you fall into a comfortable silence. 

You can’t ignore how his rugged features entice like no other, facial hair freshly trimmed and his hair slightly longer than what you’re used to, noticing the natural curl to his ends, beautiful hues of brown mixed in with an aged grey. 

You chew at your cheek and ignore how quickly things could go sideways if he caught you staring, forcing you to suffer through a weekend of awkwardness.

You fiddle with the cassettes, finally selecting one and popping it into the ancient tape deck. The opening chords of Mary Jane’s Last Dance fill the cab, and Joel taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat. Tom Petty was a staple of late night drives with Joel and it easily transports you back to moments souring down empty roads singing your lungs out alongside a man who had become like a second father to you back then.

Though, that was clearly not the case anymore. Still vehemently aware of the strain of his neck as he looked out the rearview mirror or the way his hand stretched over his denim-clad thigh when the ache in his fingers returned from gripping the steering wheel for too long.

“You know he’s only been camping once, right?” You ask Joel, his nod almost instantly.

“S’probably why he asked me to come along, that and he loves to remind me how lonely I am.”

“Are you?” Your eyes are wide and curious when you peer over, making him do a double-take.

Get your fuckin’ mind right, Joel. 

He shrugs and turns away, eyeing the road again.

“It has to be weird, not having Ellie and Sarah around, those two are—”

“Handfuls,” He finishes for you, “It’s a different feelin’, I guess. I ain’t lonely, but it feels more like…”

“No purpose?”

You’d hit the nail on the head.

“Yeah, kiddo.”

The somberness of it is a shift you don’t like, staring down at the fabric of your dress resting midway between your thighs, running your fingers along the stitched edge before you hit him with a question that has been bothering you for a long, long time.

There was no better opportunity than now, cornered.

“How did you end up in the house that night anyways?” You ask, “My dad won’t tell me shit.”

Joel knows exactly what you’re talking about.

The comeuppance of your mother.

“I was grabbin’ some parts to work on that piece of shit mower I still got,” He explains, rolling with the punches of your hard hitting questions, “Ain’t much about it, found ‘em in the kitchen and your mom had a big meltdown, she clocked me pretty good, too.”

“She thought dad set her up, didn’t she?”

“I dunno,” He shrugs, “Made me feel like shit for a while—”

“Why?” You interact before he can finish, though most of it was a blur now.

“You got real quiet—I didn’t see you much after that and I’ll be honest, thought you hated me for a good while and then some,” He explains, the song nearing its end as the truck fades to silence.

“It’s not like you were fucking my mom or something,” You respond crudely and it was a strange way to hear you speak for a brief moment before Joel realizes he’s not sitting next to a young girl anymore—you were all grown-up and sure of yourself, confident in the way you spoke to him now that the initial awkwardness had fled, “were you?”

Joel balks at your question and shakes his head in amusement.

“‘Course fuckin’ not—the lady was a whole mess of issues I wouldn’t touch with a fifty foot pole.”

It took three years for them to fully finalize the divorce. 

It brought you to now. Twenty and living on your own, crippled by abandonment issues and desperate attention seeking problems that even you wouldn’t address.

And Joel was always good at giving you his undivided attention.

At least, he used to be.

You nod, a wry smile tugging at your lips. "Yeah, I figured. Just had to ask, you know?"

“She did try, long…long time ago,” Joel slips in as the campsite comes into view after a long stretch of silence, “but I very politely declined and shut my mouth about it.”

The admission makes you grimace and Joel can only chuckle.

–

“I’m sorry,” You stress for the tenth time as your father rifles through his trunk, tossing his tent to the floor but yours was blatantly absent.

You could have sworn…

“I brought my double for more room,” Joel interrupts the very awkward stand-off between you and your father, unspoken and unresolved tension that he wasn’t trying to insert himself in, “I can take that one and you both are more than welcome to—”

“No,” You respond, a sudden decisiveness to your voice, “I’ll share with you.”

“I think it’d be easier if you and your dad—”

The idea of sharing a tent with your father and his insistent snoring. 

Absolutely the fuck not.

“Or I’m sleeping in the truck,” You decide.

“I’m sorry ‘bout her,” Your dad apologizes as he drops another box into the dirt.

“Oh, she’s alright,” Joel assures, “I guess I don’t mind sharin’.”

“Perfect, problem fucking solved.” You gripe before plucking your swimsuit from your bag and disappearing into the outhouse building a couple minutes down the path and Joel watches you storm off.

"She's always been headstrong," your dad mutters, more to himself than to Joel. "Gets it from her mother, I reckon."

Joel nods, unsure of how to respond. 

He busies himself with setting up the tent, stealing glances down the path where you disappeared. The tension in the air is palpable, and he can't help but feel caught in the middle of something he doesn't fully understand.

As he hammers the last stake into the ground, he hears your footsteps approaching. You've changed into your swimsuit, a towel draped over your shoulder. His throat swells at the sight as easily as his cock in his jeans, sweating worse than a sinner in church even under the sticky, summer sun. 

It’s just a two-piece bikini, charcoal in color and clinging to your skin, the threads of string digging into your hips where they were tied in tight bows and Joel has to force his gaze away.

Your eyes are red-rimmed from crying, but your chin is lifted defiantly. 

Joel fears he may have been the reason.

That and a mix of your father.

“I’m going for a swim,” You announce, slipping off your sandals and tossing your discarded clothes on the dirt floor next to the freshly constructed tent, a wordless and dry-mouthed Joel licking desperately at his lips as he realizes you aren’t talking to him, but your father, his eyes trailing now dangerously to your backside as the fabric digs into the plumpness of your ass and makes it crease, the subtle curve of your cheeks pinching as you lean to one hip, awaiting any type of response from your father.

It’s revealing, provocative, and nothing he’s seen you in before and if he was your father—

But, he’s not. 

He’s not.

All you get is a huff of acknowledgement from your father as he’s buried himself into the trunk of the car again.

It was clear that even with your mother out of the picture that things wouldn’t change. Always talking through you, never at you, never concerned with school or your interests. It felt stupid, emotional over something so feeble and otherwise meaningless to most. 

You glance over your shoulder and catch Joel’s quickly averting gaze, the heavy weight of his stare crawling up your spine and lingering on your ass a few seconds, his face reddens over you catching him in the act but brushes it off as him being nosey, like watching the exchange between you and your father for too long.

Joel watches you float for an hour, tearing through a few beers in the process alongside your father before he comendeers the grill for dinner, bothering Joel for a favor as your father nods toward you in the water.

It was peaceful, too. The soft hum of birds flying north for the summer and the smell of slowly cooking meat, suddenly disturbed by water being splashed at your face and your head snapping to the side out of annoyance, peeking through one eye under the sunset.

The culprit? 

A foot, eyes dragging up toward the owner. 

Joel stands there, ankle-deep in the cool water, his jeans rolled up halfway to his shins. He looks sheepish, a beer bottle dangling from his fingers. "Your dad asked me to come get you. Dinner's almost ready."

You consider splashing him back but decide against it. Instead, you start wading toward the shore with a sigh, water dripping from your skin. Joel's eyes widen slightly as he takes in your form, backlit by the setting sun. He quickly averts his gaze, clearing his throat.

"Here," he says, offering you a towel he'd brought down. You try to maintain your aloof demeanor, but your body betrays you with a shiver that has nothing to do with the cool water.

"I was enjoying the peace and quiet," you reply, attempting to sound annoyed.

“We’re fishin’ tomorrow, that’ll be plenty of quiet for you,” Joel supplies, nodding toward the growing pile of food on the picnic table, “I’m not gonna pry, s’not my business.”

“I’m not asking you to,” You defend, snatching the towel with your fingertips rubbing against his palm in the process, stretching the towel over your shoulders as it pushes your breasts out, silently amused as you careful examine the way Joel’s eyes squint under the summer sun and avert.

"You're not subtle either, Joel," you tease, a smugness playing at the corners of your mouth while you try to keep a straight face. 

Joel's cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink, though he tries to play it cool.

"Don't know what you're talkin' about," he mumbles, taking a long swig of his beer.

You step closer, invading his personal space. The scent of his cologne mingles with the crisp lake air. "Oh, I think you do," you whisper, “it’s alright, you know—I don’t mind.”

You were nothing like that young girl he used to know.

Joel swallows hard.

For a moment, you think he might admit that he’s noticed the differences about you; confrontational, confident, but still seeking something you couldn’t attain on your own.

Then your father's voice booms across the beach, shattering the moment.

"Food's gettin' cold! You two comin’?"

Assuredly, one of you would.

–

He’s thanking his lucky stars he picked a roomier tent, not out of benefit to you and the fact you were sleeping soundly beside him, but that he had enough room to keep a safe distance from your inability to stay still, wiggling and shifting in your sleep like a restless little weasel.

He can hear the rolling sounds of your father’s snores from the other tent as he leans up on his hand, attempting to shift the blanket back over your frame where it had slipped down before he’s carefully shoving the extra pillow he’d brought between you and him, punching the fabric into submission and molding his hand around it to shape before he feels the incidental touch of your ass against his knuckles.

Right, so much for space.

Even in the poor moonlight he can spot the shorts clinging so tightly to your skin that the side have shifted high enough up your hips that if he wanted to—and lord, he could—slip his fingers between your legs and along the fabric, assuring himself an immediate trip to the gates of hell.

Joel’s not sure where he lost his mind, whether it was the moment he spotted you back home or as you spoke to him so boldly earlier and called him out, or now, actively watching your legs separate as you rolled to your stomach and hiked your knee up slightly, shifting the blanket away again. 

He's drawing the line here.

–

Though, he’s even more distracted as you’re perched on your knees in front of him the following morning, picking through the bait as you trade off between him and your father, forcing yourself to participate despite your distaste for the activity and the flashing NO SIGNAL on your phone every time you glanced at it.

You lean forward off the dock and rinse the dirt from your fingers and into the lake. Joel can't help but notice how your shirt rides up as you lean forward, exposing a sliver of skin at your lower back. His eyes trace the curve of your spine, lingering a moment too long before he forces himself to look away. Fearful that your father might catch his eyeline and see him ogling his daughter, but he pays neither of you any attention, eyes fixed on a spot out in the lake as you attempt to hand Joel another wriggling worm when the fish snaps the other off the line for the fifth time.

“Are you sure you’re putting it on there correctly?” You ask out of concern, watching him reel in the line with a frustrated grimace, glancing over at your absent-minded father once more.

“You wanna try?” He snips, quickly realizing how his voice came across and the way your shoulders sink, then he softens his tone, “Do you—wanna…”

“I don’t know how,” You admit, watching the worm wiggle in Joel’s palm.

“Your daddy never taught you?” He asks aloud, loud enough that it snags your father’s attention and he chuckles dismissively.

“Kid hates the outdoors,” You father adds insubstantially, your eyes dragging to his back as he leans forward in the creaky chair as he gets a bite, “it’s a wonder she said yes to any of this.”

It didn’t matter that he was wrong, because he was always wrong.

Joel knew how much you loved being outside, how often he would find you laying in the grass with Sarah and Ellie, staring up at the stars and pointing out the different constellations, a never-ending faucet of information that had bled into your interests at college,

“I gotcha,” Joel quips, attempting to pull your attention back to him.

You're focused intently on the task at hand, your nose scrunched up in slight disgust as you handle the slimy bait. He finds it oddly endearing, the way you're pushing through your discomfort to be part of this bonding activity that you could clearly give less of a shit about.

You were trying and your father didn’t care, but Joel noticed.

"Here," he says, reaching out to guide your hands. "If you hook it like this, it'll stay on better."

You grimace at the squelch as it slices through the worm, “Alright—I think I’m good for the day.”

Joel chuckles at your face, his hands lingering against your own despite their descent, rested gently in the palm that was settled against his knee, wholly inappropriate given the situation.

You turn your hand on his thigh, using the leverage to push yourself up and squeeze down at the same time, earning a quiet grunt and a look of pure annoyance from Joel as you smile all fresh-faced and innocent.

Your father chuckles from his chair, not bothering to turn around. "Giving up already? Figures."

You bite back a retort, reminding yourself it's not worth the argument. Your father waves dismissively, attention fixed on the water. Your eyes land on Joel again, who seems to be collecting just how detached you were from your father, but doesn’t find it the right time to play savior or make the trip any more insufferable than it was becoming.

When Joel finds you later, you’re half naked and sunbathing beside your shared tent, far enough out of view that he can’t see your father’s tent as he pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and shakes the nylon wall beside your head, your bare back on display as you make a noise of acknowledgment but don’t turn.

“We’re done,” He says plainly, squinting and averting his eyes as you raise up slightly, arm conveniently blocking the full view of your naked chest as you nod toward your swim top tangled by your feet.

Joel’s beginning to think you’re doing it on purpose.

He pulls at his jeans while he kneels, right at his thighs, picking up the fabric and passing it into your waiting hand as you finally turn on your backside, arm tucked over your chest as you slip the tied part of your top over you head, shifting the fabric over your breasts in one fluid motion before you peer up at Joel who’s decidedly avoiding all interaction suddenly. 

“Catch anything good?”

“Yup,” He tells you, sounding forced.

You both move at the same time, rising to your feet but holding your hand out expectantly, Joel’s hand slipping into your own without a word, like a trained gesture.

“Ask it,” You tell him, subtly shifting the top more firmly into place as you exchange a brief look with Joel.

“I’m curious why you came - ‘cause your daddy or if it was for me, if you got some type of my plan I’m not privy to?”

“No plan,” You admit truthfully, “not for him—or you, actually. But, it’s sweet that you think I’m trying to trick you or something. I figured you knew me better.”

“I know you jus’ fine,” Joel grumbles, pulling his hand from your grip as you step away.

“Do you?” You challenge, “I mean, how well do you actually know me, Joel?”

“This ain’t the time for—“

“No, I mean—you’re obviously trying to give me the attention my dad won’t, right? It’s what you’ve always done. Is it guilt? Do you think you owe me?”

“You ain’t my kid,” He says decisively, “but I’ve known your dad a real long time, longer than you’ve been on this earth and you’re lookin’ at him like you wished he didn’t exist, I’ve seen those looks too, from my girls—“

And he notices the look appearing on your face now, that similar distaste that makes him feel helpless.

“He’s helpless, kiddo. You won’t even set that time aside to have a talk with him, all the animosity towards him about your mother, but you’re expecting his attention, seeking it out like this, from me—it ain’t right,”

“Neither is staring at me like you wanna split me over your lap,” You retort, “but you know he’s too preoccupied to notice, so you do it. And you’ll do it again, and again,”

“Watch yourself,” He warns, an authoritative warmth wrapping around his vocal cords that is the complete opposite of what he wants.

“You don’t get to play the victim here,” you fire back, the heat rising in your cheeks, not just from the sun.

The warm air around you feels suddenly suffocating, thick with unsaid words and unresolved issues, “You were there when it mattered, and now you’re acting like I’m the problem? I didn’t ask you to be that person for me, you did it yourself—”

Your accusation hangs heavy in the air between you.

Joel shifts his weight, grounding himself against the sudden intensity of your gaze. The way you stand, defiant and angry, claws at his insides.

 He can feel the swell of frustration rising, a tide threatening to crash over both of you and consume you whole.

“I never said anything about you bein’ a problem,” he says quietly, but his voice carries an edge you’re not familiar with, “I was giving you what I thought was right in the moment, someone to talk to—you always did right by my girls, you’re a good kid—”

You nod at the utterance of those words, lips pulling into a tight line as you make a sound of disapproval and stare at him with a gaze that could make any man shrink with fear.

“You keep calling me a kid,” you call him out, “but, I don’t think you see it that way anymore.”

Joel doesn’t even know what to say, feeling cornered. You’ve always been able to read him so clearly, like you knew him better than he did. His heart races, nostrils flaring as he steadies his emotions and his face goes stoic, caught between the urge to defend himself and the undeniable truth that hangs in the space between you.

“Things change, alright?” Joel finally responds, his voice low but firm, waving his hand around casually between you and him, “I know you’re not a kid anymore. You’ve grown into—”

“Into what?” you cut him off, a bite to your tone that sets the tension even higher as you cross your arms, shifting on your hip as you step closer, eyebrows raised expectantly.

You feel it bubbling up inside you, a mix of anger and pent-up frustration that has been simmering for too long, laced with a dangerous edge of desire now that you had him so close, that things had undeniably changed.

“I think we both know my dad is just going through the motions, doing the absolute bare minimum. He’d be much happier with a son, but he got me—a spitting image of my fucking mother. He cares enough to keep me around, but he’s never been someone to give a shit about anything I have going on in my life, now or before,”

It spills out without trying, unexpectedly choked up as you utter the last few words.

You wouldn’t cry in front of Joel, you refused.

You sniff once, hard, and quickly blink away the burn of tears.

The silence stretches uncomfortably.

Joel runs a hand over his face, fingers threading through his hair in frustration. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. You were supposed to just enjoy the weekend together, catch up, and with some hope, go your separate ways on a positive note.

Instead, he was clueless.

He steps back, forcing distance between you, though it feels more like a pit. “I don’t know what you want from me,” he admits finally, his voice low and rough, “You’ve grown up, sure. But I still see that girl who used to come to me in the middle of the night sobbin’—

“Stop it,” you snap, your chin lifting defiantly. “Stop doing that—”

The silence lingered again, but it was tangible.

“I don’t need a lecture right now,” you continue, biting back as your blood rushes hot at the way his words twist in your gut to remind you of all the indecipherable emotions of your past, your heart pounding against your ribcage wildly. “Not from you.”

“Whattya lookin’ for then?” Joel challenges, the words undoing you completely, “Because you’ve toeing a line, real fuckin’ thin—”

He feels your hands first, curling around his neck.

His own hands are set at his hips, blinking once, twice, watching the way your eyes linger on his lips before you make the decision in your mind and push forward, pressing your lips against his own without thinking.

His mouth is soft but firm against yours, and more importantly, moving.

A hesitant exploration that quickly deepens as you angle your head to fit him better. 

He releases a soft grunt at the force of the kiss, trading the angle of your head swiftly, lips parting briefly before you’re consuming him once more, your eagerness shifting you further behind the tent, into the large stump that your bags were resting against.

“I want you to fuck me,” you tell him boldly, breathless against his mouth, “Right—right here,”

It was like a bucket of ice water over him, ripping away with the sound of your voice.

He’d forgotten where he was, who he was, who you were—he’d slipped, misjudged, and completely underestimated you. 

“I’m not,” He replies disjointed, his mind elsewhere, “we’re not doin’ this—”

Joel doesn’t give you time to argue, hand clasping over his mouth with a deep regret as he squeezed at his cheeks with his fingers, a self-inflicting pain to drag him back to reality, hands throwing back over his head as they ran through his hair.

He’s gone before you can speak, trailing away from the camp with an unknown end in sight.

–

When your dad asks where Joel was, you shrug.

You didn’t have a clue, it was the truth.

Eventually, he does return, but he won’t look at you.

You peel apart the peach in your hand quietly, face scrunching as the juices spray upwards and Joel takes the beer your father offers in silence, sitting in the only space of the picnic table that was open, across from you.

The two men carry on a meaningless conversation that you tune out, focusing on the fruit in your hand, aware of his eyes that lingered when you weren’t focused on them.

You can feel his gaze on you, watching the way your tongue catches the sticky sweetness that spreads down your palm, chewing quietly at the fruit.

The juice dribbles down your chin, your eyes dart toward him over the table, purely accidental. 

Joel is trying to focus on your father, but his muscles are tense and neither of you ignore that force of the string that had you two bound together, though clearly at odds.

Your tongue dips out of your mouth to clean your face, hearing the conversation continue but focused on him, the clear strain in his throat as he swallows and brings his beer to his mouth.

“I’m gonna shower,” you speak suddenly, abrasively, as you toss the discarded fruit aside, not to any particular man, rather a blatant announcement that you were leaving.

When you’re gone, your father speaks, “She’s just like her mother,” he says candidly to Joel, your words ringing in his ears, “I’m sorry if she’s bein’ rude to you,”

“She’s always been a good kid,” Joel responds dismissively, eyes trailing toward your fading figure, “ain’t nothing I can’t handle or haven’t before,”

Your father nods like he knows, but even Joel sees right through it.

When you returned the fire at camp was already out, lights dimmed to nothing, and Joel’s tent door hung open enough that you could slip through quietly, like he’d prepared it that way.

You were halfway convinced sleeping in his truck was a better alternative.

The faint outline of Joel’s form is silhouetted against the small sliver of moonlight sneaking through the fabric—he wasn’t lying down just yet, rather resting, his foot planted into the ground while the other lay stretched out, his eyes only briefly acknowledging you as you step inside the tent.

“Jeez, you’re worse than the boys at school,” you complain, adjusting your shorts as you kneel your sleeping bag and Joel notices the distinct lack of fabric underneath, the material scrunching high up on your hip as you turn away from him on your stomach, annoyed, “you kissed me back, you know? I didn’t imagine that.”

“It’s inappropriate,” Joel says and you snort at his decision to take the moral high road over the situation, wiping your head to look at him suddenly, “should be worryin’ about boys your own age.”

“I do,” you retort, “they suck.”

“You’ve barely lived,” Joel retorts, “dated what—a couple of ‘em? You’ve always been careful, I dunno why you’re bein’ so reckless all the sudden, specially with your dad around and thinkin’ that I was—”

“Was what?” You inquire, pushing up suddenly to your knees, resting back on your calves

“Was gonna fuck you right here,” Joel cuts you off, his voice low and tight, eyes averting outside.

You don’t back down, your chin lifting defiantly. “I think you’re too pussy anyways.”

His gaze narrows on you, the suppressed desire in his eyes flickering like a flame. “You don’t know what I’d do,” he shoots back, his voice gravelly with restraint, “fix your fuckin’ tone.”

“You know, there was this guy,” you begin with a fond smile, but your eyes are speaking something different, “it was dangerous and stupid, but he was honest about how he was feeling.”

Joel speaks your name, stresses it, but you ignore him.

“He was my professor, actually,” You giggle softly, “and we both knew it was a terrible idea, but fuck—I just couldn’t say no and well, niether could he—he took me out, he treated me right,”

“What are you tryin’ to prove?” Joel asks suddenly.

“He didn’t fuck me, though—no one has,” you admit, “but I know what I want and who deserves me, it, and,” you scoff, “god, you can’t even look at me now,”

“That ain’t what this is,” Joel argues, staring you down with a challenge.

You scoff again, ducking your head to hide a smirk.

 “Then what is it, Joel? Was that you bein’ there for me?” You tease the thickness of his southern drawl and pout for good measure.

His silence is enough of an answer and you shake your head in amusement, finally giving up.

You move with urgency, rolling up your sleeping bag out of frustration to flee toward his truck, snatching the keys at his side before he can grab them, but in your effort to run, his hand wraps around your ankle, the lantern at his side flicking on with the use of his other hand.

“Now, hold on,” Joel demands, releasing your ankle to wrap around the string of the sleeping bag holding the fabric where it was rolled together and tugs you back inside, zipping the tent closed in the process.

“Make it good,” you argue and he growls softly, the tone gruff and demanding. 

Your heart races at the authority in his grip, the way he moves you so close there's barely any space left between your bodies. There’s a taste of fear, mixed with excitement, only our tongue.

Joel’s gaze darkens, his expression shifting as he studies you, “I’m not fuckin’ you—m’not,”

“I thought we already established that,” you reply monotone and bored, tugging back against the sleeping bag, “so, we’re done here?”

“You forget those on purpose?” Joel asks suddenly, unsure what he was referring to until his hand is guiding between your legs and beyond, to the clean pile of what used to be the clothes you were currently wearing, a distinct article left behind.

He’s got the fabric bunched in his grip, an opaque white cotton with faded blue flowers sprinkled in a distinct pattern.

“Is this how you want to play?” he asks, your gaze slowly dropping to the panties held between his fingers, presented to you like a prize, “Because I guarantee you can’t handle whatever you’re askin’ for, kiddo,”

Your lips part like you want to answer, but you can’t.

Joel seems beyond his resolve now, for the time being, at least.

He’s annoyed, irritated, mad, even.

It was a situation that desperately needed to be rectified, but instead, he gives in.

“Take your shorts off,” he leaves no room for argument, not that you would.

You nod hastily and comply as he pulls the sleeping bag from your grip briefly as you slid the nylon fabric down your hips, his eyes clearly avoidant as they focus on your face, the stuttering breath you release as you slid the fabric down your leg and off, feeling them pulled from your hands as he shoves the sleeping back back, but further, between your thighs.

“You’re all talk, sweetheart,”

He uses the endearment in a pointed manner, never demeaning until now.

“I’ll prove you wrong,” you argue back, meeting his eyes with a hunger you had no idea you could feel for another person until now.

“Use it,” Joel responds casually, “get off on it,”

It was the equivalent to a pillow, embarrassing that he was stripping you down to such a vulnerable state, arms balanced on his knees now with a look so fierce in his eyes that you had no choice but to listen, slowly rocking your hips against the rolled fabric as your hands fumbled to meet the floor in front of you, forcing you far enough forward that you’re only a handful of inches from Joel’s face.

Joel's gaze sharpens, eyes darkened with something primal that sends shivers down your spine. As you begin to rock against the sleeping bag, a wave of heat washes over you, bordering embarrassment, but there’s something lingering behind his eyes, empowering you.

“Just like that,” he murmurs, eyebrow twitching slightly, easily missed if you weren’t so close to his face, but your lips part and he can feel your shaky breath against his face, his voice wrapping around you like a serpent, “don’t even need me touchin’ you, do you? Is it that easy?”

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, struggling to maintain eye contact as the fabric rolls against you, the pressure building in delicious waves, hips canting in desperation. You let out a soft whimper, feeling the way your body responds instinctively to the friction, each movement like a shock to your core.

“I think you can do better,” Joel offers, “that right?”

You nod eagerly, bound by his words, you shift your weight more firmly against the fabric until it feels different, stronger, more enticing. Your breath hitches at the sudden friction, the pressure heavy against your clit as you drag your hips back and forth hurriedly.

Joel’s gaze seems to wander then, from your face to the shake of your breasts under your shirt, to your bare hips and down to your thighs where they hugged the fabric, the smallest peek of your bare ass as your head finally falls, moaning softly with how fucking good it feels to get yourself off in front of him, even it was equally humiliating. 

With the slightest bit of courage, your hand wanders forward in his obvious distraction.

It wasn’t hard to believe that he was enjoying this, but the physical reaction beneath the denim of his jeans is still surprising, your hand curling over the tent of denim, his cock hot and heavy underneath your palm.

His eyes snap to your face and your react immediately, half-expecting him to shove your hand away and snap himself back to reality, but he doesn’t.

“Can I see it?” you ask with a raw innocence, pure curiosity.

“This ain’t ‘bout me,” it was an excuse, but you weren’t buying it.

When you curl your fingers tighter around the bulge in his jeans—it’s a risk.

The way his breath hitches almost makes you chuckle with delight, “What’s wrong? Are you scared of me?” you tease him.

You moan again, softer, but through a laugh, head tilting to the side as your other hand presses against your thigh, angling your body so Joel can get a clear view of the way your cunt hugs the sleeping bag, slick smearing against the water-proof fabric, the feeling it creates in him is animalistic.

“Ain’t never been scared of you,” Joel admits, but the flicker of hesitation in his face tells a different story, still, he gives in. Again.

He’s leisurely about it, too.

He shifts, resting back on his palm as he makes slow work of his jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping as he watches your trading gaze, eyes fluttering shut occasionally.

When you catch the first glimpse of him, it was through his underwear, fabric straining against the thickness—it was the only part of the process Joel didn’t waste time with, pulling the fabric down far enough that he can scoop his balls up in his grip, every part of him larger than the next.

“Fuck,” you exhale, your hips stilling momentarily as you stare before resuming the frantic pace, “You’re so—”

“Big?” he finishes, with a cocky smirk that makes you roll your eyes—you’ve heard it countless times before, always feigning the truth for the benefit of the other, but with Joel, you couldn’t even lie.

You nod openly, tongue wetting your bottom lip as your eyes pull to his hand as it grips his cock.

His grip on his dick tightens, tugging at the base as you pick up the pace, your hips rocking faster against the fabric that turns slick with your arousal.

“This what you want?” Joel growls, voice much deeper than before and thick with arousal, “Can’t help but wanna be watched, huh?”

You nod again, frantically, staring between the way his dick swells and how he spreads his legs, tugging his cock firmly, eyes locked on the urgency of your movement and the devastating look on your face.

 “Fuck!” you gasp quietly, aware that you two were never quite alone, back arching as you feel the muscles in your core clench around nothing, eyes closing as your orgasm washes over, gasping at the sudden loss of friction where Joel has seemingly pulled it away, cock tucked back in his jeans but still unfastened.

“What—what was that for?” you ask, panting.

“For thinkin’ you know everything,” he replies calmly, he tosses the sleeping bag aside, the fabric unrolling with the force and you try desperately to ignore how easily he had encourage you to deface yourself in front of him, “get some damn sleep,”

You dress quietly, watching as he relaxed on his back, blindly reaching over his head to dim the light inside the tent before tossing you your blanket it had strewn across the length of the tent, ignoring the way his hands follow up to cover your thighs with soft fabric, a similar gesture he had done before in your sleep but unbeknownst to you, almost like a reflex.

“You’re too fuckin’ reckless,” He tells you eventually, the quiet having lingered, “that shit you told me, coulda got you kicked out of college, what’s it all for?”

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly, tucking your pillow up under your head as you turn to him, ignoring the lingering ache between your legs and how Joel absentmindedly palmed his cock, visible even within the darkness, the soft rustle of fabric, “he was nice—seemed it, anyways.”

“Lotta kindness don’t come without a price,” Joel tells you, “you ever end up makin’ a decision like that again, you call me first—then I can talk some damn sense into you seein’ as I’m the only fuckin’ person you’ll listen to,”

Joel huffs out a bitter laugh, quieter than his words.

“Don’t know why,” He mutters, barely above a whisper.

“I can help,” you tell him, turning his head to look at you and where your eyes lingered, watching his hand shuffle underneath the blanket and up, flattening against his chest, “seems fair since—”

“No—no, kiddo,” He shakes his head, “you don’t owe me shit,”

He was wrong, astronomically.

But, you couldn't find the energy to argue.

–

You spent the next couple days switching between sunbathing, occasional dips into the lake, and tagging along for fishing trips that are some of the least exciting ways you’ve spent your life, but you were stuck here regardless of how much you wanted to flee now.

You’ve barely spoken to Joel or your father, though Joel can’t help but look over his shoulder every thirty seconds, just to make sure you aren’t going to disappear. 

It feels like a collosal fuck-up, trying to prove yourself to Joel.

He’s never seen you as anything more than a surrogate daughter, whining about situations out of your control, and seeking approval from him in a way that could never be answered.

There had always been that underlying attraction, an innocent school yard crush—Joel was attractive, devastatingly so, but you had made the mistake of acting on a dream, a desire that should have remained just that—not…whatever your situation with him had turned into.

Your father was already several feet ahead on your nightwalk back from fishing on the dock, cooler in your grip as Joel walked ahead but stayed near, fishing poles locked in his grip.

Your silence unsettles him, knowing he had crossed a line himself, too.

Joel was never good with emotion or feeling, repressing everything for the benefit of everyone around him, but he would be lying if said he didn’t feel the same thing you had.

It was fleeting, a spark, but it was strong.

It lingered.

“We’ll pack everything up to head out earlier,” Joel says suddenly, grabbing your attention as you look up, calling out to your father, “go on ahead,”

Your father waves in response over his shoulder as he disappears into his tent and you walk straight past Joel, tossing the cooler into the dirt carelessly, annoyed that Joel had signed you up for something you didn’t really care to do when all you wanted to do was curl up in your sleeping bag and count the hours until you would be out of here.

Joel packs most of the truck and car up on his own, watching as you tuck away your own belongings in silence and eventually, he can’t handle it anymore.

He tugs you away without a word, a small noise of protest that he ignores until you’re a decent distance from the campsite, the back of your thighs hitting the empty picnic table, the area dead silent and empty and Joel’s gaze is the only thing you have to focus on.

“I don’t need another lecture,” you interrupt him before he can speak, but Joel smirks slightly, shaking his head.

Suddenly, he’s in your space, hands curling around the back of your thighs until you’re scooting back against the surface of the table, crowding in by his broad shoulders, eyes widening at his forwardness but not adverse to it.

Silently, he pulls at his belt, the metal clanging together deafeningly before his hands press down against the table on either side of you, nodding pointedly.

You can’t help but stare at the nonchalant twitch of his lips, leaning back slightly at his proximity as your heart hammers wildly against your ribs, fingers wrapped tightly around the edge of the table.

“What’s the catch?” you ask cautiously, though your tension eases with his laugh.

“It’s all you,” he explains, “you’re off-limits, kiddo,”

You pause at his words, brow furrowing.

“But, if you want it that bad, you can have it,” Joel explains.

You stare him down for a moment, attempting to read his expression, but you can’t.

“I’m not touchin’ you,” he elaborates further, “ain’t because I don’t want—I fuckin’....it’s just how it is, alright?”

You tilt your head, looking at him for a long, lingering moment before your hands drift toward his face, feeling how easy he melts into your touch, even if he tries to ignore it.

“I guess that is the only way to keep you from feeling guilty about fucking around with me,” you tell him plainly, “you can face my dad after watching me the other night, but touching me is where you draw the line? Okay,” there’s a tone of finality with it, like he was about to be checkmated.

You work open the button on his jeans, feeling his stomach flex against the brush of your knuckles, wasting little time as you unzip his jeans and quickly fit your hand under the waistband of his boxers, welcomed by the soft, velvety warmth of his cock, hardening instantly under your touch.

He exhales at your touch, using your other hand to pull his clothing down enough that it doesn’t hinder your actions, his fingers curling around the wood at either side of you until it creaks.

“Yup,” he relents, taking a shaky breath as your grip becomes firmer around him, tugging his cock at a devastatingly slow place, “fuck—you always were a quick learner,” he couldn’t help but add, followed by your soft laughter.

You stroke him from base to tip, your thumb rubbing over the bit of precum that had collected at the slit, watching the way his muscles tense in his neck, knowing there was plenty of time to admire his cock but right now, you were focused on him. 

Joel had never been one to rush things, so you took your time with him.

His eyes never leave yours, either.

It was an intimate dance, a silent battle.

He swallows hard, glancing briefly at the distant tents before he leans in closer, his breath hot against your skin but not touching. Never touching.

You can feel the pulse of his cock as he grows closer, your opposite hands rolling his balls gently under your touch, his pathetic moan disguised by a poor attempt at a grunt.

“Don’t look over there,” you tell him, “look at me,”

Joel listens, surprisingly. 

“Ain’t no way you’ve never—”

“Had sex?” you inquire, “Oh, I swear. Completely un-deflowered, I promise.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he swears, an empty threat that makes you giggle.

His lips are parted, close enough to your own that you feel the faint tickle of touch every so often, but completely of your own doing, although the rock of his hips into your tight fist are all him.

You can see the battle waging within him, his resolve waning with every glide of your hand against his cock, the heat radiating off him making you ache for him.

“Relax,” you whisper, your voice like honey as you lean in a fraction closer, teasingly brushing your lips against his. “Just let it happen.”

His eyes darken, a mix of lust and longing that only spurs you on.

You tighten your grip, stroking him slowly, relishing the way his brows knit together in pleasure while he fights to maintain control.

“Oh, you’re right there,” you tease playfully, voice soft, “you gonna come?”

Joel clears his throat and nods jerkily, “Ye—fuck, yeah.”

“Yeah,” you twist your wrist in a way that steals the air from his chest, “you gonna come for me, Joel?”

He nods, eyes set on your own, almost pleading.

You’d never seen him so vulnerable, yet there he was—caught in a moment of pure need.

When he does, it happens over a strung out “Fuuuuuuck,” that tumbles from his lips as he spills over your fist, grinning triumphantly at the way he falls apart without fear, his hips jerking forward into your hand.

Without thinking, you bring your hand to your mouth, licking around the mess he had left.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he groans, tucking his flagging erection back into his jeans with a modicum of guilt at how greedily you lick up every last drop, “ain’t a damn thing innocent about you, is there?”

“Yeah, I’m sure there is…maybe,” you answer honestly, “you know—just because I haven’t had sex doesn’t mean I’m inexperienced, jus’....means I’m waiting for the right time…right person,”

Your words linger and Joel looks away in an instant, checking out toward the tents as he fastens his jeans, watching you wipe your damn hand against your own jeans.

“Fix your face,” you warn him, smile full of amusement, “you look like you just blew your load.”

“I did,” he retorts, “jesus—you never stopped being a little shit, did ‘ya?”

No, you hadn’t. And Joel knows it.

–

No one has to convince or coerce you into Joel’s truck the following morning.

Joel huffs out a chuckle of disbelief when he finds you more than chipper and bright-eyed about the fact you were finally leaving—he had already pre-negotiated about dropping you off back at college before bringing back your father’s supplies, since you had left your car back at your dorms and Joel wasn’t willing to let you cab ride there or force you to endure the ride back with your father, he was your only option.

You really didn’t mind. Not anymore.

“Seatbelt,” he orders, snapping his fingers as you continue to stare, arm resting against the top of the seat as you hold out your hand expectantly while he pulls onto the main road, “go on.”

“Phone,” you order in the same snapping tone, “you said I should call you if I feel like makin’ anymore stupid decision,”

He’d hoped you just…wouldn’t.

Joel sighs, taking one hand off the wheel to fish into his pocket for his phone before handing it over.

There’s a picture of him with Sarah and Ellie on his lockscreen, both girls squished into frame below him, his hand on either side of their heads as if forcing them together, their laughter clear and loud through the photo.

Joel notices you looking, the memory of it making him smile.

“They miss you,” he tells you, “should come down and visit ‘em during your next break, when they’re in town—your daddy told me you don’t come down for stuff like that but…you know Tommy and I don’t mind,”

“Tommy still lives with you?”

“Loosely,” Joel offers, “he’s in and out—works for me, he helps pay for shit so I’m not complaining.”

You hum in response as you watch him blindly put in his passcode, six zeros in rapid succession. Somehow, you’re not surprised. You input your number quietly and call your phone, doing the same with your own phone before handing it back to him.

“Don’t abuse it,” Joel warns you, placing the phone between his thighs,

“Me?” you feign innocence, “Never.”

Joel taps his thumb quietly against the steering wheel, deciding carefully on his next words but unable to keep them in, feeling the boil over.

“That stuff—it doesn’t leave there,” Joel says pointedly, “whatever it was, it happened, but that—that can’t happen anymore, understood?”

Your gaze flicks down to your lap, tongue swirling over your teeth as you nod, unable to look at him as he glares over at you, awaiting a verbal response.

“I gotta hear it, kiddo,” he presses.

“Already forgotten,” you promise, though your voice is hollow, “can we listen to something?”

Joel shoves the box of cassettes into your lap, knowing that this was a tactic to switch subjects, but he didn’t have it in him to argue.

The damage between you had already been done.

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next chapter

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