yopossum

Long before familiar brown eyes glinted under the brim of a cowboy hat across the dance floor at The Stud. Long before an old spark became a bonfire, a hearth, a beacon. Long before a damp apartment became a heart’s home.

Long before a plague. Long before a glass milk bottle, always full of wildflowers, stood vigil on a windowsill over a busy sidewalk.

Long before Silva.

And yet, to Jake, it felt as if nothing had really existed before Silva did, and that the world he now occupied was built from pieces of him, rendered from his flesh and blood and bones and sweat and come and tears. Him, others like him, like Jake. Men who were strong and virile and hard and soft and sometimes even free.

But mostly, the world was made of Silva. He was the genesis, Ymir, the primal matter of all things. He was a great man.

Jake saw Silva in the soft rolling hills, the plush curves of his naked body spread across a shared bed, tawny earth brown flesh in the morning light. He saw him, too, a later Silva, in the jagged, jutting cliffs along the shore, bones of bedrock straining and angular under thin sandy skin.

He felt Silva in the sea, in the way it hung in the air here, that tang of their shared sweat salting Jake’s upper lip when they fought, danced, fucked, slept. When they cried out for more pleasure, for more help, for more time.

Silva was the redwoods, the thick brown silver waves of his hair their bark. A subtle sweetness, a woody, green earthy thing when Jake pressed his face into the nape of his neck, now perfuming the air of the grove with an impossible ache.

When the fog curled catlike into the bay, Jake felt its cool caress, welcomed the syrupy clouds that filled his head with thoughts of Silva, of his dreams, of his hopes, of his memories and fears, of how deeply he loved, and was loved.

Jake crouched down on creaking knees, ran a finger over the etched lines in the flagstone at his feet, and traced each letter as tenderly as if it was a laugh line carved at the corner of Silva’s eye, a furrow sculpted in his brow, the dimple nestled in his cheek.

He ran a rust red handkerchief across his face, the same color as that looming bridge, as the sunset settling over the park, as a lesion, as a bloodstain. He blotted at the wetness slicking his cheek, held it there before bringing it to his lips to kiss the threadbare fabric, breathing in the memories of the life of two men, who looked after one another, protected each other. Who kept each other company.

Jake stood with some effort, tied the handkerchief around his neck, and glanced around the circle of so many names before turning back to the one that was also chiseled in his being. With a nod and a soft smile, he said goodbye to the man who made the world, turned toward Stanyan Street, and resumed his nightly walk.

————————

Extras!

- Info about Ymir

- SF gay history

- Early queer culture in SF

- The Stud

- Timeline of the AIDS Crisis

- the National AIDS Memorial at Golden Gate Park

- “El Gran Varón” - Wikipedia

- Gorgeous moodboard from @perotovar to inspire me!

Retirement had done something for Javier that he didn’t think it could have - it made him content. Each day that passed, he felt the need to right the world’s wrongs start to fade a little more. It still lingered, but more of a faint itch rather than a full on need. This stage of life had also afforded Javier something that he didn’t think was possible in his lifetime - truth. He was honest for the first time with himself and now was married to you: a slightly younger man who didn’t love Javier despite his faults, but regardless of them. 

He was content… albeit a little bored, and this boredom fueled his sweet tooth and snacking habits. While he was assured that you didn’t mind the extra weight he now carried, he couldn’t help but wonder.

But with that contentment, there was an undercurrent of restlessness that would rear its head every now and then, and today was one of those days. You were at work, probably sweating your balls off in your office that Javier knew had no AC, and he was seated on the front porch of your home, drinking a lemonade, watching the traffic on the highway past the waves of various crops and livestock. 

Normally, he would stay busy through the day and relax with you in the evening, but it was just too fucking hot; even the shade felt like it could burn his skin. He just didn’t have the same tolerance for the higher temperatures that he once did, and as he thought more about it, he had to huff a laugh quietly to himself as he thought of his father, Chucho. He had worked laboriously outdoors until he passed no matter what the weather or heat and Javier just gave up on account of his age and the reminders of comfort that now sat around his heavier middle. Javier knew better than to vocalize it, but he did feel sheepish in the shadow of his father’s memory as he sat on this porch, getting old and fat, with his little plastic cup of lemonade that he had done nothing to earn that day. Javier let out a deep sigh and groaned as he got up, then headed into the house.

Your work day consisted of two things: being hot and lamenting about how hot you were to anyone who would listen. Laredo’s heat waves were no laughing matter, as you had learned, and truly felt like hell on earth when you were forced to sit in a stagnant and stale oven that was your office. Your button up dress shirt’s top button was undone and the sleeves were rolled up in your attempt to cool down your body, but it was useless. As you sat in a dazed stupor from the stuffy heat, your mind wandered to your husband, Javier, and how you’d left him in the morning. 

He’d gotten up and had breakfast with you, enjoying his bowl of Lucky Charms and a black coffee while you ate your toast. His faded DEA t-shirt pulled tight across his now portly belly, a hollow dip in the middle from his belly button, and he’d looked good enough to eat. But you were almost already running late, so you’d had to suffice with just a playful pinch of one of his newly sprouted love handles as you kissed his hair and hurried out the door.

A small, satisfied smile pulled gently across your face as you thought of him, grumpy from the heat and trying to stay grumpy as you kissed down his gut and pushed him back on the couch. You could imagine his breathing picking up as you ran your hands along his open thighs, kneeling down between them and -

“You have the file for the Olsen’s?”

Your thoughts were interrupted by Jennie, your coworker. Blinking, your brain came back from the happy little respite from the heat and you looked up at her.

“Uh… yeah.”, you huffed out, now shuffling through all the paperwork on your desk, looking for the manilla folder with ‘OLSEN’ scrawled on the top tab. 

“You looked a million miles away, I almost hated to disturb you.”, she grinned as she crossed her arms and stood with her hip cocked. 

You gave a small, huffed laugh in response, and luckily found the folder. Handing it over to her, you sighed. “Yeah, yeah, yeah… this heat does weird shit to me.”

Jennie laughed softly, a smug smile on her face, like she knew you weren’t in a daze from the sweltering temperature. “Yeah, the heat can do that.”

As soon as the day was done, you made a b-line to your used Honda Accord, and rolled down both the passenger and driver’s side windows, before sliding in on the ass-melting vinyl seats. At that moment, you needed to get home and Javier hose you down in the yard; you were too hot. 

You weren’t built for this. You were a cold winter, mild summer kind of guy, and the only reason you tolerated this fucking heat was because of your husband, who wanted to be closer to his roots and where both his parents were buried. You loved him enough to do this, and in truth, you really didn’t need to live anywhere near your conservative, midwest family, but this heat was really challenging that right now.

Your Accord’s AC was struggling to pump out anything but hot, mechanical air in your face as you drove out of town and down the dusty, dirt road that held your home at the end of it. You didn’t think, you just pressed your foot flat to the floor of your car and sped up. As you got closer to your house, you saw Javier coming out the front door and down the steps as you got closer, unintentionally speeding up, just in pure need to cool down.

You reefed the steering wheel hard and came to a heavy, hard stop in your parking spot, dust billowing around you, and you got out of the car, not even bothering to close the windows. As the dust settled, you saw Javier with his arms crossed over his stomach, his yellow aviators perched on his nose and highlighting the unimpressed scowl on his face.

“What the hell was that?”, his voice growled out. You heard the gravel beneath his feet as he stepped towards you while you hard turned with an eye roll and grabbed your briefcase.

“Baby, I am hot and I don’t want to do this right n-”

“Do what?”, Javier retorted. “You don’t wanna talk about how you came flying down the road, scaring Gonzales’ livestock - that I am going to have to hear about, thank you! - and kicking up dust for no other reason than you can’t stand the heat?”

You dropped your shoulders with your sports coat in one hand and your briefcase in the other, and groaned. “I’m sorry, alright? Can you just- please- can you just spray me with the hose or something? I’m fucking hot, Javi!”

A smirk flicked on one side of Javier’s mouth. He tried to hide it by tightening his lips, trying to look like he was in thought as he took a step towards you. You narrowed your eyes at him, sensing he was up to something.

“What?”, you asked in frazzled huff.

“What?”, he responded with an easy smile, showing his unfairly straight teeth. His tone wasn’t harsh anymore, but softer and darker, like he knew he once again had the upper hand and wanted to play with you.

You groaned out a sigh, your tone turning a bit whiney, “Javi… come on. Knock it off.”

“No no…”, Javier grinned. “I think I like this at-the-end-of-your-rope version of you…”

You grit your teeth, not wanting to play any games. The dust that had blown around you had stuck to your sweat soaked skin and clothing and you were over being hot, sticky and dirty. 

“Just get the fucking hose and cool me off!” It came out more of a barked demand rather than a needy pleading question, and you knew it before you closed your mouth.You winced as Javier’s smile dropped into a slightly warning look. 

“You sure you wanna go that route, mi amor?” Javier took another slow step towards you and you saw less of your husband and more of the cop you’d only heard stories about. You couldn’t deny that it was insanely sexy when he did this, but you were truly just over the day and needed to cool down and clean up.

“If it means I get to fucking stop being so goddamned hot and gross - yeah!?”

Your leg shifted like you were trying to suppress a tantrum-fueled stomp, and it didn’t go unnoticed by Javier. He cocked his brow and licked his lips, stepping closer, face smug behind those aviators. 

“You keep this up, mi vida, and I’m gonna have to take you in.” His eyes raked up your sweaty, damp, office attire clad body as he purred his words out. “Mouthing off to a cop? Baby, that might land you with a strip search.”

You let out a pathetic groan mixed with eye roll; all this meant was you were less likely to get any respite from your misery while Javier wanted to play the cop. “Fuck, Javi! I am in no mood!”

Javier chuckled lowly and saw just how over this you were. He wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you against him. Smiling, he spoke softly against your mouth, “Pobrecito mi trabajadorcito. Getting all riled up from a little heat…”

He pressed his mouth against yours softly, cooling your temper.

After a cold shower and a dinner that required no heating, you felt a bit better. Laid out on the couch in nothing but your boxers combined with the cold beer you were drinking was exactly what you needed. Having the oscillating fan blowing directly over you was just icing on the cake. You must have looked a sight because Javier chuckled and grinned warmly at you as he walked into the room, an unlit cigarette dangling in his mouth. He too was a vision, as he raised his lighter to his cigarette, his other hand shielding the flame. His own boxers were slung low on his hips to account for his thicker and heavier middle, the elastic waist bowing under the weight of his belly and his dinner. Your unabashed gaze washed over him and his eyes met yours. 

Javier pulled the cigarette from his mouth and exhaled a plume of smoke. “You’re ogling an officer.”

“You’re retired, Javi.”

He grunted in response, and that told you what you needed to know about his day. He’d stayed lowkey on account of the heat he was teasing you for being affected by and his mind had wandered back to when he was younger, slimmer, had more stamina… and closeted. You smiled softly and held your hand out to him. “Baby… come’ere.”

He didn’t move right away, but when he did, he pulled you up from the couch by your outstretched hand and swung you around,  holding your hands behind your lower back as he bogarted his cigarette between his lips.

“If I recall, you were getting pretty sassy over me telling you off for speeding earlier.”

His breath washed over the back of your neck, and a little smoke slipped across your shoulders then around you.  In one hand he held your wrists with no real firmness, all in fun and not really holding you back from anything. His other hand slipped around your waist, pulling you back against his body before sliding down over your half hard cock. 

“You carrying a concealed weapon?”, he grunted into your ear, and you rolled your eyes, almost losing the grip you had on your horniness.

With a tired smile you huffed out, “For fuck’s sake, Javi -”

“You got a permit for this?”, he pushed in a low voice that vibrated from his chest through yours as he cupped your cock and balls in his huge hand.  He was clearly wanting you to play along with his role playing. “Gonna have to frisk you now, you punk.”

Javier let you go and snuffed out the cigarette in an ashtray on top of the entertainment unit, then sauntered towards you. He hooked his index fingers into your boxers and tugged you towards him, then released the elastic with a snap against your skin.

You leaned in and kissed Javier, and he responded by deepening the kiss, not with urgency but more along the lines of needing you to understand that he loved you just as much as you loved him.

Parting your lips, you allowed him entrance as you snuck your hand on his shoulder down to fold above his love handle, gently massaging your thumb into his soft side.

Javier pulled back slowly, brow raised in playful scolding. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Appreciating.”, you hummed back.

“You like the extra weight, huh?”

“Claro que si, it means there’s more of my husband.”

His face was very close and his nose gently nudged your brow as he spoke in a low, husky tone. “Carrying a concealed weapon… who d’you think you are?”

You smiled and bit your lip, stifling a small laugh. You loved this man with every fibre of your being and him playing ‘tough cop’ just for you was maddeningly hot. Javier’s eyes looked into yours warmly, and he smiled. “You’re a security risk.”

You snorted a laugh. “A security risk my ass!”

“You saying I need to do a cavity search?” Javier’s brows wiggled as he gave you a mischievous grin.

“Oh god!”, you laughed as he pulled you in around your waist and you in turn had one hand on his shoulder and the other on the back of his neck. You were grinning like idiots at one another, slowly rocking in a slow dance to the sound of ‘Wheel of Fortune’ playing quietly on the tv.

This was love. This was marriage. This was domesticity.

He met you when he least expected it. After a string of names and opportunities, women had left him more and more bereft, void, and certain that he would end up alone. Certain that the mystery of love was not his to unravel, that he was cursed by destiny, deemed unworthy to find someone to share and nurture it with. 

Gemma. Grace. Marian. Susan. Violet. Amelia. They had all been good on paper. Strong matches. Suitable, with significant potential. Beautiful. Smart. Charismatic. In truth, though, wrong. Why? Because of different reasons. Flaws, incompatibilities, sometimes born on both sides, that destroyed the relationship once the initial attraction faded. No spark, trust issues, or different goals, to name a few. And others, because of him. For being too clingy. Too controlling. Too aloof. 

And then you appeared. A happenstance. Wrong on paper. A disaster in the making. But so right flesh against flesh. Perfect. Honest. Genuine. Funny. Sweet. A breath of fresh air. A light into his quietness, bringing him out of his shell. Enchanting him with your personality and curves, your uncanny ability to push his buttons and drive him wild like no one else has done before.

Falling in love with you had been, at the same time, the easiest and the most terrifying thing he had ever dared to do. It had been instinctive, a leap of faith he hadn’t questioned but eagerly welcomed, seizing the chance you offered him and finally understanding Lucy’s words. But now, after a small quip has grown into this, as you throw regrets at each other, you shatter his beliefs, fracturing them enough for him to fear their crumble, to allow doubt and dread to sink their claws into him.

The love he feels for you, the power you hold over him, scares him shitless. You could destroy him with a couple of well-placed words.

He hadn't planned for any of this to happen. His playful jest about your tardiness had been an attempt to lighten the mood, to make you chuckle and lessen the weight on your shoulders as the driver took you to his brother's house -the heaviness he had seen as soon as he had met you this afternoon. Staining your expression, distracting him from your stunning appearance, and worrying him. 

It couldn't have landed worse. It had opened Pandora's Box. Releasing the pain and frustration you were trying to swallow, the horrible day at work you had intended to conceal for the night.

You had opened the door while the implosion still echoed inside the car, leaving the closed space before he had time to grasp what was happening. Harry had followed you, unlocking his door a second later with your words reverberating in his mind. Chasing you, mimicking your steps, trying to understand what was truly wrong, and to control the situation. Provide his help, his support. But it had been for naught. You had refused him. The current of anger had been too strong to halt, feeding the argument that kept escalating between you. Awakening faults, wounds he didn't know he had caused you, with his silence and secrets, in the past five months since your relationship started. Turning your focus on him, prodding, provoking his temper till he had had enough, and he had unleashed it. Unwilling to stay quiet anymore, as you attacked him, firing back at you with your imperfections.

“Do you love me?” There are tears in your eyes, rolling down your cheeks. He can see your rage fade, disappear before him in exchange for defeat and painful resignation. Your question is no longer a yell, a reproach, but a whisper, cracked and oozing uncertainty. It's still just as loud. Powerful. It halts everything; your raised voices, his wrath, his frustration, the last thought he was ready to lash out.

“Of course I do.” He does love you. So much it aches sometimes. Harry is solemn, sure of his declaration, his vow, but it's not enough to reassure you. Mistrust and hesitation gleam in your irises, breaking him. 

“Are you ready to love me?” You ask. It's a simple request, direct, hitting him square in the chest, squeezing his heart, and leaving him out of breath. “You say you love me, that you value me, that you want a future with me. But you hide yourself behind your walls when I dare to ask for vulnerability, for what is going on inside your mind, what you’re feeling. I don’t need fancy restaurants. I don’t need luxury. I just want you. And I don’t… can’t reach you if you don’t let me. So… are you ready to love me? To let me love you back?”

You're right. He's been hiding, fearful of your reaction, of your rejection once it’s all unveiled, as it has happened before, of how it would obliterate him coming from you.

“I’m scared.” He admits, taking a step towards you, craving your touch, your warmth, needing to hold you, relieved that you allow him to be close, ready to kneel in gratitude.

Your lips curl upwards, sketching a loving smile that grows, reaching your eyes, still rimmed with tears, for the first time since he picked you up, giving him hope. 

“We can be scared together,” you offer him your hand. He takes it, with no hesitation. 

Npt (because there was interest on my WIPs and some moots who might like it) @maggiemayhemnj @berryispunk @aurorawritestoescape @baronessvonglitter @bergamote-catsandbooks @tinytinymenace

His hospital room is slowly beginning to look quite lived in. You’ve gone home a couple of times to shower and pick up a few odds and ends to make Joel’s time pass more easily. His book, a deck of cards, and the wooden Jefferson figure from your bedside table are now placed next to his hospital bed. You’ve even brought his pillow and a bigger blanket, the hospital tends to get cold at night, an issue you, Dr. V, and Steven are still trying to fix.

Ellie visits every evening and sits with Joel, regaling her patrol runs or what Sally and Jefferson are up to. 

Tommy always stops in with a bag of food, compliments of Maria. Today, Tommy walks in holding a lidded mug of tea and a folded square of off-white paper. He greets you with a nod and hands the tea to you, “For you, from Maria,” then turns to Joel and hands him the paper. “For you, from Benji.”

Joel unfolds the paper, and a kaleidoscope of colors bursts from the pages.

“He’s getting good use out of those crayons we found him last year,” Tommy says at the sight of Joel’s soft smile spreading.

You lean in closer to take a look at the art. It’s you—or a stick figure drawing of you—and Joel, holding hands under a sky complete with a smiling sun. A happy warmth spreads from your heart at the sight of the childish scrawl above the figures: Uncle Grumpy & Aunt Doc.

“He said he wanted to put you, because he knows you’re the one fixing Uncle Joel,” Tommy notes.

“You do look pretty grumpy in this picture,” you say, pointing at the frowning brow Benji bestowed on him.

Joel only grunts, but there’s a reverence in the way he props the picture onto the table by his bedside.

“S’great,” Joel says. “Tell him thank you.”

You look at that drawn picture often, when Joel dozes, and you’re catching up on patient files. There’s something about seeing yourself through Benji’s eyes—as family.

Every night, you and Joel somehow make fitting on the small, hospital bed work—his body pressed against yours, your arm draped over his chest, careful to avoid his bandage, your legs tangled with his. It’s a delicate balance to make sure you don’t push each other off. It’s much more comfortable than the chair, but all you can think of every morning as you stretch your tight back out is your big, comfortable bed at home.

The days slowly tick by, and Joel begins to be able to move around more; his wound is far less tender than it was. He’s able to stand without wincing, walk around the hospital room, and take care of his basic needs without too much pain or help.

And, on the sixth day—only three days before his birthday—Dr. V and you agree that Joel can continue his recovery from home. 

Joel refuses the wheelchair that Steven rolls in, mumbling lowly that he will absolutely not be seen by everyone else in a damned wheelchair.

“The walk is far, and you’ve barely been on your feet since,” you say.

“Absolutely not,” Joel says, folding his arms, still bruised from his fall. He looks ridiculous, sitting on the edge of the bed with a frown on his face, looking almost like a petulant child clad in his sweatpants and shirt. “I’m not gettin’ in that and letting everyone see me.”

“I can’t support your weight for that long a walk,” you challenge, mirroring his tight shoulders and folded arms. “It’s almost half a mile.”

“I’ll manage,” he growls, his fingers digging into the meat of his arms.

“If you fall now, we’re right back at the beginning,” you implore. “You have to use the chair. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“I can help,” Steven offers, his eyes not meeting yours or Joel’s. His voice is so soft, you nearly miss it. You can practically see the discomfort radiating off of him. “I can escort him… that way he doesn’t have to use the chair.”

Joel stares at Steven, and it’s not hard to guess that he’s considering what it means to let another man, especially Steven, support his weight all the way home. But he surprises you. “That works fine,” he acquiesces, but you can still see the stubbornness set in his jaw. “Anything to not have me deal with that damn chair again.”

“That sounds great, Steven, thank you,” you say, sending him a smile of gratitude.

He nods a quick, single nod before he excuses himself.

As you begin to pack Joel’s bag, you’re relieved he’s going home now. The thought of him spending his birthday in a hospital room had been weighing on you. Now, instead of the sterile, white walls of the clinic, he’ll wake up on his special day in his bed, with you and Jefferson.

—-

Dr. V does a final check on Joel’s vitals before discharge. “You’re lucky as hell, Miller,” he tells him, hanging the stethoscope around his neck. “Not many people would be walking out of here so soon after an injury like that.” Joel nods without a response. Sitting up like this for so long is uncomfortable; the bandage wrapped around his torso digs into his skin.

“You do need to take it easy for the next couple of weeks. No work, no lifting, and minimal movement until the stitches are removed. Absolutely no climbing stairs unsupervised.”

“I’ll make sure he’s doing what he needs to be doing when I’m with him,” you say.

Dr. V nods. “I’m giving you time off, too,” he tells you. “For the week, so you can watch for any infection or complications. We’ll manage without you, you deserve a break.”

“Thank you,” you respond. Joel can hear the relief in your voice. He feels a twinge of selfish happiness knowing he’s going to get you for a week straight. Now, if only it didn’t come with a wound in his side.

Standing is still a challenge, no matter how many times he’s practiced it, he has to lean heavily on his cane and try to hide the grimace of pain. Steven steps to his side, and Joel swallows his pride as he accepts his help—anything to get back to his home.

The crisp autumn air outside is a huge contrast to the antiseptic smell of the hospital. Joel breathes in the cool, fresh air, wincing as his lungs push against his injured side. It’s a slow walk home, and Joel’s thankful it’s later on in the evening, most of Jackson’s residents are comfortable inside their homes. With each jostle from the uneven ground, he leans more heavily on Steven than you.

He can’t help but feel the overwhelming relief that overtakes him when he turns the corner and sees his house, complete with his rocking chair and your chair sitting side by side on the porch.

“Careful with the steps, go slow,” you caution when you approach the porch.

Joel feels Steven’s grip tighten as each foot is lifted enough to clear the step. He feels slightly embarrassed by the need for Steven’s assistance, but at this point, he’d do anything to get back to the home he shares with you.

When he steps through the door, the corner of his mouth ticks up in a smile. It’s good to be back in the home he shares with you. 

Steven hesitates in the threshold of the living room, unsure whether to enter or leave. After a moment, he steps inside, looking around at all the signs of cozy domesticity. A pile of books and VHS tapes on top of the coffee table, your half-finished scarf project hanging out of your knitting basket, Joel’s guitar resting against the fireplace, and Jefferson’s cat tree in front of the window. All evidence of a life shared.

“You should sit on the couch,” you say, helping Joel out of his jacket. “It’ll be easier to keep pressure off the wound.”

Joel settles on the couch and sighs a breath of relief as the cushions envelop him; the trip home has exhausted him, and the wound on his side now radiates throughout his body.

Steven lingers awkwardly in the middle of the living room, his eyes still cataloging the details of your shared life—a ball of yarn Jefferson plays with on the floor, the wooden animal Joel’s almost done carving on the mantle, your sweater draped over the back of the recliner. 

Joel can almost see what Steven is thinking—your life is already so interwoven with Joel’s, and it will always be. It’s as plain as day, your home and your heart lie with Joel. Now, he almost feels bad for the guy. Someone like you just doesn’t show up every day, let alone in the apocalypse.

“Thanks for your help,” you tell Steven, adjusting the pillows behind Joel’s back. 

"Of course," he responds. "If either of you need anything, I'm always happy to help.”

"Appreciate it," Joel says, surprising himself with the sincerity he feels. Maybe Steven isn't that bad of a guy after all. In fact, he thinks Steven is a lot like him… madly in love with you.

After Steven leaves, you carefully sit beside Joel on the couch, resting against his uninjured side. He immediately wraps his arm around you, the feel of your body against his heals him more than any medicine.

“How do you feel?” you ask, looking up at him.

“Perfect,” he answers. Despite the pain and injury, he’s in his home with you. He’s lucky to have his second, or third, or fourth chance at life.

—-

Jefferson’s purring contentedly in your hand when you push open the back door to the kitchen, his tiny body vibrating against your palm. The kitten was so happy to see you; his green eyes widened, and a contented mew left his tiny mouth when you found him curled up next to Sally on Ellie’s unmade bed.

Now, as you walk through your house to the living room, it feels like a piece of normalcy slides back into place.

You pad into the living room and pause in the archway, watching Joel on the couch. The TV’s playing Spaceballs, again, there’s a peaceful smile on his lips as he sits, his feet lifted and resting on the coffee table topped with a pillow.

“Look who’s here,” you say, softly, not wanting to startle him, holding up the bundle of black and white for Joel to see. His tired face lights up, gifting you a wide, crinkling-eyed smile.

"Hey buddy," Joel says, his voice soft, only for this small creature you share. You imagine it’s the same voice he’d use on Sarah or Ellie. Only reserved for those smaller and more precious.

Jefferson seems to recognize his voice, his purrs growing louder as you walk over and place him onto Joel's lap. His tension seems to melt as soon as the kitten sits on top of him. The contrast amazes you—your broad, strong Joel with his big hands, petting this tiny kitten. Both of them depend on you in different ways, both of them making your life more meaningful than you ever thought possible.

"He missed you," you say, watching as Jefferson begins to knead Joel's thigh.

“Missed him too.”

For the first time in days, you’re allowed to fully relax. Tonight, all of your energy can be focused on your little family of three.

The stairs to the bedroom are too daunting an accomplishment for Joel tonight, so you bring down the blanket you knitted for him, cocooning yourself and him underneath it on the couch.

“Good night, Joel,” you say, exhausted, the long few days finally catching up with you.

“G’night, baby,” he says, his eyes already closed. “S’good to be home.”

—-

Joel’s days of recovery are much better in the comfort of his home, but his couple of nights sleeping while sitting up on the couch have been hell on his lower back. The recliner is worse, the arm presses against the stitches, no matter how many times he tries to readjust himself. He misses his bed.

After dinner, he watches as you pull his shirt up and check his wound. It takes him back to months ago, the memories where he was falling for you, sneaking glances when you weren’t looking. Now you peel away the old bandage. He’s freely able to watch you… And he does, relishing in the small smile you give him as you tend to him.

“You look good, no signs of anything. Still want to try the steps?” you ask. “Maybe get you a shower before I put the bandage on?”

He nods. He’d love nothing more than a hot shower, especially if you join him.

You help him stand, though he now really doesn’t need it. The steps are easier than expected, his side only twinges in pain a few times. When he reaches the top, his heart is pounding, not just from exertion, but from the sight of your wide, proud smile. He loves making you feel this way.

A hint of nostalgia hits him when he walks into his bedroom. It was only earlier this year that he stood in the same spot, his cane supporting most of his weight, still catching his breath from the exertion of conquering the steps. Back then, his leg had radiated pain across his body, his lungs felt like they were on fire, and you stood behind him, your hands hovering near his back, still ready to help support him in any way.

He remembers how proud he’d felt that day, finally able to get to the second floor on his own after months of recovery. But what he remembers the most is how much he had already fallen for you.

Back then, he had fought with himself to allow him to dream of the thought of you sleeping next to him, and imagined what it would be like to wake up with you in his arms.

Now, this bed is yours too. Your pillow next to his, the nightstand by your side covered with your things.

“Joel,” you say, interrupting his reverie. “Did you hear me?”

“Huh? No, sorry,” he says, shaking his head.

“I said, go ahead and get undressed, I’ll take care of the water.”

The vanity mirror above the sink has already begun to steam over when he steps into the bathroom. He expects to find you naked and waiting for him, but you’re still fully dressed, testing the water temperature with your hand. 

"Not joinin' me?" he asks.

You shake your head, looking over your shoulder with a sly smile. “Of course not. You’re still recovering.”

He can’t help the grumble that leaves him. It’s been days since he’s seen you naked, and the thought of having your wet body against his in the shower was the perfect motivation to get him up the steps. Though if he’s being honest, he’s not sure he could handle the sight of you naked and not be able to do anything about it.

You help him into the shower and step back, and he fights every urge to pull you in alongside him. 

“You sure?” he asks, trying not to sound too desperate.

You smirk, crossing your arms. “I’m sure.”

He gives you one last look before reluctantly shutting the curtain.

—-

Joel turns off the tap and pulls the curtain back after his shower, water droplets falling down his body, paths tracing down his chest along the contours of his scars, muscles, and the curve of his stomach. His hair is slicked back, all of his handsome face revealed to you, his dark, brown eyes focused on you, a fire behind them lit when he notices you’ve changed into your pajamas–one of his flannels that hangs oversized on your body. The way he looks at you sends a wave of heat throughout your body. This is going to be torture. 

“You changed,” he notes, voice rumbling.

“I did. It’s bedtime,” you answer, reaching for his gray towel before handing it to him.

“Thanks,” he gravels, beginning to dry himself. His focus stays on you as he runs the towel across his broad shoulders and down his chest.

You remind yourself to breathe, swallowing, trying not to let Joel see just how turned on you are right now.

He wraps the towel around his waist, the fabric hanging low on his hips. You try to hide the heavy pattern of your breathing when you step in front of the tub to help him out. He leans slightly on you, his damp skin resting against yours as he steps out. He stands in front of you, blinking water from his lashes, waiting for your next order.

“Go ahead and get on the bed, so I can wrap you.”

He nods, scooting past you as you try not to let the heat of him give away exactly how you’re feeling.

You grab the bandages and salve before moving to the bedroom, and with each step, you silently remind yourself that Joel’s still recovering, and you absolutely cannot give in to temptation. Joel’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes darken when you kneel before him, with gauze in hand, and wrap his torso.

“Y’know, you don’t have to wear all ‘a that,” Joel says.

You look down at the flannel, then back up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Yes, I do,” you answer. “I like it. Plus, it smells like you.”

He grins, a wolfish smile, all teeth and mischief. “I could really make you smell like me, if you let me.”

You snort, biting your lip to hide the temptation. “Nice try, Mr. Miller. But you’re on doctor’s orders.” You tape the gauze, then stand, leaving a kiss against his forehead. “Nothing that’ll make you… tense.”

“Mm,” he grumbles. “But, I ever tell you how pretty you look in my clothes?”

“Every time I wear something of yours,” you respond, handing him his robe. He wraps it around himself, tying it loosely before you pull back the covers and help him into bed.

When you get into bed, lying against him and resting your head on his chest, he sighs. “Thanks for saving me, again.”

You roll your eyes, turning to look up at his handsome face. “Stop trying to die on me, Miller.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m trying not to, baby,” 

“Try harder,” you say with a smile, leaning up to kiss him. Joel hums against your lips, his hand resting against your cheek, his arm tightening around you. His tongue traces your lower lip, seeking more until you force yourself to pull away.

“Calm down, Mr. Miller, and get to bed. You’ve got a birthday tomorrow.”

—-

A/N: My taglist has grown too large. Please follow @whocaresposted and turn on notifications to be alerted about new chapters!

You came to Iceland alone, not because you were running from anything, but because you finally could.

The freelance contracts were stable. The email backlog was manageable. Your rent was paid through next month. It had been a year since you last went looking for someone who wasn’t looking for you. A nice milestone if you will. 

So you booked a flight. Reykjavík, Iceland. Last-minute, no itinerary and no agenda. Just a carry-on, a reading list, and the jacket you’d meant to return twice.

The first few days were all adjustments. The light of day that never really left, the water tasted like minerals, and the quiet that slowly creeps in and rests inside you. No sirens and no upstairs neighbor dropping weights at 2am. Just you, your doc martens, your thermos, and enough space in your brain to hear yourself think again.

You hiked trails with names you couldn’t pronounce, you bathed in sulfuric water that stung your skin in the best way, you had lamb stew in a restaurant carved into the side of a hill, and when the server brought you a second slice of rye bread with butter so soft it melted before it hit your tongue, you almost cried. You didn’t. But you almost did.

You reread Giovanni’s Room in a crater. Hunger Games on a black sand beach. And Persuasion in the lobby of your hotel, sipping coffee that tastes like smoke and people watching like you’re being paid to do so.

You didn’t speak to anyone really. You wanted that.

You missed New York in the way a body misses caffeine, shaky and fond but knowing you’re better off without it, at least for a little while.

And now, it’s your last morning.

You get to the airport early. Not for the reasons most people do. You weren’t stressed at all. You just enjoy the stillness that happens between gate calls, when everyone’s pretending they’re not judging and one-upping each other. You like airport coffee, even when it’s terrible. Especially when it’s terrible.

You find a café with wide windows and a view of the grey sky swallowing the tarmac. There’s a table near the corner. Two seats. You take one and drop your bag in the other, claiming space you don’t need but don’t feel guilty about.

You order a black coffee and pull out a paperback from your coat pocket, something used and marked up, with a name that isn’t yours on the inside cover.

You’re half a page in when a man asks,

“You think this book is any good?”

You don’t look up right away. You clock the voice first: American and crisp. Manhattan maybe, old money, maybe, or the kind of boarding school vowels that only break when they’re drunk or heartbroken.

Then you glance over.

He’s tall, dark-haired and looks like he shaved two days ago but hasn’t cared since. There’s a jacket slung over one arm and a bruise-like tiredness around his eyes that doesn’t make him ugly. It just makes him real.

You nod toward his hands before you speak.

“Depends. Are you reading it or just holding it like an accessory?”

He blinks. A pause. Then the ghost of a smirk.

“Reading it.”

You glance down at the cover he’s holding, you recognize it immediately.

“Funny. I edited that one.”

His eyes lift, sharp with interest now. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” You sip your coffee. “Didn’t expect to see it outside Park Slope or a first date.”

He lets out a low laugh. “Which one do you think this is?”

You raise an eyebrow, but don’t answer yet.

You let the silence hang, sip your coffee, and let him look at you.

Not stare exactly. More like observing, as if he’s trying to pin you down and failing, and finding that a little thrilling.

“So you’re from New York?” he asks.

You glance at him over your cup. “What gave it away?”

“I can hear a little accent,” he says, smiling. “And you mentioned Park Slope. Not just anyone knows that.”

You chuckle under your breath. “True. Most tourists don’t go there.”

You pause just long enough to make him wonder if you’ll return the question. Then:

“What part are you from?”

He shifts, leans forward slightly like he’s letting you in on something personal but not too precious.

“Tribeca.”

Your eyes widen, just barely. A flicker. Most people wouldn’t notice. He does.

You school your expression, take another sip of coffee, and say,

“Hm. Then I’ll have to keep you extra close.”

He smirks. He doesn’t blink.

“I’m okay with you being really close.”

You tilt your head at him. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Maybe,” he says easily. “Is that okay?”

You don’t answer right away. You look down at your book, the one he interrupted. Your thumb slides against the pages. You pretend to read a line, but your eyes aren’t moving. Then you close it.

“Sure,” you say. “It’s okay.”

You both settle back into your seats like you’ve earned something. Not exactly comfort. But permission.

He lifts the book he was reading again and says,

“So, you do this full-time?”

“Yeah. I used to work in-house. Left a while ago. Too many men in Patagonia vests who think they’re publishing gods.” You shrug. “Now I freelance.”

“Sounds like the right move.”

You nod once. “You?”

He hesitates. You can see him weighing what to say, how to say it. There’s something performative about rich men when they don’t want to seem like rich men.

“Private equity.”

You let out a dry breath. “Ah. So you’re the one who keeps buying up independent bookstores and turning them into juice bars.”

That gets a real laugh from him. “Guilty by association, maybe.”

“What kind of stuff?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Used to be startups. Tech, mostly. Now it’s... portfolios, scaling, strategy. The kind of things people pretend to care about on LinkedIn.”

You smile. “Sexy.”

“It’s not. But I’m good at it.”

There’s no brag in his tone. Just a quiet resignation. A man who knows his lane but isn’t in love with it.

“So,” you ask, folding your hands around the cup, “what brought you here? Iceland, I mean.”

He exhales, eyes tracking the window for a second.

“I was supposed to come here with someone. Lucy. We broke up about a week before the flight.”

You nod slowly. “Oh.”

“Yeah. She booked everything. I figured, might as well go. I already paid for the room.”

You hum in understanding. “Did you stay in it alone?”

“Yeah. Her perfume lingered on some of my clothes for the first couple nights.”

That hits something in your chest soft, familiar. You don’t ask more.

He shifts again. “What about you?”

You raise your eyebrows. “I wasn’t dumped, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, I mean—what brought you out here?”

You lean back in your chair, watching steam curl off what’s left of your coffee.

“I promised myself I’d take one solo trip a year. This was the first time I actually followed through with it. No laptop, no phone calls, just me and a stack of books I’ve read already.” 

He smiles.

“And no heartbreaks?”

You smirk faintly. “I mean… not recent. Nothing fresh. But yeah. There was someone. Awhile back. He never really showed up for me. Not in the ways that matter.”

“That’s brutal.”

“Not really.” You shrug. “I learned a lot about myself.”

“Like what?”

You look at him then, hold his gaze just a second longer than you should.

“I’m not giving my time to guys who only want me when it’s convenient.”

That knocks the smirk right off his face. But not in a bad way. More like he’s been seen. It hits him somewhere behind the chest, in that place where the echo of Lucy still lives.

“Noted,” he says quietly.

The conversation drifts.

Not in that small-talk, filler way but back and forth. You both tread water comfortably.

You talk about how Reykjavík air tastes like snow and metal. He tells you he ordered something called fermented shark at a bar near the harbor and immediately regretted it.

You talk about the subway and the best place in Queens to get a late-night pastry.

“Do you miss it?” he asks, eyes flicking up as if he could see the city from here.

“Sometimes,” you say. “But I don’t want to miss it all the time. I wanted to miss myself first.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then:

“That’s a good answer.”

You glance at the clock. The boarding call is coming. You can feel it. The shift in the café’s atmosphere. People are rising and putting jackets on. The brief return of gravity.

You both stand.

“Flying coach?” he asks, not in a judgmental way. Just… cataloging.

“Always,” you say with a shrug. “I’m not that classy yet.”

“I am,” he says, smirking. “First class.”

You grin. “Figures.”

At the gate, he hesitates before walking into the priority lane.

“I could have them upgrade you,” he offers. “There’s room.”

You shake your head, a little amused, a little flattered. “Nah. Coach builds character.”

He grins, but there's something underneath it, something quieter. “At least let me send a car. I’ve got one waiting at JFK. It’d be easy.”

You meet his eyes, soften your tone just a little.

“I appreciate it. But I like the way the city feels when I come back in a taxi. Grime on the window, everything ugly and alive again. I like that moment.”

He watches you for a long breath. He doesn’t press.

Instead, you pull a card from your wallet, just a simple one. Name. Email. Phone number. A line that says freelance editor in cursive and nothing else. You hand it to him like it’s a folded note in school. Casually.

“In case you want a better book next time,” you say.

He takes it, carefully. Like it might smudge if he touches it wrong.

“I’ll read in the margins,” he says. “Swear it.”

You nod once. “Safe flight, Harry.”

“You too,” he replies, and then tucks the card into the inside pocket of his blazer—pressed flat, precise, like he’s not letting it out of his sight.

You board a few minutes later. You're in a middle seat in the back half of the plane, next to someone who keeps snoring through takeoff. But it doesn’t matter.

Because for the first time in a long time, you’re not dreading what’s waiting for you back home.

A Week Later 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

The sun is already dipping behind the skyline by the time you close your laptop. It’s been a long day. Quiet, manageable edits for a debut memoir that won’t get half the press it deserves. You liked the voice, though. Witty. Tired in the way only New Yorkers romanticize about the rot and decay around them. 

You stretch your arms above your head, spine popping as you glance out of your apartment window. A kid is biking the wrong way down the block and someone is burning incense out on their fire escape again. It smells like patchouli and sage.

You finish your tea, let your eyes drift to your phone.

Three texts from a client, one from your cousin, and a missed call from an unknown number.

Weird.

You barely finish blinking before it rings again. It's the same number.

You hesitate, thumb hovering, then swipe to answer.

“Hello?”

There’s a pause. Then a voice you absolutely recognize says:

“Hi. I- It’s Harry. Castillo. From uh well Iceland. The airport café.”

You don’t answer right away. Just smile into the silence like he can see it.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey,” he echoes, softer. “I hope this isn’t a bad time. I didn’t… I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.”

You scoff lightly. “Please. You don’t seem like the kind of guy people forget.”

He laughs, and it sounds a little boyish. 

“I’ve been meaning to call. The whole week’s been insane. I flew straight into a mess at work, deals falling through, someone quitting without notice, my inbox looks like an emergency room. But I’ve been thinking about you. I swear I have.”

You lean back in your chair, let the words settle in.

“I figured you were busy,” you say, trying not to sound too concerned about it. “You’re important. Tribeca-important.”

He groans. “God. Please don’t say that.”

You laugh. “Fine. I won’t.”

“But seriously,” he says, “I’ve been… wanting to talk to you again. In, like, a non-airport setting.”

You raise an eyebrow, voice teasing. “Are you asking me out, Harry Castillo?”

He hesitates, and you can almost hear the way he runs his hand through his hair. You picture him in a glass-walled office, tie undone, coat slung over a chair, pacing.

“Yes,” he says finally. “I mean. If that’s okay. I’d really like to see you again. Maybe somewhere that doesn’t involve security lines or boarding passes.”

You let the silence hang just long enough to make him squirm.

Then

“Okay.”

“Yeah?” He sounds almost surprised.

“Yeah. Just don’t try to send a car for me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll cab it to Queens.”

“Damn right you will.”

Two Days Later 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

The night air is warm and heavy with city sounds, muffled music from an open window, someone dragging a trash can across concrete, a group of friends laughing on the sidewalk with half-finished drinks in hand.

You’re early, but just barely. The restaurant you picked is familiar. You've come here with friends, exes, and even alone with a book. It has no Instagram presence and still uses paper menus. That’s the charm. It’s a test.

You're in a soft black slip dress that falls just below your knees, layered with a light denim jacket and scuffed up white sneakers. The kind of outfit that says, I'm effortless, even though you tried on three different jackets before settling. Hair down, your favorite small silver hoops, a touch of mascara and lip tint. You didn’t overthink it. Not really. Just enough.

He rounds the corner like he’s been here a hundred times before, though you know he hasn’t. There’s that same easy walk, confident but never cocky, and he spots you before you see him.

“Hey,” he says, smiling. “Right on time.”

He’s dressed in dark denim jeans and a charcoal grey sweater that fits just right. No watch tonight. No flash. Just a quiet show of expense. A beige coat is folded over one arm. His hair’s a little neater than it was in Iceland, but not too neat. He looks rested and sharp. But you still remember the version of him leaning back in that plastic airport chair, talking like the world had finally gone quiet for once.

“This place is great,” he says, glancing up at the worn awning and exposed brick. “Very you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t even know me.”

He smirks. “No. But I’m trying.”

You’re seated at a table near the front window, the kind of table made for long talks and longer looks. There’s no tablecloth, just a flickering plastic candle in a chipped glass holder.

The server brought you wine, he asked what you liked, and when you said white but not too sweet, he remembered.

“So,” he says after the first sip, leaning forward, “how many manuscripts have you torn to shreds since we spoke?”

You grin. “Two. But gently. I only tear with care.”

“That sounds like it should be on a t-shirt.”

“I’ll make merch.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “God, I missed this.”

You look at him. “You say that like we’ve known each other longer than the airport and a phone call.”

He shrugs. “It doesn’t take long to know when someone’s different.”

You feel the words settle under your ribs. Warm. Unrushed. He doesn’t follow it with a compliment. Doesn’t pivot to flirting right away. He just lets it sit there, honest, unornamented.

Later, between bites of pasta and bread dipped in olive oil, you ask him what his week was really like. He tells you about a last-minute investor call that nearly tanked a merger, and you try not to fall asleep. He teases you about zoning out, and you tease him right back for trying to impress you with balance sheets.

“You’re lucky you’re hot,” you say with a smirk.

“Oh?” he leans back, hand cradling his wine glass. “You think I’m hot?”

You deadpan. “I think you’re decent looking. In dim lighting.”

He grins, eyes twinkling. “I’ll take it.”

By the time you leave, your cheeks hurt from smiling. The walk back to your apartment is short, only a few blocks, and he doesn’t ask to come up. You don’t offer. Not this time.

But when you stop outside your building, he lingers.

“This was…” he says, hands in his coat pockets. “God, this was exactly what I needed.”

You smile softly. “Me too.”

He hesitates, then, “can I see you again?”

You reach for the door. “Sure,” you say over your shoulder. “I’ll pick a place with better chairs.”

He grins. “Deal.”

Before you step inside, you turn and add, “and I’m still not letting you send a car.”

“Even if I ask really nicely?”

You arch a brow. “Especially if you ask nicely.”

He watches you go like he wants to follow, but doesn’t. And that’s what makes it better.

You step out of the café where you just finished catching up with one of your longtime authors, a smart, sweet nonfiction guy who’s somehow always three years late with a manuscript. It’s warm out, not hot, and you’ve decided to walk the long way back just for the hell of it. Phone in hand, sunglasses on. You’re halfway through typing a text when your phone starts ringing.

Unknown Number.

Except you know who it is by now. You really need to put his name in your phone. 

You answer with a smirk already in your voice. “You again.”

“Guilty,” Harry says. His voice is all low charm, like a secret he’s letting you in on. “I’m on lunch. Want to join me?”

You snort. “I’m a little far from Tribeca, and I walked, so—”

“Where are you?” he asks, cutting you off gently.

You tell him. There's a pause on the other end.

“Okay… don’t get mad at me, but I sent a car.”

You stop walking.

“…You didn’t.”

“I did.”

You’re about to launch into a scolding monologue when a sleek black vehicle rolls to a stop in front of you. Windows tinted. Polished to perfection.

You press a hand to your face and burst out laughing. “You are insufferable.”

“Get in the car,” he says, grinning audibly. “You can reprimand me over oysters.”

The place he’s picked is one of those restaurants. Small, tucked behind a street of gallery spaces, with a menu that changes every week and never bothers to explain itself. The table’s already set when you arrive. He stands to greet you, jacket off, sleeves rolled up just enough to show a watch that probably costs more than your rent.

“You look very summery,” he says, holding your chair out.

You sit. “You look like you paid someone to make you look like you’re not a billionaire..”

He grins. “I did. Her name is my assistant.”

The restaurant is cool and quiet inside, with sunlight spilling across the marble bar. The server brings you fresh bread, olive oil with shaved fennel, and menus printed on textured paper.

You let Harry order, he insists, so you end up sharing:

Burrata with charred peaches, basil oil, and crushed pistachios Hand-cut pasta in a lemony brown butter sauce with crispy sage A chilled rosé that tastes like it was bottled by gods with good taste in music

You’re halfway through your second bite when he says:

“Okay. Important question. Childhood crush.”

You blink. “That’s your big lunch question?”

“It reveals a lot about someone.”

You pause, then say, “Captain America.”

He stares. “The super hero?”

You nod. “When I was younger it was the crappy cartoon version. This new guy though, Chris Evans? I love his accent and the presence he gives as Captain America. It’s called taste.”

He laughs, nearly choking. “Okay. Wow. I was not prepared for that.”

You raise a brow. “Yours better be good.”

“Liv Tyler. Armageddon. I was convinced she was waiting for me, specifically.”

You tilt your head. “That’s very classy of you.”

“I was an emotionally repressed child with a lot of money and no real outlet.”

He says it lightly, but you don’t miss the faint weight under his voice.

You lean back in your chair, taking a sip of wine. “So what were your parents like?”

“Oh,” he says, “we’re going there.”

“Briefly,” you say, “and only because I told you about my super serum kink.”

He laughs again, a warm one, and then shrugs.

"My mom’s a powerhouse, super passionate about social issues, but always with reasons behind it. My dad was more business-minded. Tougher. We haven’t talked since my brother’s wedding. Things were complicated between us, but I think, in the end, we kind of understood each other."

You nod, letting the moment rest.

“What about you?” he asks.

“My parents are still in New York now in Long Island,” you say. “Still together. They always hoped I’d go corporate. Something stable. I said ‘no thanks’ and started making barely enough to live off books.”

“And now you make slightly more than barely enough?”

You smile. “Something like that.”

By the end of the meal, your plates are cleared, you’re still smiling, and Harry is sitting just a little closer than he was when you started. Not touching. Not pushing. Just near. Warm. Present.

“Thank you,” you say as you stand.

“For the car?”

“For lunch and the laughs..”

“Anytime,” he says, eyes not leaving yours. “But next time, I’m picking you up on foot. Like a man of the people.”

You’ve just turned off the lamp.

The apartment is quiet. You can hear someone’s music faintly through the wall, and a car alarm hiccuping somewhere blocks away before slowly stopping. You’re in bed, finally. Bare-faced, sleep shirt on, book half-open next to you. Your phone is face down on the nightstand.

You don’t expect it to ring.

But it does, just as you’re sliding deeper into sleep. A soft vibration, and a light across your cheek.

Harry Castillo.

You blink at the name; it's still strange to see it there, tucked between texts from spam and a random DoorDash update. 

You hesitate, then answer.

“Hello?”

His voice is low, rough around the edges.

“Hey. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

You roll onto your side, tucking the blanket under your chin. “Not really. I was pretending to sleep but mostly just realizing how cold my feet are right now.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. You can hear a drawer opening. Something soft shuffling.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Mmm. Financial guilt?”

“God. That’s terrifyingly accurate.”

You smile into the dark. “So what happened?”

"Work went off the rails after lunch, endless calls, two people threatening to quit, and I somehow offended a potential partner by describing his margins as ‘borderline invisible.’”

You snort. “That does sound like you.”

“Thanks.”

There’s a pause while he moves again—maybe into another room. His voice shifts slightly as if he’s brushing his teeth or pulling off a shirt.

“I didn’t want to be alone in my head tonight. That okay?”

You close your eyes. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

You hear the sound of a faucet. A clink of glass on marble.

“What are you doing?” you ask softly.

“Night routine. Trying to forget about my job. You?”

You glance around the room.

“Lying here. Wearing a shirt that says ‘I love books more than people.’ Left sock halfway off.”

“Hot.”

You grin. “I tried.”

“I wish I could see you.”

You freeze for half a second and recover quickly. 

“I look like a raccoon that's reading Murakami.”

“I think that’s exactly my type.”

You talk.

Not about anything important, not really. Just… things.

Favorite words. “I like ‘luminous,’” you say. “I like ‘ruin,’” he replies. You talk about what you’d re-name each dog breed, about how weird it is to feel exhausted and overstimulated at the same time and about how sometimes the city feels like it’s chewing on you, but in a good way.

He tells you he’s in bed now. That he’s staring up at the ceiling. That there’s a crack in the plaster shaped like an ampersand (&). 

“Maybe it’s a sign,” he says.

“Of what?”

“I don’t know. Something to come or that I should become a book editor too.”

An hour passes.

Then another.

Your voice gets lower. You laugh less but not because he’s not funny. Just because you’re sinking into something heavier. Softer.

There’s a pause where neither of you speak. You think he’s fallen asleep, but then he murmurs,

“This feels intimate.”

You swallow. “Yeah.”

“I don’t mean that in a bad way. Just… It’s been awhile.”

You exhale slowly. “Same.”

You roll onto your back, phone resting against your ear. Staring at your own ceiling. No cracks shaped like ampersands, just a water stain and the faint shadow of an old dream.

“Feels dangerously domestic,” you murmur.

He huffs a soft laugh. “God forbid.”

“I mean, we’ve passed ‘what’s your favorite pasta shape.’”

“I’ll try not to get too earnest, then.”

“Too late.”

He’s quiet. Then, “you’re not hanging up, though.”

“Neither are you.”

Eventually, your voices start trailing off. He gets quieter. You feel the words before they form:

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

“Don’t forget me by morning.”

You don’t answer. Just smile into the dark and let the silence stretch between you like a thread that won’t break.

The late-night phone call is still swimming around in your head when you wake up.

You slept better than you expected, despite your brain playing his voice on repeat like a lullaby.

You have an interview this morning. One of your more polished authors. Midlist, legacy type. He wears cufflinks and uses the word “zeitgeist” unironically.

So, in a rare move, you reach for your version of a professional editor outfit, something you haven’t done in years.

Chestnut colored low-waisted trousers that fit like they were made for you. Crisp cream blouse, just slightly undone at the collar. A slim leather belt. A dark red lip that says I will criticize your work out loud, and you’ll enjoy it. Hair pinned back in a clean low bun, a few soft pieces left out. Kitten heels and your favorite silver hoops.

You look like the version of yourself that used to walk into publishing houses and command rooms full of men who thought they were smarter than you.

You haven’t worked in an office in years, but this version still lives somewhere in you. And today? She came to play.

As you’re passing through your building’s small, scuffed lobby, coffee in hand, tote bag over your shoulder. Then the building manager flags you down.

“Hey, uh… someone left this for you.”

He gestures to a sleek black envelope with your name printed in elegant script, leaning against a tall white box on the mail desk.

You frown, glancing at it. You’re not expecting anything. Not from a client. Not from anyone.

You open the box.

Inside: flowers.

But not just any flowers. Something rare. Something lush, strange, and stunning. Delicate cream and rust-colored juliet garden roses, pale orchids folded like paper secrets, and spidery accents of chocolate cosmos the kind that smell faintly like vanilla and firewood.

You blink.

You've never seen a bouquet like this.

Tucked between the stems is a small card, handwritten in blocky, careful print.

You reminded me of summer yesterday. So I thought I would bring summer to you. – H

You’re still staring when your phone buzzes in your pocket.

Harry Castillo calling.

You answer. “Okay, you’re actually a menace.”

“So you got them.”

His voice is warm, smug, but just a little uncertain beneath it. Like he’s waiting to see if he went too far.

“You didn’t think they were too much?”

You glance back at the bouquet, still cradled in your arms.

“Harry, I didn’t even know flowers like this existed.”

“That’s why I picked them. They reminded me of you. Unusual,  gorgeous and slightly intimidating in the best way.”

You snort, flustered and weirdly breathless. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

“That’s not the goal. I just… wanted you to know last night meant something.”

Your fingers tighten on the phone.

“Me too.”

You're halfway out the door again when you stop, pivot on your heel, and mutter, “Shit.”

“Everything okay?” Harry’s voice comes through your phone, still tucked between your ear and shoulder.

“The flowers,” you say, rushing back inside.

You head straight for the kitchen, set your bag down, and rummage through the cabinet above the fridge. Your “vase” selection consists of a chipped pitcher, a pasta jar, and something you once used to make sangria. You choose the pitcher, it’s wide enough, and besides, the cream glaze makes the florals pop.

You set the bouquet down gently on the island, like you’re afraid it’ll bruise.

“Are you arranging them?” he asks, his voice low and amused. You can picture him: still in bed, hair a little messy, coffee half-drunk on his nightstand.

“Of course I’m arranging them. These are insane. I should charge for admission.”

“Send me a picture.”

You pluck a dead leaf from a petal and sigh. “You really know how to mess with someone’s head, you know that?”

“Just yours. And only in the nicest way.”

You don’t say anything to that. Just bite your lip and step back, checking the vase’s angle from across the kitchen. It’s perfect. They’re perfect. It’s all too much, and yet… not enough.

“I have to go,” you say eventually. “Client time.”

“Kill it.”

“I always do.”

“I’ll call you later?”

You hesitate just a second before saying, “Yeah. I’d like that.”

You hang up, grab your bag, and try not to look back at the flowers. You fail.

You're still somehow early.

Either your client is late, or you’ve inherited your father’s compulsive punctuality. You’re sitting in the second-floor lounge of a midtown publishing house, a place that smells like over-air-conditioned paper and expensive hand soap. A wall of glass gives you a view of the city. Cranes in the distance, clouds bruising the sky, and the taxis below like yellow fish in a steel aquarium.

You’ve got your phone out, pretending to scroll through notes.

But really?

You’re thinking about Harry.

You’re thinking about the sound of his voice last night, the slight rasp like he was stretched too thin but letting himself unravel just for you. You’re thinking about the way he said “they reminded me of you” and how you didn’t flinch at it, how you wanted to believe it.

“Ms. Elliot?”

You look up.

Your client is here. Finally.

The interview starts slow, he talks a lot. He’s proud of his book. You nod, you smile, you ask the right questions. You’re good at this. Still, some part of your brain keeps echoing Harry’s laugh, the flowers on your counter, the heat in your face when he said I wish I could see you.

But you redirect. You’re a pro.

You circle back to theme, structure, tone.

“Do you think your work is more political or personal?”

“Both,” the author says, “but I’d argue that good writing always is.”

That gets a real smile from you. The kind you’d usually savor.

But even now, even now, you wish you could tell Harry about that line. You wish he could see you in this moment, sharp and engaged and glowing with capability.

You finish the interview on schedule, exchange a handshake and a thank-you, and step out onto the street again, wind in your hair, sun hitting your skin like a reward.

Your phone buzzes.

Harry Castillo:

Tell me how it went. And tell me what you’re doing tonight.

You type back slowly, thumbs and cheeks suddenly warm.

You:

Went well. Crushed it. And tonight… why? Are you planning something?

Three dots. Then:

Harry Castillo:

Maybe. You ever had mediocre ramen on your rooftop?

Your heart kicks once.

And suddenly, the rest of your day has a direction.

You wait a beat before replying to Harry’s text.

You don’t want to look eager, even though you’ve already mentally rearranged your whole evening at the idea of him. You reread his message and smirk.

Then you type back:

You:

I’ve got ramen in the back of my pantry and a rooftop of my own. But I’m warning you, it’s Queens, not Kyoto.

He replies a minute later.

Harry Castillo:

I’ll risk it. What time?

You glance at the sun dragging its way toward the horizon.

you:

Seven. Bring your own chopsticks.

He shows up right on time.

Not that you were waiting at the window or anything.

You buzz him in and open your apartment door barefoot, your hair is still in a messy knot. The air smells like toasted sesame and garlic, and you cheated and added an egg along with a handful of scallions to the instant ramen to make it look slightly more presentable.

“Hey,” Harry says when you open the door. “Wow. You really went all out.”

He’s in loose black jeans and a slate-colored henley, sleeves pushed up. He doesn’t look like he works for Wall-Street tonight and more like the boy-next-door who happens to have a portfolio. His hair’s a little damp like he showered before coming over, and you hate that you notice. You really hate it.

You step aside, letting him in. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

He glances around your apartment, books stacked in messy piles, a print of a Matisse sketch by the record player, a candle that smells like amber, old paper and vanilla.

“Feels very you.” He lifts a brow. “It’s warm and a little intimidating.”

You grin. “Again, just like me.”

You move toward the kitchen to grab the bowls, one slightly chipped, one a gift from an ex fling you barely remember and gesture with your elbow.

“Rooftop’s this way. Don’t get lost.”

He follows without question. You lead him out your front door, up the narrow stairwell that always smells like warm brick and weed. You push open the old metal door with your elbow and your hip, and just like that, you’re above the city.

It’s not glamorous. The rooftop has a warped picnic table, a few plastic chairs stolen from someone’s backyard, and an ancient milk crate you use as a step stool when the neighbors don’t return theirs. But the view?

The view makes up for everything.

Queens spread wide below you, glittering and unpretentious. In the distance, the Manhattan skyline cuts sharp against the violet sky, scattered windows still glowing like someone left the light on just for you.

Harry exhales behind you.

“God. This is…” he trails off.

You set the bowls down on the blanket you laid out earlier and glance over your shoulder. “Still willing to risk it?”

“Absolutely.”

He sits beside you, knees bent, arms draped over them in a way that makes him look accidentally posed. You pass him a bowl, then settle cross-legged beside him, your foot barely brushing his.

You both eat for a few minutes in a comfortable quiet. It’s easy. It’s not nothing.

He slurps a noodle and winces. “Okay, that’s criminally good. What did you do?”

You shrug. “Doctoring ramen is a sacred art. I could teach you, but I’d have to ask for your soul.”

“Your soul already owns most of mine, so... What’s one more piece?”

You snort. “You’re really laying it on tonight.”

“Only ‘cause I mean it,” he says while shrugging.

You side-eye him, spoon pausing near your mouth. “You always seem to mean it. That’s what makes you dangerous.”

He grins, but doesn’t argue.

The wind picks up just a little, and you hug your knees for warmth. A second later, without comment, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders like it’s nothing.

You let it happen. Don’t say a word.

“So,” he says after a beat. “Still not a date?”

You smirk. “No.”

“Right. Got it.”

A pause.

“If it was, though, I’d be blowing it. I didn’t even bring wine.”

You lean back on your hands, glancing sideways. “You showed up, you’re eating my ramen, and you sent me flowers. That’s enough.”

“And you’re wearing my jacket.”

You look down at it like you just noticed.

“I guess I am.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s just thick. Heavy with everything you’re not saying. Your arms brush. His knee shifts a little closer.

You clear your throat. “So. When’s your next big deal or billion-dollar merger or whatever?”

He chuckles. “I actually pushed everything back for the rest of the night. This is it.”

You blink. “This?”

“You.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t say anything. You just sit there with the city stretched out around you, a bowl of ramen cooling in your lap, and Harry beside you, warm, still, and impossibly present.

You shift slightly, feeling the weight of his words settle in the air between you. The city noises below, the distant hum of cars, the occasional bark of a dog, fade into the background, like they belong to another world. Up here, it’s just the two of you.

You meet his eyes, searching for a sign. Instead, he offers a small, almost shy smile. It’s the kind of smile that says, I’m trying, but I don’t want to rush this.

You fold your arms loosely around your knees, pretending to study the skyline but secretly memorizing the curve of his jaw, the way his brown eyes catch the last light.

“You’re full of surprises, Harry Castillo,” you say, voice low.

He leans back on his hands, gaze drifting over the rooftops. “I could say the same about you.”

A comfortable silence stretches. Neither of you wants to break it, but neither wants to disappear either.

“I like this,” he finally says. “No pretenses. No pressure.”

You nod, your heart beating a little faster than it should. “Yeah. Me too.”

He glances at his watch. “I should probably get going soon. I have an early day tomorrow.”

You rise, brushing crumbs from your jeans. “Me too.”

He stands as well, hesitating for a moment as if weighing something unspoken.

“Can I walk you down?” he asks quietly.

You hesitate. It feels like the right thing to do, even if you’re not sure why.

“Sure,” you say.

The metal stairs creak under your steps as you descend together, closer now than before. In the hallway, he stops just outside your door, fingers lightly touching the frame.

“Tonight was… nice,” he says, voice soft.

You smile, heart fluttering. “It really was.”

He looks at you for a long moment, then adds, “I’m glad I came.”

“Me too,” you whisper.

He finally steps back, the distance between you settling like a promise.

“Goodnight,” he says.

“Night, Harry.”

You close the door, leaning against it with a smile that lingers long after he’s gone.

You wake up slowly, blinking into the late morning light that slips past the curtains. There’s a moment, maybe two, where the dream still lingers.

It was him.

Of course it was.

Not a sexy dream, not exactly. Just one of those oddly tender ones. His hand brushing your lower back in a crowd. His laugh echoing in your apartment like it belonged there. You two reading in silence, feet tangled, breathing in sync. Comfortable. Easy.

You turn onto your side, eyes half-lidded, trying to hold onto it.

It’s been a long time since a man’s made it into your dreams without breaking something first.

Harry was dreaming too. Only he’s not really sleeping anymore, just lying still in bed, sheets tangled around his waist, laptop abandoned on the far corner. He’s staring at the ceiling and thinking about you.

Not the rooftop or the ramen, specifically, but the way you looked at him. The way you didn’t push or pull. Just let him be.

He’s thinking about how different that is from what he had with Lucy.

Lucy had been... fine. Beautiful. Sharp. But every conversation felt like a contract, every touch like a negotiation. He used to think that was normal.

But then there was you, barefoot, sarcastic, eating cheap noodles on a Queens rooftop, and suddenly, everything felt different.

He exhales hard, runs a hand through his hair, and reaches for his phone before he can stop himself.

Your phone buzzes.

Harry 💼:

Question.

Do you like beautiful old bookstores that smell like ink and with secrets?

You sit up, already grinning.

You:

I’m not a monster. Why?

Harry 💼:

Because there’s one in SoHo I used to walk past and think, “one day I’ll have a reason to go in there.”

And I think you might be my reason.

You stare at the message, heart thudding in your chest.

This man.

You type back:

You:

Okay. I’m intrigued. Time?

Harry 💼:

1 p.m. I’ll meet you there. Casual as hell, I promise.

The bookstore is tucked between two designer boutiques, a tall narrow building with sun-bleached windows and a brass bell that jingles when the door opens.

You get there early. Not on purpose, just… eager, despite yourself. You keep it casual, black t-shirt tucked into jeans, boots, your tote slung over your shoulder. You wander through the first floor while you wait. It smells like old paper, cedar, something faintly floral.

You’re halfway through flipping through a dog-eared collection of letters between two 20th-century poets when you hear the bell above the door.

You don’t even need to turn.

“I was hoping you’d beat me here,” he says behind you.

You look over your shoulder. He’s in dark jeans, a white tee under a navy jacket, sunglasses pushed back into his hair. Effortless. But it’s the way he looks at you, like he’s been thinking about this all morning, that sends something skittering beneath your ribs.

You smirk. “You remembered this place just for me?”

“Technically, I remembered it for myself. But it only became important once you existed in my life.”

You raise a brow. “Careful. You’re gonna make me blush in public.”

“That’s the goal.”

You spend the next hour wandering.

You pull a collection of translated poetry off the shelf. He skims the back cover of a book on finance and laughs. You sit together on a creaky leather couch on the mezzanine, flipping through coffee table books and making snide commentary about overly abstract art.

But something in the air has shifted.

It’s quieter now. Closer.

You catch him watching you a few times, when you tuck your hair behind your ear, when you underline a line of prose with your finger, and when you laugh with your whole mouth open.

He doesn’t hide the way he looks at you.

And you don’t hide the way it shakes you.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says, a book open in his lap, eyes still on you.

You glance over. “That sounds like a compliment and a threat.”

“It’s just the truth. You make everything feel a little different now. Better.”

You look away quickly. Pulse thumping in your ears. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I might start believing you.”

“Good. You should.”

You close your book, suddenly unable to focus. “Lets check out.”

At the register, you both buy something. He picks a first edition he insists on getting for you despite your protest and when he hands the clerk his card, you catch him glancing sideways at you. Like he wants to say something. Like he’s trying to hold it in.

Outside the bookstore, sunlight spills over the sidewalk in soft white-gold. The street buzzes faintly with city noise, horns, bike bells, someone on a Bluetooth call arguing in Italian.

You both linger near the corner, the edge of something unspoken tightening around your ankles like ribbon.

“You hungry?” he asks, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, leaning a little closer.

You nod. “Starving.”

“Let me call a car. There’s a spot I’ve been meaning to try. It’s close.”

You open your mouth, already halfway to saying no, I’ll walk—but then you pause. He’s looking at you like he’s not just suggesting lunch. Like he’s asking you to let him care for you in his quiet, expensive way.

And for once, you let him.

“Okay,” you say. “But just this once.”

“Deal.”

The car is sleek, dark, and unreasonably quiet inside. He opens the door for you without saying anything, just a glance that makes your pulse jump. You slide in, legs crossed, arms folded loosely across your stomach like you’re trying not to look like you care.

A few minutes into the ride, his phone buzzes.

“Shit,” he mutters, glancing at the screen. “Do you mind?”

You shake your head. “Go ahead.”

He taps to accept. “Yeah, this is Harry.”

And then he’s off, voice low and measured, all clipped sentences and layered confidence. You sit beside him, pretending to look out the window.

But you’re not really listening to the call.

You’re watching him.

The way his jaw flexes ever so slightly when he listens. The little lines that appear at the corners of his mouth when something doesn’t go the way he wants. The way he gestures with two fingers, like he’s conducting the air. The way he leans forward when he says something decisive.

You shouldn’t find this hot.

You definitely do.

And when he says “I’ll review the deck by seven, but loop me in on the legal first” like he’s wrapping a bow around someone else’s fire drill, you feel it low in your stomach. That quiet ache of watching a man who’s not just smart but capable.

He ends the call with a quick “I’ve gotta go,” drops his phone in his lap, and glances over.

“Sorry. Work.”

You raise an eyebrow, carefully neutral. “That was... extremely corporate of you.”

“Don’t lie, you were into it.”

You snort. “I plead the fifth.”

He takes you to a small corner place with wide windows and zero branding. One of those ungoogleable restaurants that only exists by word of mouth. Inside, the vibe is stripped-down: pale wood tables, worn-in leather seats, white wine chilling in ceramic buckets, and a chalkboard menu that changes weekly.

It’s nothing like ramen on a rooftop late at night.

It’s quieter. Slower. Cozier.

The hostess knows Harry by name. “It’s been a while,” she says with a wink.

“Trying to change that,” he replies, glancing at you.

You’re seated in a back corner by the window. The table’s small. You could stretch your foot out and touch his ankle. You don’t. But you think about it.

“They do this roasted fish with pickled something-or-other,” he says, handing you the menu. “It sounds weird. It isn’t.”

You scan it. “I trust you. Mostly.”

“I’ll take that.”

You both order. He gets the fish. You get something with farro and beets and citrus vinaigrette. He orders two glasses of wine before you can stop him.

“Wine? At lunch?” you ask, lifting a brow.

“What else are you supposed to do on a fake date in the middle of a workday?”

You grin. “So it’s a date now?”

“I didn’t say a real date.”

“Right. Casual. Just two friends getting tipsy on a Tuesday.”

“Exactly. Two friends who almost held hands in a bookstore.”

You kick him under the table.

He kicks you back, gentler.

The wine comes. The food follows. And somewhere between laughing over a bite of his fish and him dabbing a drip of vinaigrette off the corner of your lip with his thumb like it means nothing, you realize you’re in trouble.

You like him. Too much.

And he’s looking at you like maybe, just maybe, he does too.

The table is quieter now.

Your plates have been cleared, wine glasses half-full, the sun shifting low through the window and casting shadows across the tabletop. Outside, the city keeps moving, horns, heels, soft static from a passing bus, but here it’s all muted.

You swirl the stem of your glass between your fingers, lazily.

Harry’s been quiet for a minute. Not uncomfortable. Just... hesitant.

He leans forward, elbows on the edge of the table, eyes steady on yours.

“So—” he starts, and then pauses.

You look up. “So?”

His voice drops. A little rough. 

“There’s a gala Friday night. Work-adjacent. Black tie, too many speeches, probably bad shrimp.”

You nod, amused. “Sounds exciting.”

“Every year my assistant sets me up with some woman I’ve never met to make me look... normal. Taken.”

“You really love living the fantasy, huh?”

“I declined this year.”

You tilt your head. “Oh?”

“Because I was hoping you’d come with me instead.”

You blink. It’s not that you didn’t think this could happen, it’s that hearing him say it like that, so plainly, knocks something loose inside your chest.

He watches you carefully and quietly, like he’s trying not to chase your answer out of your mouth.

“You don’t have to say yes,” he adds. “You really don’t. It’s just... I’d rather go with you than sit next to someone who calls Tribeca ‘Truh-beekah’ all night.”

You press your lips together, the corner of your mouth twitching. “That’s fair.”

“So?” he says, trying to sound casual, but you can tell, you can tell, he’s not.

You lean back in your chair, eyes scanning him like you’re solving a riddle. Because part of you wants to say yes right now. And the other part, the smaller and sharper part wants to savor it. To make him wait just a little.

You lift your wine, take a sip, set it down gently.

“You’ll send a car?” you ask.

“Of course.”

“And you’ll make sure the shrimp’s not actually bad?”

“I’ll pull strings.”

You tap your finger on the rim of your glass once. Twice.

“Okay,” you say finally. Soft. But solid.

“I’ll go with you.”

His shoulders relax like you just gave him oxygen.

“Yeah?” he says, his smile tugging. “Really?”

You nod. “But I swear to God, if I end up next to someone talking about NFTs or their yacht for three hours, I’m leaving with a waiter.”

“Deal,” he laughs. “But only if I get visitation rights.”

You laugh too. It’s easy again. Warm.

Then, after a pause, he adds, more cautious now, but still hopeful:

“One more thing.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Here we go.”

“I want to send you something. A dress.”

You blink. “Harry…”

“No pressure to wear it,” he says quickly. “But I saw one and thought of you. I already have it saved. My assistant owes me a favor. It’s nothing dramatic. Just something elegant and sharp.”

“You’re describing a Bond girl.”

“No,” he says, his gaze soft. “I’m describing you.”

Your stomach flips.

You reach for your wine again, just to do something with your hands. “You know I can dress myself, right?”

“Of course you can. But I also know how it feels to want to look a certain way when you walk into a room like that. And I want you to have exactly that feeling.”

You go quiet. You weren’t expecting that answer. You weren’t expecting how much it would hit.

“Okay,” you say again, quieter this time. “But only if it’s actually my size. And nothing overly sparkly.”

“Promise. No sparkles. Just something you’ll look delicious in.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling so wide it hurts.

Two Days Later 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

2:14 p.m.

You’re half-editing a paragraph and half-re-reading the same sentence for the third time when your phone buzzes.

Harry 💼:

Hey

Don’t yell at me

I need your measurements

You blink. Pause. Then type back.

You:

…for what exactly?

Harry 💼:

The dress

I told you I wanted to send you one

I mean unless you want me to guess. But then I can’t be held responsible for the fit

You roll your eyes, already smirking.

You:

So what are we talking ballpark sizing? Height? Waist? How scandalous is this thing?

Harry 💼:

Depends Do you consider “strapless” scandalous?

Your mouth drops open. You swallow a smile.

You:

Oh we’re playing like that ? Strapless, huh?

Harry 💼:

I figured if I’m going to show up with the most captivating woman in the room, she shouldn’t have to tug on sleeves

Or think about shoulder seams. Just her confidence

You stare at that one a little too long.

You:

You talk like that to all your dates?

Harry 💼:

I don’t have dates Not lately Just you

Your heart makes a very unprofessional move in your chest.

You:

You realize you’re making it very hard for me to concentrate on work right now

Harry 💼:

Good. Send me your numbers

Let me do the rest

You hesitate for all of one second before sending him your measurements. And once you do, he doesn’t respond right away.

Two minutes later:

Harry 💼:

Perfect

Thank you

I’ll have it sent directly to you. No peeking until tomorrow.

You:

You’re not the boss of me

Harry 💼:

Not yet.

You nearly drop your phone.

The Next Morning 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

You don’t expect to see him. You’re halfway to your mailbox, wearing yesterday’s t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts when the door buzzes.

“Package for you,” says the manager behind the desk. “Real fancy.”

You raise an eyebrow just as the glass doors slide open.

Harry Castillo steps through them holding a black garment bag.

You stop walking.

He smiles like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Good morning,” he says. “I had something to drop off.”

“Most billionaires use couriers,” you reply, crossing your arms, trying not to grin. “Is this what they call a personal touch?”

“Something like that.” He eyes your outfit with amusement. “Should I have brought coffee too?”

“I would’ve liked a croissant.”

“Noted.”

He steps closer, handing the garment bag over like it’s a sacred artifact.

“No pressure to wear it,” he says, lowering his voice. “But as I said,I saw it, and I thought of you.”

From the desk, the manager clears his throat loudly, but with restraint.

You glance sideways at him, then back at Harry. “You always this charming?”

Asking as if you don’t already know the answer. 

“Only in Queens.”

You try not to blush. You fail.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he adds, voice dropping half an octave as his eyes flick over your face.

You nod. “Yeah. You will.”

He’s gone two seconds later, out the door like he didn’t just drop a bomb and walk away.

Later 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

You unzip the garment bag slowly, like it might whisper if you move too fast.

Inside is the dress.

A vintage charcoal grey gown, smooth and liquid in your hands. It’s strapless, with a refined, statuesque shape that skims the length of your body. The fabric catches the light in a quiet, expensive way. Nothing too flashy.

There’s embroidery stitched delicately along the bodice and fine silver-threaded detail that curves like vines framing your collarbones. Elegant. Minimal. Dangerous.

You slip it on with care.

No tugging, no adjusting. It fits perfectly. The way it hugs your waist, the slight flare of the hem, the way the bodice presses close without suffocating it feels like it was made for you. Like he really looked.

You twist to check your reflection in the mirror.

You don’t look like the woman who edits manuscripts on her couch in a hoodie and glasses. You look like the woman who walks into a room and makes people turn. The kind of woman who deserves to be watched.

You pin your hair into a soft, low updo, leaving a few pieces loose at the nape of your neck. Subtle makeup, your favorite brick-red lipstick, a little liner, highlighter so faint it only shows when you turn your head.

Then the finishing touch: your baby blue heels.

They shouldn’t work with the dress. But somehow, they do.

They spark against the grey. A wink of color. 

You glance at the clock. 6:57.

And then—your buzzer goes off.

You check your appearance one last time in the mirror by the door, fingers smoothing the fabric at your hips. The heels are just high enough. The updo stays pinned. You breathe in once, twice, and grab your clutch.

Then you head downstairs.

The moment you step into the lobby, the room hushes. The manager behind the desk nearly drops his clipboard. The elevator chimes shut behind you. But you don’t see any of them.

Because at the far end of the lobby, waiting by the glass doors in a crisp, black tux and a perfectly tied bow tie, is Harry.

He turns when he hears your heels click against the tile.

And for a full, suspended moment, he forgets how to breathe.

His eyes sweep over you from head to toe, slowly, reverent, and utterly still.

“Holy shit,” he breathes.

Your smile curves, shy and wicked all at once. “Nice tux.”

“I don’t— Jesus.” He closes the space between you, eyes still wide. “You look... devastatingly beautiful.”

Your hand is already in his before you even realize you reached for him.

“Ready?” he asks, like his voice just came back online.

You nod, fingers tightening slightly around his. “Let’s go.”

The car is sleek and low-lit as usual, the partition already raised for privacy. You sit beside him, knees angled together, clutch held tight in your lap.

But your other hand?

Still tangled with his.

You don’t speak much. Don’t need to.

His thumb traces your knuckle slowly, and you feel it everywhere. The soft city blur outside the window fades beneath the weight of his attention.

“The gala’s at The Frick,” he murmurs, gazing at your profile. “They rent it out once a year for this foundation thing. Mostly donors, trustees, people who pretend to read art journals.”

You smirk. “Sounds awful.”

“It will be. But you’ll be there soooo—”

You roll your eyes, but your chest feels too tight, too warm

The car glides to a stop outside the stately mansion-turned-museum on the Upper East Side. Lights wash the limestone facade in a golden glow. A crowd is gathered beneath the archway, camera flashes starting up like clockwork.

You grip your clutch tighter as the door opens.

But then he’s there offering his hand, not just to help you out, but to anchor you.

You take it.

The moment your heels touch the cobblestone, voices ripple.

“Who is that?” “She’s stunning—look at that dress.” “Is that Harry Castillo’s date?” “God, the two of them—”

You don’t hear all of it. But you hear enough.

Still, your eyes only find one pair.

Harry’s.

And the way he looks at you?

Like he likes the attention. Because they see you the way he already does.

part two —>

Joel helps you with the dishes before he kisses the top of your head goodbye. “I’ll be back, gonna go invite everyone.” 

While he’s gone, you open the windows, put a cassette tape that you borrowed from Ellie in the stereo, and begin cleaning the house. Something is grounding about it, caring for the space you share with Joel, a lived-in home, complete with a stack of books on the coffee table, your knitting basket near the sofa, and Joel’s half-finished carvings on the end table.

Jefferson hinders your progress more than he helps as you dust the shelves, straighten the cushions on the couch, and sweep the floors. He chases the feather duster and broom across whatever surface they touch, and you’re constantly trying to move around his tiny body. 

You never used to stay anywhere long enough or care enough about it to really clean it. Now, you take pride in your permanence—the slight dip in the cushion of Joel’s armchair, the coffee stains on the kitchen table, and your jacket hung next to Joel’s on the coat rack near the front door.

Jefferson meows when you pick up the feather duster again, you kneel, running the plume of feathers across the floor in front of him. His bright green eyes go wide, little white socked paws reaching out to try to catch it.

This is your life now. Pancakes for breakfast, cleaning house, playing with a kitten, falling asleep, and waking up next to the love of your life—joy in a way you never thought possible before.

Later, you’ll open your door to the people you and Joel care for the most, feeding them and letting the house fill with joy and love.

—-

It’s midmorning by the time Joel heads out to invite your guests. He figures since it’s Sunday, there’s a good chance everybody will be home. He takes the quick walk down the driveway to Ellie’s garage, where he knocks a few times. Dina answers.

“Oh,” he says, surprised at the sight of her comfortable in one of Ellie’s old, faded shirts. “Ellie up?”

Dina rolls her eyes affectionately. “She’s still dead to the world. What’s up?”

“We wanted to invite you and her to our place for dinner tonight.”

Dina folds her arms with a wide smile on her face. “Well, we accept.”

He nods with a smile, “Bring Sally too,” he adds.

“We will.”

“And, let Ellie sleep in, she deserves it.”

“I will.”

Next stop is Maria and Tommy’s. Joel likes these walks; his limp is getting easier, thanks to his healing and the use of his cane. He notices a change in how he views Jackson now. Now it’s no longer a place just to keep himself and Ellie safe, but a place to build a future with you. He imagines your hand in his for the rest of his life here. He knows it, he’s felt it for so long, maybe ever since your air breathed life back into his lungs, you were meant to be with him forever.

When he reaches the gate for Tommy and Maria’s home, he smiles at the sight of a tricycle tipped over on the grass and a couple of worn action figures half-dug under dirt. Joel steps up on the porch and knocks three purposeful taps against the door.

Maria answers in weekend mode, a bonnet over her hair, a loose shirt over sweatpants, and an easy smile. “What a surprise,” she says, stepping aside to let him in. “Everything alright?”

“Just wanted to see if y’all want to come by for dinner tonight.”

Benji bursts out of the living room at the sound of Joel’s voice. “Uncle Grumpy!” he says, running over to him, attaching himself to Joel’s leg. “Where’s Doc?”

Joel smiles at Benji’s infatuation with you. “She’s back home, bud,” he answers with a smile.

“But you’ll see her tonight, we’re going over to Uncle Joel’s for dinner,” Maria responds with a smile.

Benji’s smile grows wider at the news. 

“You’ll get to meet our kitten, too,” Joel says.

“How’s that going with the cat?” Tommy asks, coming down the stairs with a nod of hello to his older brother.

“Better than I thought,” Joel answers.

Tommy smiles a response, standing next to Maria. “So dinner, huh?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Joel answers. “She already has it all planned.”

“Well, we’ll bring dessert, I have so many strawberries,” Maria says.

“Sounds good, I’ll see you around six,” Joel says with a tussle of Benji’s hair before he leaves.

Joel can hear the music before he reaches the porch, and he smiles. He remembers a time when he never smiled, not even on a good day, but what really was a good day? Now he’s smiling because he can, because he feels like he’s living a life that fits him. 

The sound of your sweet voice floats outside the wide-open windows. He can see you sitting on the floor of the living room with Jefferson, singing along to the Nirvana tape. He stops and allows himself to watch you on your knees, holding the feather duster, coaxing Jefferson across the hardwood.

Your head’s nodding up and down to the beat of the song, repeating the lyrics.

“I’m on a plain, I can’t complain. I’m on a plain, I can’t complain.”

The song changes, and a slow, rhythmic bass beat begins. He’s still watching you through the window. You scoop Jefferson into your hands and bring him up to your face, singing along to the song. 

“Something in the way, yeah. Mmm-mmm.”

When he walks inside, Jefferson’s the first to turn his attention towards him. You follow the cat’s gaze, looking up at Joel, gifting him a smile that he can’t help but match.

“Hey,” you say, putting Jefferson down and standing.

“Looks like you two are havin’ fun,” he says, walking forward to wrap his arms around you and kiss your cheek. “We’ll have company tonight, Maria said she’ll bring dessert.”

“Oh, good,” you say, nuzzling against his chest in the sweet way you always do. He sways with you slightly to the rest of the song, you softly hum along to it, and he’s sure he’s dreaming about all of this soft domesticity. 

You chuckle when the next song starts, and it’s a clatter of screaming and instruments. “Don’t think this one works too well for romance,” you say. 

“Always been a little too loud and screamy for me, but Ellie loves it.”

“Well, it’s perfect to finish cleaning to,” you say, pulling away and turning toward the kitchen, your brain clearly running through dinner plans. “I should get the chicken marinade started.”

“I’ll finish the cleanin’,” he offers. 

There was a time when he wouldn’t have cared about dust or mess. Survival didn’t leave room for it. Now, he wants to make this house feel safe and warm, for you and Jefferson, and everyone who matters.

Tonight, this house will be full. Tommy, his brother, who once survived alongside him. Maria, who’s now like a sister. Little Benji, who reminds him so much of his Sarah. Ellie, who changed everything. Dina, who makes Ellie happy in ways Joel never thought he’d see. And you. His miracle. The doctor who saved his life and his heart.

—-

The plates you’ve set out on the dining room table don’t match; some are ceramic with chipped edges, others are plastic and faded, and the silverware is also a hodgepodge—ornate silver next to sleek, stainless steel, but you smile at the sight of a fully dressed table.

“Looks perfect,” Joel says as he brings out the basket of biscuits from the kitchen.

“Thanks,” you say, unable to hide your smile. You’re excited for tonight, a real dinner party with real friends who feel like family.

You light the candles of different burnt heights, right as the familiar rasp of Tommy’s knocks land against the door.

“Smells like heaven in here,” Tommy says, walking in with a cake in his hands. Maria’s right behind him, holding Benji’s hand. Benji instantly smiles when he sees Joel, but his smile grows even wider when he spots you. He runs right into your arms when you kneel down to his height.

“Hey, guy!” you say, wrapping your arms around him. 

“Auntie Doc! I missed you!”

You freeze in place at the name. Auntie. An almost verification of how much you mean to somebody else outside of this home. 

“I missed you, too,” you reply, a little misty-eyed, before you hug him tight.

“I’ve brought a little something,” Maria says, reaching into her tote bag, pulling out a bottle of wine. “A nice, 2025 reserve,” she says with a wink as she hands it to Joel.

“Appreciate it,” he says, admiring the bottle.

Your eyes light up at the sight. You haven’t had wine in years. 

You take Benji’s hand and lead him over the cat tree.

“This,” you say, picking up Jefferson from his perch at the top, “is Jefferson.”

Benji’s eyes go wide as he reaches towards the kitten and pets its fur.

“Hiii, Jefferson,” Benji says excitedly.

You kneel beside Benji, his hands are eager but gentle. There’s something in his reverence that makes you think of Sarah, and you wonder if she also had that careful gentleness that you see in Joel, too. You glance up when you feel the hush in the room—three sets of eyes on you.

Maria and Tommy stand near the door, watching you and Benji with knowing smiles, while Joel stands beside them, his face more serious, but in a deep way that you recognize as a look only reserved for you.

You relish the joy of Benji with Jefferson, a smile beaming across his little face as the kitten sniffs and investigates him.  

When Ellie arrives, she doesn’t even knock; she just barges in, Sally in her arms, Dina following her with a glass jar brimming with wildflowers. Sally escapes her hold, galloping over to Jefferson and Benji.

You rise, leaving Benji in his kitten joy, and take the flowers from Dina with a “thank you” and place them on the table. 

Joel excuses himself to grab a couple of glasses for wine, and you follow him into the kitchen. As soon as you turn the corner, away from the view of your guests, Joel pushes you up against the wall, his hands already reaching up your dress, mouth hot against your neck.

“You know what this dress does t’me,” he growls in between kisses.

You had a feeling Joel would appreciate you wearing the same light blue dress you got from Wendy for Dina’s birthday party. You chuckle, weakly trying to push him away. “Joel, we have company and dinner’s ready.”

"They can wait," he growls, before kissing you, pressing you firmly against the wall. 

It takes everything you have to push him off, smoothing your dress.

“Later,” you promise. “Now, take the veggies to the table.”

He sighs, picking up the serving bowl and gives you a quick kiss on the cheek before returning to the dining room.

When you walk out of the kitchen, carrying the large, ceramic platter holding your perfectly roasted chicken, Joel still watches you in a way that makes you think he’s still thinking about later. Everyone oohs and ahhs when you place it in the center of the table.

Joel sits at the head of the table, his hair combed back, showcasing his handsome face.. When he picks up the carving knife, he looks like he’s straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

Everyone piles food onto their plates, compliments being sent your way from your happy guests. Tommy says you’ve baked the best damn biscuits ever. Maria asks you for the recipe for the vinaigrette you use on the corn and tomato salad. Benji asks for seconds of your roasted potatoes. This truly feels like home, and like the family you’ve dreamed of having.

You don’t know if your heart has ever been so full before. You look across the table, Joel’s brown eyes watching you with a contented smile, you smile back, lifting your glass of wine in a silent toast to him. You’re so thankful for him and the family he’s brought you.

—-

Joel leans against the doorframe between the dining room and living room, watching you sit cross-legged on the floor with Benji settled in your lap as he cradles Jefferson carefully. You're talking with Maria, as you tell a story that makes her throw her head back in laughter. The sight of you with his family makes his heart ache. This is what happiness feels like, he thinks. This is what he never thought he'd have.

Jefferson escapes Benji's gentle grip, scampering a few feet away before settling to groom himself. Benji giggles, still happy in your lap, his small body leaning trustingly against yours; he’s smitten with you, and Joel isn’t surprised.

Maria laughs again at something you say. Joel can't remember the last time he saw her so relaxed. Of course, you’d help her forget about the heavy weight of Jackson’s responsibilities for a night, you soothe everyone. Tommy sits on the couch, his arm around Maria’s shoulder, talking to Dina, who’s sitting cross-legged on the floor with Sally sleeping on her lap.

You whisper something to Benji, and he giggles as you tickle him. Everyone loves you. It's as simple and as profound as that.

You look over across the room at him, and you smile; it makes his heart stutter in his chest. Benji says something that makes you laugh. The sound of your joy should fill him with happiness, and it does, but there's something else beneath the surface. A cold, familiar fear that wraps around his heart.

What if he loses you?

The thought comes unwelcome, but once it takes root, it spreads like a virus. He tries to blink it away, to focus on anything else but the fear—you, Benji, Jefferson, his family gathered in his home—but his vision begins to blur and the noises of the small get-together begin to fade and turn into high-pitched ringing in his ears.

Joel has lost too much. Sarah, Tess, and nearly Ellie. The universe has taught him repeatedly that happiness is only temporary, that love is vulnerable, that everything can be taken in an instant.

What if raiders attack while you're outside the walls? What if another group of infected appears on one of your plant-gathering expeditions? What if you get sick, and nobody can save you? 

What if, what if, what if...

He tenses and untenses his hands at his sides, trying to ground himself, trying to pull himself back from the spiral. His breathing comes quicker, shallower. He knows this feeling. He hates this feeling.

"Hey man, you okay?" Ellie's voice breaks through the fog, pulling him back to the present. She stands beside him, looking at him with concern.

"Y-yeah. I am," he says as steadily as he can.

"Alright, you don't look it.”

"No, I am," he tries to reassure her, forcing his breathing to slow.

Ellie's gaze follows Joel's when he looks back at you.

"I really like her," Ellie says, nodding in your direction. "You're lucky to have her."

"I am," he nods.

"She's lucky to have you, too.”

Joel looks over at her, surprised. A small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth, seeing it again, so rare and precious to him now… that it helps take away his fear.

"Even if you can kinda be an asshole," she whispers as she walks away and joins Dina.

He joins you, settling in his recliner, and you scoot across the floor a bit, so you can rest against his leg. Benji still sits in your lap. He looks around his living room, noting how alive it now feels. You’ve brought everyone here into the home he shares with you. He doesn’t think his heart has ever been happier, if only his brain would allow him this feeling without the fear. 

—-

You’re definitely not used to two glasses of wine; you feel pleasantly fuzzy around the edges.

Your company leaves, well past everyone’s usual bedtime, after hours of conversations and laughter. You wave one last goodbye to Tommy, who carries a sleeping Benji in his arms with Maria next to him. Ellie and Dina left with Sally a few minutes earlier. Now it’s just you and Joel, on the porch, in the quiet night. All of Jackson should be asleep by now.

“That was really nice,” you say.

Joel hums in agreement as he settles into his rocking chair.

"They really loved the chicken," Joel says. “Did you see Tommy ate four biscuits?”

“I did,” you chuckle as you sit in your trusty kitchen chair next to him. “Remind me to make him some just because.”

Joel reaches for the small glass of whiskey he brought outside with him. Your mouth begins to water as you watch him lift it to his lips and take a drink. When he licks the remnants of whiskey from his lips, you nearly moan at the sight, wanting to taste the burn of alcohol that remains against his tongue.

All night, you’ve sensed his eyes on you, his desire for you heating you from within. Now, you want nothing more than to press your lips to his and let him drink you down like the whiskey in his glass.

The tipsy haze you’re under makes you bold enough to stand and move to the far end of the porch, where it’s dark, the light not reaching.

"C'mere," you say, your words a bit slurred, as you stand in the shadows.

Joel sets his glass down and rises with a soft grunt, moving to you, his broad body standing behind you. You reach back, grabbing his hands and guiding them around your waist, pulling until your back meets his chest.

"Mm," you breathe, leaning your head back. "You're always so warm 'n hot."

“Baby, how much did you drink tonight?"

"Mm, enough," you answer, swaying slightly in his arms. "Enough to feel good and light but also enough to want to still be fucked by you."

Joel tenses before he exhales a heavy sigh. "Baby, you drank a lot tonight."

"I know, and I'm having fun," you respond, pressing your ass against his crotch. "But I'm definitely not inebriated enough to want your cock inside me."

He groans. "Well, you did just use inebriated, so you can’t be that bad."

You laugh, the sound turning into a moan as you begin to grind your ass against him, feeling his cock hardening against the curve of you.

"Go on, Mr. Miller," you say, angling your head against his chest to look up at him. "Stick your hands up my dress and feel how wet she is."

He grunts, his large hand slides up your thigh, and when he reaches the apex of it, he moves your panties to the side, his fingers finding the slick heat of you.

A long, low groan escapes him when he feels how ready you are. "Baby, you're drunk," he grits out, and yet his fingers still explore your wetness.

"Then get me a cup of coffee, and I'll drink it while you fuck me. She's needy for you, Mr. Miller," you whine, your hand pressing his firmer against you. “Feel how fucking wet she is, how fucking bad she wants your cock inside her?"

His finger sears against you with more force, sliding inside you as his other arm tightens around your waist, holding you steady as your knees threaten to buckle. Behind you, his hips begin to buck, grinding his hardness against your ass.

"I want you to fuck me, Mr. Miller.”

"Fuck," he grunts, suddenly withdrawing his hand. "Get inside right now," he commands.

You obey, throwing the front door open and stumbling through the doorway. Joel stalks right behind you, his hands find your waist, and spins you to face him as soon as you're inside. He kisses you, and you taste the whiskey and desire on his tongue as you lick into his mouth.

He walks you backward until your back hits the wall next to the bookshelf, his hands already bunching up the fabric of your dress as you reach down to unbuckle his belt, greedily unzipping his fly before you wrap your hand around his cock with a satisfied hum.

Joel breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours. "Turn around," he orders, the growl of his voice causing a shiver through your body.

You obey, turning to face the wall, bracing your hands against it. Joel pulls your hips back, pushing your dress up, before he tugs your panties down. You gasp when you feel him press his cock against your wet pussy, collecting your slick across himself with a groan. 

“Been thinking about this all fucking night, baby,” he grits as he sheathes himself inside your eager pussy, your walls accepting his thick cock. 

The shelf next to you begins to rattle, a couple of books and wood carvings falling to the floor when Joel begins to fuck into you.

"This what you wanted?" he growls against your ear, hands gripping your hips hard. "This what you been thinkin' about all night in that pretty dress?"

"Yes," you gasp. "Yes, god, yes."

He grunts, pistoning into you with a steady force, each thrust shoving you up against the wall, your palms splayed to brace yourself. You feel owned by Joel, a scream leaving your throat when he pulls all the way out and slams back into you.

Joel’s hand finds your mouth, muffling the sounds that escape from you as he molds himself to you. “Gonna have to be quiet, baby,” he says through gritted teeth. “Don’t want all of Jackson knowin' I’m fuckin’ my woman against the walls, do we?”

You nearly sob at the sound of him calling you his woman, as he fucks you harder and deeper, his hips snapping into you. You love being owned by him, the way his big, broad body makes you feel delicate and small, even as you take his cock to the hilt, so greedy for everything he’ll give you.

He fucks your orgasm out of you, fast and hot, your knees going slack, his big hands now clamped on your shoulders as he owns you. You cum so hard, your hands slip on the wall, and you almost lose your footing.

When you clench around him, that undoes him; he pulls out, jerking himself with a fist as he spills across the curve of your ass and the back of your dress, panting your name over and over. 

You both stand there, catching your breath for a second, before Joel drags his thumb through the mess on your dress.

“Fuck, I guess I do really love that dress, don’t I?” he asks.

You turn, grabbing his wrist, bringing his thumb to your mouth, and licking it clean.

“Christ, baby,” he growls. “How’d I get so damn lucky?”

You place a kiss on the pad of his thumb before leaning up to kiss him. “Mm, I could ask the same thing,” you say.

He pulls you close, a low rumble of a chuckle vibrating against you. “Let’s get you naked and get to bed. We’ll clean up tomorrow.”

—-

Joel wakes before dawn and tries not to disturb you. He never used to allow himself to stay in bed, not even in the old life, too much to do, too much to worry about. But now, he tries to linger as long as he can, letting himself hold you close and study your beautiful face, the way you sleep so soft and trusting beside him.

He tries to remember how he was able to survive before you, how he would live out his days without getting lost in the longing for more than what he had. He’s not sure he can remember. You’ve made him into someone new and more vulnerable. He still doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.

You shift against him, making a small, happy noise that vibrates against his chest. He smiles at the sound.

There were years inside this bedroom, waking up and ignoring the empty side of the bed, once reserved for someone he realized he loved far too late to let her know. The regret sits inside him still, because of you. Because you showed him again what love is, letting it grow inside him, making him see it’s always been there.

He lies awake for a long time, the sky outside turning gray, then pink. The fear inside him rises and crests, along with the rising sun. He knows that since love is there, he could lose it so easily and so quickly. He can’t help but think about the possibility of it all falling apart. 

He never wanted to be weak, never wanted to depend so deeply on another person again, but here you are, sleeping in his arms. He wishes he could erase every ‘what if’ from existence by holding you even tighter. But it doesn’t work, his breathing starts to increase, his body heating as his heart begins to pound against his chest. He burrows closer to you, folding his body into yours, nestling his face against your neck, breathing you in, trying to match his breathing to the soft pattern of yours.

When he’s finally calm, he allows himself to hold you, tracing soft patterns against your smooth skin before he unwraps his arms around you and gets out of bed. He’s thankful you don’t stir through it all, even when he clears his throat as quietly as he can and picks up Jefferson, who’s lying nestled against your leg. You still sleep peacefully, oblivious to him leaving a kiss on your cheek before he puts on a pair of sweatpants and heads to the living room.

There’s quite a display downstairs, books are scattered across the floor, empty glasses cover the coffee table, and there’s a stack of dishes to be washed in the kitchen.

He starts with the books, kneeling down with a grunt and putting away the random paperbacks and hardcovers. He then carries the empty glasses to the kitchen, Jefferson following close behind him, ready for his breakfast.

He heats a pan as he fills the sink with water, splitting his time between cooking eggs and washing dishes. He figures if he stays busy, he can’t focus too hard on the voice of fear in the back of his head.

He brews some coffee, getting a little sad when he picks up the canister and feels how light it is, but he knows you both need a good cup of coffee today, especially after his lack of sleep, and all the fun you had last night.

Joel sets the last clean dish in the drying rack, then arranges breakfast on the tray—two egg sandwiches, a small bowl of oatmeal, and a sliver of leftover cake. He grabs the mug of coffee and breakfast, carefully balancing everything as he makes his way upstairs, much slower without his cane.

He settles on the edge of the bed with the tray in his lap before he leans over and nudges you gently, pressing a kiss against your forehead.

“Mornin’ sweetheart,” he whispers against your temple.

You gently wake, your hand shielding your eyes from the sunlight with a groan. “Morning,” you mumble, your voice scratchy.

"Brought you breakfast."

You groan again, pushing yourself up to sit up, slightly wincing. "My head," you sigh. “It hurts.”

"This should help," he says, handing you the mug of coffee.

You accept with a tired smile."You're too good to me," you say.

He hmphs a happy sound as he moves to sit beside you and hands you one of the egg sandwiches. When you take a bite, a small moan of appreciation escapes your lips. He loves providing for you, seeing you enjoy something he's made with his own hands.

"How bad is the hangover?" he asks, taking a bite of his own sandwich.

"Not as bad as I feared," you admit. "Just a headache. The coffee and eggs should help."

He insists you drink most of the coffee, watching you slowly wake up. 

After breakfast is done, he cuddles close to you, letting the lazy morning stretch. He only has one more day left of vacation, and he’s going to savor every second of it, and you, it helps quiet the fear inside him.

—-

“I love that you cooked for fifteen people when we only had seven,” Joel says, filling his plate full of leftovers.

“Hey! I’ve seen you house half a chicken in one sitting,” you respond, filling half your plate with potatoes. “Plus, I love potatoes.”

You both carry your heaping plates to the sofa, and Joel presses play on the remote.

Yellow text crawls on the screen over a loud, orchestral introduction.

EPISODE VI RETURN OF THE JEDI

“Saved the best for last,” you say, balancing your plate on your knees, and savoring each bite of leftovers.

Once your plates are empty, you cuddle up next to Joel, his arm wrapping around your shoulder and pulling you closer.

Your final night of vacation is here. Tomorrow, you return to the clinic, Joel to his construction work, and back to your life in Jackson. The past few days have been a perfect bubble of domesticity, welcoming Jefferson and relishing in each other.

"I still can't believe Dr. V gave us a TV," you say.

"I know. I can hardly believe it,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. “Nobody’s ever liked me enough to give me a TV.” 

You chuckle, cocooning yourself in the warmth of him. “I like you enough to share my TV with you.” 

You get lost in the galactic adventures, and as Luke Skywalker enters Jabba’s Palace on the screen, Joel speaks up.

“Sarah used to cover her eyes during the rancor scene,” he recalls. 

You smile at the casual mention of his daughter. You angle your head to look up at him. The light from the screen, catching the silvering streaks in his hair, the lines around his eyes that have softened since you’ve known him. He looks content, peaceful in a way that still surprises you sometimes.

“I don’t blame her, they’re terrifying. I’m sure you did a good job of protecting her.”

He glances down at you before he wraps his arm around you tighter. “I did.”  

Jefferson leaps onto the couch and settles in Joel’s lap as you reach over and scratch behind the kitten’s ears.

“I’m worried about him being alone all day tomorrow,” you say.

“He’ll be fine,” Joel assures. “Cats are independent. He’s got food, water, and plenty to explore.

You nod, trying to push away the almost-maternal worry that’s already formed for Jefferson.

“Plus, I already asked Ellie to pop in and check on him,” Joel says with a smile.

“Thank you,” you say, a bit of your anxiety lifting thanks to Joel.

“Of course, baby,” he says.

Though you’re sad your vacation is coming to an end, you’re almost looking forward to your return to a normal life, routines, and responsibilities, because there’s a comfort in that too… in the knowledge that this is your life now. That even when vacation ends, you’re still coming home to Joel and Jefferson each night. Your own little family in the apocalypse.

—-

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Joel knows this because he does too, and when he slides his own tray onto the table and sits down across from you, he knows you know that your peace faces no danger from him.  Even this understanding that’s led the two of you to share many a meal in comfortable joint solitude remains unspoken; Joel never questions it, his is simply to guard the gentle calm you’ve cultivated for him and you – his deep-set glower enough to discourage those that might consider disturbing it, you.  Your own personal dinnertime Cerberus.

You like to collect things. 

All kinds of things.  You’re like a little dragon with your hoard of trinkets and tchotchkes, but you’re terribly generous with all of it.  Whenever Ellie is assigned some random school project, she heads straight to your house and always leaves with the exact right supplies to craft whatever’s in that imaginative brain of hers.  Whenever there’s some type of community event, trading fair, you show up without fail, bringing more than your expected share of contributions - always giving away more than what you take home in return.  Joel knows you take no offense when he teases you about this; you just give him an adorable shrug and say you have too much stuff at your house anyways.

You do, but that’s not really it; Joel knows you derive joy from other people’s joy.  He likes that.

You’re generous with your praise too.

Those same school projects of Ellie’s, once completed, are shown to you first before anyone else, even before her teachers and certainly before Joel.  You ooo and ahh over all the correct details and reward Ellie’s hard work with the perfect mix of compliments and encouragement - sending his daughter to school with her confidence built high and an extra spring in her step.

When Joel thanks you for the support and kindness you show Ellie, he knows that the sweet look of bemusement you give him is genuine, as if you couldn’t imagine treating her any other way.  He knows you couldn’t.  You’re always seeing the potential in others - willing to patiently nurture the goodness in others with your own.  Is that what you’re doing with him?  Joel would like to think so.

It's that same ability to see past someone’s or something’s grit to the shine beneath that makes you the best damn scavenger in Jackson.  On every supply run, you’re like a bloodhound, sniffing out more supplies than what your team had originally set out to bring back.  “There’s value in anything if you take the time to look, Joel,” you say to him whenever your team returns to town laden down with more than can be comfortably carried.  Joel scoffs, but he’s proud of you.

He finds himself inexplicably relieved when you return from these expeditions, glad to know you’re safe back inside Jackson’s walls; he worries terribly when you’re not.  So much so that he volunteers to go on every supply run you’re assigned to.

At first, Joel wonders if he should keep his distance on these outings, knowing how much you value your space; but your grin, as you tip an armful of things you’ve squirrelled into his waiting hands, lets him know he’s safe.  He packs away everything you bring him, calling you ‘Little Scavenger’ with an affectionate, lopsided grin he knows you don’t see; you reward his self satisfied cleverness with the sincerest of responses: thanking him, nodding how glad you are that he’s here and that you always feel safer on these runs when he comes.  Joel tells you that it’s nothing.  “It’s not nothing,” you say with a smile that could melt the sun, “comfort and security in today’s world?  That’s everything.” 

There you go with that praise again.

Joel also knows you’re not all easy smiles and sunshine, that your sweet demeanour and tranquil air is worked for, earned.  You experienced your own loss and suffering before finding and fighting your way to Jackson, and Joel knows the strength and pureness of heart it takes for you to live each day with the gentleness you do.  He knows because you told yourself him one night at the Tipsy Bison when there was some birthday or anniversary celebration; he had seen you sitting by yourself as usual, but could tell there was more to it that night than your usual preference for solitude.  A melancholy to your expression and tightness in the normally pleasant line of your lovely mouth drew him over, quietly and with no expectations.  You shared with him so openly, raw and brave, that Joel found himself telling you about Sarah; not everything, but enough for you to rest your hand over his and leave it there for the remainder of the evening.  Joel felt the understanding and connection in your touch right down to his bones.

You find each other now on nights like these: joyous, bright occasions for others that cannot help but remind the two of you of what neither of you needs to speak aloud.  Joel never leaves your side on these nights, knowing somehow you find comfort in just having him nearby.  He does too.  So, he stays. 

Sometimes, even after he’s walked you home, he’ll know your mood just by the way you touch his cheek goodnight, from the brush of your delicate fingers over the sharpness of his jaw.  If he knows you need it, he’ll stay even after you’ve gone in.  Some nights he simply just sits on your porch, soaking in the sounds of this miraculous, sleepy town, grateful for every breath of crisp Wyoming air; on others, he fetches his guitar and plays soft, soulful tunes, willing the lullaby notes to float up into your open window.  Joel stays until he knows you’re okay for him to leave.  You never have to tell him when that is, he just knows. 

Yep, Joel Miller knows everything about you.

He also knows that you’re too smart to get involved with a man like him: worn, gruff, closed off.

Joel knows someone in Jackson will eventually catch your eye, and as well that when they do, it will be none of his business.  He also knows it’s not going to be tonight and certainly not with this loudmouthed newcomer who’s been hovering over you all night as you try to eat your dinner in peace.  A jolt of something Joel Miller does not recognize kicks up his heart rate as he debates going over to interrupt, before a different type of uncertainty ultimately roots him to his seat at the bar.  Joel does know when you’ve had enough - true annoyance flashing dangerously in your pretty, expressive eyes before you get up abruptly and leave the dining hall, dinner unfinished.

If Joel was a wiser man, he would admit it’s for more than friendly concern that he knocks on your door, bearing the gift of an extra slice of that garlic bread he knows you like so much, smuggled from the dining hall in a handkerchief you gifted him from one of your supply runs.  He ignores the way his chest swells when your face lights up upon seeing him and his offering; any trace of your previous annoyance evaporated as you laugh something melodic while inviting him in, presenting the cookie from your dinner that you saved because they’re his favourite.  Little Scavenger, he chuckles, scarfing down the dessert - he really should have known. 

Turns out Joel Miller doesn’t know jack shit.

He didn’t know about the devastating sounds you would make when bouncing on his lap the way you are right now, skin glowing and naked curves hypnotizing him as you ride.  Or how pretty you’d look, with your smart mouth agape and panting, uneven breaths curling over that plush bottom lip while your normally bright eyes glaze over all cock drunk and blissed out.

He certainly didn’t know how good your tight, wet cunt would feel choking his cock. 

You don’t like the quiet now, do you?  Nope.  Now Joel knows you like it loud and dirty, with a never-ending string of filth growled into your ear as you’re being split open.

What a good girl you are, taking me so deep.

Look at you, so beautiful gushing all over my lap.

Feels so good, you riding me like you were made for this dick.

Pussy so perfect, never going to leave.

Guess you like getting praise as much as you like to give it, Joel smirks to himself as you clench down at his words, wailing something catastrophic when he finds that sweet spot on your neck he didn’t know about until tonight.  He never knew how much he’d hunger for your endless moaning of his name, devouring and swallowing down every shattering cry you let slip from your pretty mouth straight into his.  The devilish voice of a long forgotten, cockier version of himself tries to convince Joel to be less greedy, to let some of your needy sounds escape and shake your walls, wake your neighbours – for them to know what he knows now.  He grins at the thought, but he can’t stop kissing you.

Joel did not anticipate the way his balls would tighten when he growls against your jaw, “Wanted this for so long, my Pretty Scavenger,” and hears your whimper back, “Me too, baby.” 

Baby.  

Goddamn. 

And how could he have ever known the way his cock would jump at the sight of you taking his fat thumb between those plush, kiss swollen lips of yours, sucking and swirling just the right amount of wet so he could slide and circle over your clit perfectly?  His wildest imagination could never have prepared him for how angelic you look when you come, beautiful body shaking, naked chest heaving in pleasure.  Pure instinct takes over as Joel sucks one of your pert nipples into his mouth, nibbling and flicking to prolong your high until you’re howling from near overstimulation and the hug of your warm pussy proves too much for his aching length.

And fuck, if Joel didn’t know the tang of his own cum could be so sweet; he learns tonight when you transfer the taste from your tongue to his, still giggling at his continued look of awe from watching you use two of your fingers to clean scoop after scoop of his white ropes off your stomach, then licking them clean with an obscene pop of your mouth.

When you climb off of his still fully clothed body, Joel admires the sway of your hips and the bounce of your naked ass as you walk away to get dressed, or so he thinks.  To the man’s surprise, you stop at the foot of your staircase and turn, cheeky grin and mischievous glint in your eyes on full display even as you bashfully angle your enticing curves away from his gaze; your voice teasing, yet shy, “Coming upstairs, Big Boy?”

Pulling up his pants as he stands, Joel ignores the crack of his knees and the crick in his back; loosely doing up his fly when the unforeseen energy burst of a man much younger than he darts his body forward, he booms a pure and loud laugh as you squeal and run up the stairs so he can give chase.

Rounding into your bedroom to find you already there, laid out on your bedspread like some kind of present sent from heaven, Joel marvels for a moment at how mistakened he had been to ever think he already knew everything about this beauty before him.  But when you curl your index finger, beckoning, and his body follows the command of your gesture as if attached by some invisible string, Joel Miller surrenders to an incontrovertible fact that he might as well admit he’s always known: you have him completely wrapped round your finger.

“Of course.”

“Received a call from a lawyer named Kent Davidson. I was his mentor about ten years back, before he left for Peters & Feld in Dallas. He just moved back here and he’s lookin’ to join the practice.”

You know of Peters & Feld, they’re the Dallas equivalent of Miller & Associates. You raise an eyebrow. “He must be good if he’s from Peters.”

“He is,” Joel agrees, pulling a folder from his desk and sliding it across the desk to you. “Sharp mind, good instincts. I want you to meet with him, get a feel for him. See if he’d be a good fit for us. We can use the help.”

“You want me to do that?” you ask. Surprised by the responsibility.

“I value your judgment. You know that.” He responds simply, but there’s something in his eyes, a look that makes your heart beat faster, filled with a surge of pride that Joel trusts your opinion so much.

You flip through Kent’s file. His case record is flawless. His education is superior. On paper, he’d be perfect.

Joel rises, moving to stand behind you, and leans forward to point at the Post-it note on the side of the file.

“His number is there,” Joel gravels against your ear, “feel free to schedule him for an interview.”

Joel’s fresh, woodsy scent fills your nostrils as he stays there, under the guise of also reading Kent’s file.

“I’ll have Jane schedule him for an interview on Friday,” you say, already squeezing your thighs together as Joel’s body towers behind you.

“Good girl,” he husks against your ear, tapping you so low on the shoulder that his fingers brush against your breast. “I’ll see you later tonight.”

—-

“Kent Davidson is here for your meeting.” Jane’s message appears on your screen as you finish up some preliminary statements.

“Great,” you respond, saving and closing your document before you stand, adjusting your skirt, and checking yourself in the mirror. You weren’t sure what to expect of this Kent interview, so you chose the most sensible black skirt and jacket you usually reserve for court appearances. Formal, but approachable.

When you walk out of your office, your eyes are instantly drawn to the man waiting near your assistant’s desk. God, he’s handsome. Square jaw, glasses perched on his nose, and a charming smile all wrapped up in a black suit.

“Kent?” You smile.

“Yes, that’s me,” he responds, looking up with beautiful blue eyes. His deep voice sends a shiver up your spine.

He walks over, extending his hand. Crap. This isn’t good. He’s ridiculously hot, broad, and big. You feel tiny next to him.

“Kent Davidson,” he says, reaching a hand out. “A pleasure.”

When you take his hand to shake it, his palm practically swallows yours. His grip is warm but not overconfident. As a woman in a male-dominated practice, you’re used to too firm handshakes and no warmth, but Kent’s is comfortable and kind.

You lead him to your office, and he settles in the chair across from your desk.

As you take a seat, you consciously straighten your posture, your shoulders sitting higher as you try not to think about what the breadth of his shoulders would feel like pinning yours to this very chair.

You're used to accomplished men, and to the challenge of asserting your own authority; most of them too-easily broadcasting their need to "test" a woman. Kent is different. He sits easily in his body, long legs crossed, hands folded over one knee, as if waiting for you to make the first move.

You pick up his file, glancing at it before looking up at him. “So, Mr. Davidson. Tell me why you chose to move away from such a prestigious firm in Dallas to Austin?” “My home is Austin,” he answers.

“And why are you interested in what we do here?”

He thinks for a second. “The cases you take here are more innovative, more interesting. I want to help people.”

Kent answers every question you ask with the perfect response. None of them seems too textbook or practiced; they’re smart and well-thought-out.

You’re impressed. He’d be a perfect fit, but you have one more question for him.

“Working under Joel Miller is not for the faint of heart. He has a… distinct style of leadership. Why do you think you’d fit here?”

He leans in, elbows resting on his knees. “Some lawyers are legends for a reason,” he says with a smile. “I studied under him for two years; he taught me everything I know. I think the firm’s direction matches my ambition.”

You can hear echoes of Joel in the way Kent answers, see a resemblance in the way he moves his big body. He’s sure of himself, but there’s no competitiveness, no vanity.

“Well, Mr. Davidson, I think you’d fit in just fine here.”

He grins, his dimples deepening under his perfectly trimmed scruff. “That’s great. I’d be honored to work with you.”

When he says goodbye, he holds your hand just a little longer, his blue eyes staring into yours. You wonder if he can feel the way your pulse skips or sense that you’re imagining telling Joel all about how good-looking Kent is while you’re straddling his thick thighs tonight.

—-

Kent fits in perfectly at his new job. He still reminds you so much of Joel, but a little warmer and approachable. He’s just as kind and thoughtful to you as Joel, remembering your order from the taco truck that parks outside on Thursdays and grabbing you a cup of coffee made just the way you like it before morning meetings. He catches you off guard sometimes, warmth emanating from his blue eye gaze from across the conference room table, like he just can’t look away from you. You wonder if Joel notices. You’re pretty sure he does when he calls your name and Kent’s name after he finishes a meeting on a particularly busy day. “We have a lot to take care of,” Joel notes, pointing at you and Kent, “I’m going to need you two to stay late tonight.”

—-

You’re exhausted. The case you’re working on has too many files, too many statements, and too many what-ifs. You’ve barely paused today since getting back to your office after the meeting.

Your phone dings with a text from Joel. My office now.

You take a deep breath, a little upset that you can’t just have Joel to yourself tonight as you collect your files and head towards his office.

You knock on Joel’s door, turning the handle after you hear the gruff “come in.”

You freeze in place at the sight before you, your files scattering to the floor as your brain tries to process what you’re seeing.

Joel Miller Esq. stands in the middle of his office, his fly open. And there, on his knees before him, still dressed in his impeccable suit, Kent, his lips stretched around Joel’s thick cock deep down his throat. 

Your gasp turns into a moan when Joel sends you a wicked smile and reaches his arm out. “C’mere.”

Once you take his hand, he pulls you to his side, your balance almost being thrown off until your body lands against Joel’s.

Kent’s eyes meet yours when you look down, the dimples you love of his deepening as he sucks Joel’s cock.

“You know, darlin’,” Joel drawls, one hand grabbing and squeezing your ass as his other’s tangled in Kent’s dark hair. “Kent here was just tellin’ me how much he’s been admirin’ you. Now, go ahead ‘n tell her, Mr. Davidson.”

Kent pulls back, Joel’s cock slipping from his mouth. “I’ve wanted you since that first interview,” he confesses. “Joel says he thinks you feel the same way.”

Your eyes dart to Joel, who’s watching you with intensity. “I see the way you look at him. Figure we could all have some fun.”

Kent places his hand against your calf, trailing it up to your knee before bunching your skirt up, blue eyes focused on your pussy barely covered by your skimpy thong. “What do you say?” he asks.

It takes you no time to answer. “Yes.”

“Can I?” Kent looks up, asking Joel.

“You can,” he answers.

Kent stands, his full, imposing body overwhelming you in the best way. He leans in, muttering “finally” before he kisses you. Your eyes flutter shut at the sweetness of his lips. Strong but soft. You taste mint and salt and something strong and masculine. Joel. His essence still on Kent’s tongue, your thighs at the realization, your kisses turning more fevered, seeking more of Joel’s taste in Kent’s mouth.

Joel undresses you, unbuttoning and slipping your blouse off before he unzips the back of your skirt, lowering it as you and Kent kiss. Joel presses his body against you, sandwiching you between the two big men. Kent licks his way across your cheek to meet Joel’s mouth just over your shoulder, the two men kissing, as you watch wide-eyed and turned on. Their lips separate, Kent’s mouth finding yours, crushing his lips against your lips as his large hands slide up your ribcage to cup your tits through the thin lace of your bra. Joel leans in, fevered kisses being shared between the three of you, tongues licking against tongues, lips crushing against lips. Both men greedy for you.

Kent begins kissing his way down to your neck, nuzzling and licking against your already fevered skin. You can feel the poke of Joel’s cock against your ass, barely covered by your thong.

Big hands travel across your body… you can’t tell whose is whose. You’re almost dizzy with want, deliciously stuck between heat and muscle, trembling, moaning, and panting.

Joel’s hands find the clasp of your bra, flicking it open for it to fall away, baring your breasts to Kent’s heated gaze. He bends down to wrap his mouth around your tight nipple, sucking gently before grazing it with his teeth. Joel trails his hands down until they’re at your hips, tugging your thong down your thighs, the silky fabric slipping down to your ankles.

You’re naked, now, still caught between broad, both of them still in their expensive suits.

Joel steps forward, surveying you under a dark, greedy gaze.

“She’s so fuckin’ pretty, ain’t she?” Joel asks.

“She is Mr. Miller,” Kent assesses.

Joel moves behind his desk, sweeping everything—files, legal pads, pens, his fancy paperweight you got him for Christmas—onto the floor. The only thing left on his desk is the framed photos of his daughter and a picture of the Fijian beach you and he took a secret vacation to for Christmas last year. He picks both up and gently places them in his drawer. That’s what you love about Joel, unbelievably gruff and determined, almost to a fault, but with you, and the love you two share, he’s gentle and caring.

Joel picks you up, setting you down on the polished mahogany wood, hips at the edge, legs dangling. He’s done this so many times before; your late nights spent working cases usually end this way. But now, when he spreads your knees wide, he’s exposing your wet pussy to not only his deep brown eyes, but also Kent’s bright blue eyes.

Kent kneels in front of you without saying a word, just a greedy look across his face as he looks up at you, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.

“Eat her good, Mr. Davidson,” Joel growls.

Kent’s big hands grip your thighs, pushing them even farther apart. His mouth lands on you before you can even gasp.

His tongue is different from Joel’s—softer, more exploratory, swirling gentle circles around your clit before flicking it, stroking you like he’s studying the effect of every angle and pressure. Like he’s figuring out a new case, and your pleasure is it.

Joel stands at your side, his palm against your cheek, thumb stroking along your jaw as he looks into your eyes. His cock still sits thick and hard in his open fly. He wraps his hand around himself, stroking himself slowly, his eyes never leaving your face.

Kent’s mouth doesn’t leave your cunt. You whimper, rocking your hips into his mouth as he groans against you, licking and sucking, his tongue slipping inside your entrance, then back to your clit. He’s a little messy, his face buried against you, lapping at your cunt eagerly. His beard scratches against your thighs, but his tongue is soft.

You reach for Joel, greedy too, your fingers wrapping around his thick cock. He chuckles, moving his hand to allow you to fully stroke along the long length of him, hissing when you squeeze the tip. He leans in to kiss you, teeth nibbling against your lip, hand cupping the back of your neck, guiding your mouth more firmly to his. He swallows the moans that Kent’s tongue pulls from you as he moves even greedier against your cunt.

You spread your thighs wider for Kent, lifting your legs to brace your heels on the heavy wood of Joel’s desk. You’re spread shamelessly open, feeling the cool air from the air conditioner and the hot breath of Kent. You want to feel the press of his handsome face against you firmer, your other hand reaches down, pulling at his hair. He growls against your cunt, tongue flattening against your clit, lapping and circling, making your body pulse with need. The press of his mouth is different; the press of his nose against your clit isn’t as firm, his mouth isn’t as possessive as Joel’s, but Christ, it feels out of the world.

Joel’s heat pulses in your palm as you jerk him, precum leaking to help guide your hand over him smoothly. He grunts, deep and needy.

“You want to feel my cock in your mouth?” Joel asks, gripping your chin to look him in the eyes.

You look into the eyes you’ve loved for a year, licking your lips and moaning yes.

Kent’s mouth circles your clit, tongue painting the sweetest spirals, making you gasp and moan his name. His hands brace your thighs, thumbs digging into the crease of your hips to hold you still for his tongue.

Joel’s hand moves lower, tangling in your hair and guiding your lips down to his cock.

Heavy and hot, salty and musky. Familiar. You open your mouth to take him, and he groans, his neck straining as his head falls back. He’s still impeccably dressed in his designer suit, silk tie, fancy cufflinks, and all.

Kent holds you open, his tongue moving in and out of your pussy, unraveling your tightly wound pleasure with each lick. You can feel your orgasm building, your body tensing with the delicious pressure at your core. He sucks your clit in his mouth, tongue fluttering against it, pulling the sparks out of you as your orgasm, crying out around Joel’s big cock in your mouth. Kent works you through it, sucking and licking, his hands digging into your twitching thighs. Kent pulls away, his mouth opened in awe at the taste and feel of you, and looks up, his blue eyes staring at you desperately, his stubble glistening with your slick. He stands tall and broad with that endearing dimpled smile.

Joel moves back to begin undressing, your mouth already missing the feel of his cock.

“You too, Davidson,” Joel says as he shucks his pants.

Kent leans in, pressing his lips against yours as you start unbuttoning his shirt. Now, his tongue tastes of you as he cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as his tongue gently finds yours. You slide the last button of his shirt from its hole, pushing the fabric off his wide shoulders before grasping at his undershirt, helping him take it off. His chest is lighter than Joel’s, but dusted with dark hair, and strong, so unbelievably strong. Your hands travel across the smooth expanse of him, feeling the corded muscles bracing underneath. He’s greedy to feel your lips against his again, tongue parting your lips as you tug at his belt and take off his pants.

Joel watches, his arms crossed over his bare chest, shoulders and arms always tense, always ready to take action, whether it’s a case or giving you pleasure. His skin is so much more golden than Kent’s, a more defined line of hair falling down the middle of him to the dark nest of hair around his just-as-golden cock.

“You ready to take both of us, darlin'?” Joel asks.

You don’t know if your body can take everything these two big men are offering you, everything that you want, but you nod.

Joel guides you to lie across his desk, your body splayed on the cool, expensive surface, your arms reaching above your head.

Kent stands at your side, his big cock thick and standing heavily, leaking precum along the head. You reach out, wrapping your hand around him, and his hips jerk forward involuntarily. 

Joel watches, assessing: you splayed out across his desk, Kent’s cock in your hand, your lip captured between your teeth. Joel steps forward, spreading your legs wide, growling when he finds how wet you are. He bends forward, licking a long line up your slit, his eyes fluttering shut at the familiar taste of you.

Kent leans over, bracing himself on the desk beside your head, watching you suck his cock as Joel’s tongue starts to fuck into your hole, before trailing a path up to your clit. Kent’s taste is thick and tangy; you swirl your tongue around the head, collecting the beads of precum that he’s leaked.

Joel flicks his tongue against your clit, two of his thick fingers fucking you in rhythm with his tongue. Your mouth is full, your pussy is full, and you’re moaning and writhing on the same desk that Joel gets paid six figures to work on. 

Kent’s cock is big and heavy in your mouth. You open wider for him, stroking and sucking drool dripping as his head pulses against the back of your throat. He fucks into you, his brows furrowed, eyes serious. You can’t look away from his handsome face, even as your eyes water as you take his length down your throat. His hand cradles the side of your face, thumb stroking your cheek… gentle and reverent. And then, his hand finds your breast, tugging and kneading, rolling your nipple between his fingers, pinching it to make your back arch.

Joel’s fingers stretch your folds wide, his mouth making wet sounds as he works your pussy. His beard scratches against your already sensitive cunt and thighs as he tongues you deep before dragging his tongue up, swirling against your clit, flicking and circling.

You can hardly manage to breathe, being so used and wanted by both men, especially when Kent fucks your mouth, groaning as you gag around his cock, pulling out a little to let you gasp and catch your breath before sliding back in. He smiles down at you, blue eyes bright and possessive behind his glasses, his dark waves a mess.

Joel pulls away, watching as Kent fucks your mouth. “Look at you takin’ both of us, baby. Knew you could.” His tongue finds your pussy again, tracing a line from your pussy down to your ass, pressing his mouth to your tight hole, licking slow and firm circles. You moan around Kent’s cock, your hips jerking, but Joel presses a hand down against your stomach, keeping you still as he eats your ass.

Kent’s hand squeezes your breast, pulling at your nipple, the pain making you moan around his cock even harder. Your legs begin to shake, Joel’s tongue doesn’t let up, now alternating between your pussy and your ass, lapping at both, eating you until you’re close—so fucking close.

“Cum for us,” Kent grits, pulling his cock out of your mouth and bending down to kiss you.

Your orgasm bursts through you, blinding you, making you claw at the desk, nails scraping against the wood as you scream into Kent’s mouth. Your body thrashes, Joel doesn’t stop, his mouth stays on you, licking and sucking as your pussy floods his mouth. You’re gasping as Kent peppers kisses across your face, your neck, and your chest. These two men, dedicated to your pleasure.

Joel stands, his hands gripping your thighs to push them far apart.

“C’mere, Davidson,” Joel says. Kent joins him as Joel drags his thumb through your slick pussy. Kent’s eyes are wide, staring at you in awe, both men’s cocks stand heavy and hard between their thighs.

Kent leans in closer, his breath catching at the sight of your cunt dripping and glistening. Joel’s hand hooks around Kent’s wrist and guides it, making him slide two of his thick fingers through your wet.

“Feel that?” Joel asks. “She’s perfect, ain’t she? Tight as hell, soft and so fuckin’ warm.”

Kent blinks rapidly, his shoulders rising with a deep breath.

“You wanna try her?” Joel asks. 

“God, yes, sir,” he breathes.

“Yeah? You nice and hard for her?” he asks, wrapping a hand around Kent’s cock and tugging at it. “Yes, you are, think she’s gonna enjoy you,” he compliments, stroking Kent’s cock. “You want to feel Kent’s big cock in you, baby?” he asks, turning to you.

You can only manage to nod, too turned on by the sight of your important lawyer boyfriend stroking Kent’s big cock. Joel walks over to his chair, settling in the big, fancy leather seat, his hand gently running across his cock.

Kent lines himself up with your eager cunt and then–bliss–as he pushes the head of his cock in. He stills, waiting, savoring the feel of you before he slowly slides all the way in.

Oh god.

He’s not as thick as Joel, but he’s longer, filling your cunt so impossibly more than Joel. When he buries himself in your heat, he stills, staying there, shuddering, head bowed between his shoulders, watching himself disappear into you.

Joel begins lazily stroking his cock, watching your face contort in pleasure, a dizzy smile lighting your face as Kent takes you.

“Look at that,” Joel says. “Look how good her pussy’s taking you, Davidson. Bet she’s squeezin’ the hell outta you, huh?”

Kent groans, his hands gripping your legs up to rest against his chest as he thrusts into you.

“Fuck,” Kent gasps, “fuck, she’s so tight and warm. Jesus.”

Joel’s eyes meet yours as he begins to stroke himself harder, staring at you and the way Kent fucks you. He spits in his palm, leaning back farther against the supple leather of his chair, free hand gripping the armrest. He looks proud and possessive. His mentee Kent fucking his girl, both rising lawyers under his practice.

Kent’s jaw works as he moves in you; you recognize the focus, it’s the same way he looks as he studies a case. Serious and determined, but now that look is making sure you’re moaning for him, his cock making you whimper desperately.

“Fucking look at you,” Joel rasps. “Pussy’s stretched tight around him. Taking it so good, baby.".

Kent grinds his hips, bottoming out against you, pushing every inch of him into you. "Can I make you cum again?" he asks eagerly. "Can I?"

“Yes,” you beg.

Kent’s hand drifts down, his thumb circling your already swollen clit, making you moan so loud you hope the other floors don’t hear you. He fucks you deeper, harder, his cock slamming into you. He pulls your orgasm out of you with each brutal thrust. You cum for him, another orgasm destroying you, your cunt clenching around Kent’s big cock so hard he stutters, teeth bared, a growl ripping from his mouth. He bends forward, gathering you in his strong arms, holding you, and slowly fucking into you as he kisses you. Tears prick at your eyes as you whine and shake. Kent pulls out, nearly collapsing on his unsteady feet, his breathing ragged. He braces himself on the desk, catching his breath. He looks absolutely wrecked, and you think you look the same.

“Golly,” he whispers, sweat falling down his chest. “You’re—Jesus, you’re incredible,” he marvels.

Before you can even marvel at his praise, Joel’s out of his chair, bounding over, his hands gripping you and flipping you over on the desk, your chest and cheek pressed against the polished wood. God, you love it when he’s rough with you. 

“Not done with you yet,” he growls.

You should be spent, but you want more; you want Joel inside your cunt and Kent’s cock. You want to take both men’s cum. He grabs your hips, yanking you back until your ass is against his cock. He enters you quick and hard, his thick cock opening you even wider. He pounds your pussy, hips snapping, the heavy desk lurching under his power. You’re so wet, he slides in and out easily, but his cock still splits you open, so much more than Kent, and every time he bottoms out, you feel it across your body.

Kent slides his cock between your lips, slow at first, your body stuck between Joel’s hard thrusting and Kent’s delicate rocking. Their bodies moving you in whatever way they need, your cunt accepting Joel, and your mouth wrapped around Kent.

Joel spits, a pool of wet landing on your asshole, his thumb catching it and pressing it right against your tight ring as he fucks you. He pushes his thumb in, barely at first, just enough to put that pressure against it.

It’s so much, so dirty, to be fucked by Joel and Kent on the desk that you just signed contracts with the biggest business in Austin just earlier today.

Joel ruts into your mercilessly, his balls slapping against the meat of your ass as your whole body yields to the force of him. Kent begins thrusting into you harder, his big hand cupping your jaw, urging you to take him deeper. He’s getting desperate for you, desperate for his release. Joel’s hand comes up, wrapping around your throat, squeezing it with the perfect amount of pressure—just enough to make you dizzy, just enough to own you.

There’s a litany of noises between the three of you, deep guttural groans, high-pitched keening, the slip and slap of your wet cunt and mouth taking their cocks.

Kent gasps, his thick neck straining as he warns. “Gonna cum,” he groans. “Gonna fucking cum in your mouth.” You moan, tongue ready to taste him. Kent’s cock kicks against your tongue, and then he cums, his hot seed spilling into your mouth. You moan, swallowing all that he gives you, the taste of him escaping out of your lips, dripping down your chin as Kent shudders before he pulls out and falls back into Joel’s chair.

Joel pulls you up by your arms, your back meeting his chest, his arm wrapping around your breasts, holding you to him as he fucks up into you. “Feels so fuckin’ good,” he growls. He kisses you, licking up the remnants of Kent’s sticky cum from your chin as he jackhammers into you until he stills, his cock pulsing against your walls, filling you up with his cum. The feel of his thick ropes painting your walls pulls another orgasm out of you. You feel like you’re going to faint, your vision and hearing blurring, making everything fuzzy and staticky. Your pussy spasms around Joel’s cock, and he snarls against your ear, fucking both of you through your shared orgasm.

He pumps you so impossibly full of his cum that when he finally pulls out, it spills out of your cunt, dripping down your thighs. Joel swipes his finger through the mess, then crooks it, beckoning Kent closer.

“Come finish what you started,” he says, lifting your body against his chest, spreading your legs wide. Kent gets up, barreling forward with almost superhuman speed. He takes Joel’s finger into his mouth, licking and sucking it before he kneels down and licks your swollen, sticky pussy clean. His tongue is everywhere, rim to rim, tracing the messy sea of you, gathering every drop that Joel pumped inside you. Joel keeps you spread wide, your muscles are already deliciously burning, his fingers digging in behind your thighs, greedily keeping you open and exposed so he can watch Kent’s lips pressed to your ruined cunt.

“I want you to look at him,” Joel says. “Look at how hungry he is for you. That’s what I taught him.”

You tilt your head forward, locking eyes with Kent as he sucks your clit hard, your thighs spasming as another orgasm shatters you.

“You’re doing so good for us, baby, what a perfect pussy” Joel praises. “Cum for us.”

You cum so hard, your whole body clenches, and you’re thankful for Joel’s strong arms anchoring you to him. Joel’s beard scrapes your shoulder as he kisses your neck, whispering praises of how good you did, how beautiful you look, and how much he loves you. 

Joel carries you to the couch, your overwhelmed body shaking in his hold as he sits down on the cool leather. Kent settles next to him, brushing the sweaty hair from your face, kissing your neck and shoulder.

You can still feel both their cocks in you, the bruises beginning to form where their hands gripped you tight, the heat of their bodies.

It’s the best you’ve ever felt.

"Are we ever going to finish that?" you ask, walking into the bedroom.

"One day,” he says, “but I already got my happy ending."

"Aww," you say, rolling your eyes and sauntering over to him. "I can give you a really happy ending if you'd like."

Joel can't answer; he just nods and grunts.

"Sit back," you say, untying your robe with a tantalizing smile that lifts your lips. “No touching.”

He obeys, his body already burning with desire for you as you stand before him. The robe drops down your arms to the floor as your hips sway slightly. You lean forward, resting your hands on his thighs, his eyes instantly focus on your breasts, his mouth waters when he thinks about licking his way across the curve of them.

You run your hands up your sides, fingers trailing across your skin. He groans, his hungry eyes devouring the way your gorgeous body moves. His jaw tics, the temptation to touch you tightens every muscle and nerve in his body, and when you straddle his lap, hovering over him, knees bracketing his thighs, his back straightens, and his hands grip the armrests, refusing to give in to the temptation to touch you.

You lean in to ghost your lips over the shell of his ear. “Just relax,” you purr.

He grunts, nodding as you drop your center over him and begin to grind against his cock, his robe barely concealing his hardness. You lean away, arching your back, dragging your hands down your chest, fingers circling your nipples. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a more beautiful sight. He’s being so disciplined, so still, save for the slight tremble of need radiating out of him.

“Christ baby,” he growls, “you’re killin’ me.”

Your fingers slide down between your legs. He bites his lip, the sight of you touching yourself while perched on his lap is almost too much.

“Oh yeah?” you ask. “You want a taste?”

“Please,” he whimpers. He doesn’t care how pathetic he sounds. For you and only you, he’d beg.

You smirk as you bring your fingers up to his mouth. “Open,” you command.

He obeys, and you stick two of your fingers in his mouth, his cheeks hollow around them, sucking the slick off of them. Fuck, you taste so sweet. He sighs happily at the taste of you, his eyes focused on you, needing to see your face, and the way your lips part as you watch him.

“Good?” you whisper, slowly withdrawing your fingers that he chases with his mouth, desperate for more. You pull back with a teasing smile. “Greedy, aren’t we, Mr. Miller?”

Every muscle in his body is coiled tightly, and he almost cums right there at the sound of your voice. He hisses a growl when you swirl your hips against him, grinding down against his cock, standing hard for you.

To everyone else, you’re the calming and caring doctor, a steadfast medic—but behind the doors of his home, you’re something else, something tantalizing, a vixen.

“Sweetheart,” he manages, “I don’t know how long I can go without feeling your pussy wrapped around m’cock.” He’s ready to beg for your cunt. You don’t give him time to plead. You reach down, untying his robe and parting it, tugging at his cock before you position your pussy perfectly over him. He can’t even take a breath or prepare himself before you sink down, taking him fully inside you.

“Fuck!” he gasps loudly, his hands breaking free from the armrests to grip your hips as your heat encompasses him. Your body rolls against his, fucking him fast and hard, your breasts bouncing before his eyes. He leans forward, taking a nipple into his mouth, sucking and laving against it as his fingers dig into your flesh tighter, guiding you up and down his cock.

“Joel,” you groan. “I’m so close.”

He looks up at you, watching as you take what you need from him, his hand snaking between your legs to press swirls against your clit that take you over the edge. He watches you get lost in everything he gives you, his cock, his heart, his sounds of devotion grunting into the air as you ride him. Your body tenses as your head falls back, the sound of his name echoes across the room as your pussy pulses around his cock, your orgasm rolling through you, squeezing him tight. 

You’re still quivering with aftershocks when you climb off his lap and settle between his legs. You hum a sweet sound as your tongue darts out to lick the taste of yourself left against the head of his cock before you take him into your mouth. His body tightens as he watches you take him deeper, eyes locked on his as the wet heat of your mouth welcomes him completely.

“Jesus, baby, you look so good,” he moans.

Your tongue swirls around him, your cheeks hollowing as you suck. He’s so fucking close, just the sight of your pretty mouth with his cock in it makes him already feel the tingles shoot across his body.

“Baby, gonna cum,” he grits, hips bucking up to meet your mouth.

You moan around him, the vibrations bringing him even closer until it’s too much for him to take, and he cums. You don’t pull your mouth away, you suck harder, making him feel almost dizzy as he quakes underneath you. He watches, transfixed, as you swallow everything he gives you, his cock pulsing down your throat. He’s barely catching his breath when you pull away with a smile and open wide, sticking your tongue out to show him your empty mouth.

You’re such a temptress, he can hardly believe it.

“Fuck, I love you,” he says, his voice between a chuckle and a groan. “C’mere.”

He pulls you up, your naked body settling against his in the chair. It’s not lost on him that this bedroom used to feel so lonely. Now, it always feels like you’ve been here with him. You truly did give him a happy ending.

—-

There’s now a cat tree sitting in the living room, perfectly centered in front of the front window. You know Joel is a talented craftsman, but you’re shocked at how beautiful the cat tower has come out. The platforms are sanded smooth with rounded edges and a branch of the aspen wrapped in rope for scratching.

You place the knitted mat on top of the highest platform, with a few nails and a hammer, Joel secures it to the tower. You specifically chose the bright green yarn because it reminds you of Jefferson’s eyes.

“It’s perfect,” you smile as you stand back. “You might have a new job making everyone cat trees.”

He chuckles and shakes his head, wrapping his arm around you. “Don’t think I’ll be taking any special orders. This one’s just for Jefferson.”

“Don’t forget Sally’s tree,” you note.

“As if Ellie could ever let me forget.”

“Is it weird I’m so excited?” you ask, looking up at Joel.

“Not at all,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You’ve been talking about this cat for weeks.”

You lean into him, imagining Jefferson perched on his new tower, surveying his domain through the front window. Soon, you’ll be making new memories with Joel inside your shared home. What once was a temporary place to stay while you healed a broken man is now a comfortable and happy home full of love, getting ready to welcome a new, tiny feline life.

—-

Jackson has their foreman back, with Joel’s return after almost nine months, the biggest town project is nearly done. His leg only throbs lightly as he stretches up on the stepladder and installs a new light over the library’s front entrance. It’s a good pain, one that he used to get after long hours of building and work in his younger days. Now, the aches appear sooner and take longer to subside, but he’s noticed that, with your healing hands and love, the pain doesn’t last as long.

“Hi,” he hears your voice behind him. He smiles as he turns, looking over his shoulder to see you standing there with a tote bag on your shoulder. Every ache he holds in his body already begins to melt away when he sees you.

"Hey, baby," he greets as he steps down the ladder, a little surprised to see you.

"Slow day. Dr. V told me to get out and start my vacation early," you say, stepping up onto the porch. “Figured you’d like some lunch. I grabbed some sandwiches from The Bison.”

“Nobody’s ever brought me lunch,” he muses, carefully settling next to you and stretching his leg out as you unwrap the sandwiches.

“Well, I’ve never brought anybody lunch, so this works well,” you say, handing him his sandwich. “Venison for you, tomato for me.”

He can’t stop looking at you… the slight smile on your lips as you chew, your eyes scanning the construction site, your skin shining under the bright sunlight. He doesn’t know how he got so lucky, having suffered in so many ways before being able to build a happy life with you in Jackson.

“You’re staring,” you say, turning to him, snapping him out of his reverie.

“How was the clinic?" he asks, trying to make conversation instead of continuing to stare at you like a lovesick teenager.

“Quiet. Not a lot going on. Dr. V said he and Steven could handle the rounds for the rest of the day, and he assured me they’ll be just fine without me for the next few days.”

“S’nice of him.”

He can hardly wait, four full days of no work, just you, him, and Jefferson after you pick him up tomorrow. A vacation seems so foreign after living in survival mode for so long.

Joel looks up to see Dina approaching, her customary clipboard in hand.

“Framing in the back is done,” she reports. “Ran into some rot and had to replace more than we thought.” Joel nods. “Figured as much,” he responds. “Make sure everything is dry before they drywall.”

"Got it," she says, nodding before her face lights with a mischievous grin. "Hey, I won't tell the foreman if you leave early."

Joel raises an eyebrow. "I am the foreman.”

"I know, that's why I won't tell you that you left early," she says, already walking away.

Joel shakes his head, turning his head to find you watching him. "What?" he asks.

"I dunno, you're just so... authoritative, it's kinda hot.”

He chuckles, standing and offering his hand. "Come on, the boss said I can leave early."

You hold hands the whole way home, as you both walk down Main Street, Joel can feel the eyes of fellow residents on the two of you. Some send a friendly nod, some small smiles. It still surprises him sometimes how easily everyone has accepted him and you as a couple.

When you reach the porch, there’s a wagon sitting in front of the front door holding a small TV with a built-in VCR and a stack of VHS tapes beside it. On top lies a folded note.

“Enjoy your vacation and new addition. Jane and I figured you could use a little entertainment. Thanks for all that you do for us at the clinic.“ You read aloud with a wide smile. “It's from Dr. V."

Joel looks up to see small, happy tears welling in your eyes as you hold the note. It’s so obvious how special you are to everyone in this town. They value you.

"Guess we've got our evening planned," he whispers in your ear.

"Guess we do."

—-

You're nestled against Joel's side on the couch, both of you only in your robes, your legs tucked beneath you while his stretch out toward the coffee table. The color on the TV Dr. V gifted you might be a little washed out, and the sound occasionally warbles, but it still plays Raiders of the Lost Ark without a hitch.

“I loved this movie as a kid,” Joel quietly muses to you.

You look up at him, watching the lights of the movie flickering across his handsome face as he seems lost in thought.

"My daughter loved it too," he says quietly, after a moment.

Your heart constricts at the rare mention of Sarah. He so seldom speaks of her, keeping her close against his heart. You do the math in your head, realizing she would be in her mid-thirties now if she had lived. She might have had a career, maybe children of her own. Joel would have been a grandfather, living a normal life, with normal milestones.

But time isn't normal anymore, and that future for him was stolen that fateful night all those years ago. You mourn all of those lost memories right alongside him, because in a way, his grief is now yours.

You crawl into his lap, your chest meeting his, looking into his brown eyes, clouded with grief.

"You don't talk about her much. But I always love to hear more about her."

Joel stares into your eyes, and you see the pain he holds, always there, when he thinks of his Sarah.

"I know, baby," he says. He takes your hand, placing it against his temple, where the silver scar you’ve wondered about sits. Your finger brushes against it, feeling the slight raised edges of it, tracing the mark. “It was almost too much. I tried to… I tried.”

Your heart sinks, drowning in the sorrow he’s been holding. “Baby,” you whisper, tears beginning to fill your eyes.

“I thought I had lost everything when she left me. I didn’t think I had anything,” his voice cracks. “But I did… ‘n I do. Especially now.”

“Joel,” his name escapes with a sob.

“I know, baby, I know,” a tear sheds from his eye as you nestle your head into the crook of his neck. “Just because I don’t talk about her with you, doesn’t mean I don’t think about how much she’d love you.”

“Yeah?”

"Yeah. She was a good judge of character. Strong-willed ‘n compassionate, just like you."

“I know I would have loved her because she was a part of you. In fact, I already do love her.”

He holds you tighter, and you feel his body shudder with a quiet sob.

"She's always with you," you whisper. "In all the good things you do, in how you take care of people. In how you love Ellie.”

“In how I love you,” he adds.

You feel the weight of his love and grief right there on the couch as the credits begin to roll. You kiss him gently and reassuringly.

“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth.

“I love you, too.”

“What was her favorite thing in the world?”

“Butterflies,” he answers simply with a small smile.

An idea lights in your mind. “I could plant a garden for her right outside the front window. Butterfly bushes, lavender, marigolds.”

His eyes brighten, surprise and wonder lifting his lips. “You’d do that?”

“I’d love nothing more.”

He pulls you closer, arms tightening around you. “Sarah’s garden,” he quietly says.

“Sarah’s garden,” you repeat, relishing in the warmth of Joel and the love you hold for him and his daughter.

—-

“Mornin’,” Joel’s deep voice rumbles against your ear. The mattress dips behind you as he sits down, rousing you from your slumber. You groan, turning over and opening your eyes to find him holding his customary owl mug. “Coffee?”

You nod, stretching to sit up and take a drink. “Morning,” you respond. The sweetness of Joel sharing his precious coffee with you always overshadows the bitter taste of it.

"Big day for us," he says.

"It is," you say, returning his smile.

Today, Jefferson comes home.

You make eggs and biscuits for breakfast, sitting in front of the TV, watching a well-worn copy of Don’t Tell Mom The Babysitter’s Dead. Your eyes keep darting to the clock ticking on the mantle, waiting for 11 AM. By the time the movie credits roll, it’s almost time to leave to pick him up.

At precisely 10:45, Joel stands. "Might as well head over now," he says casually, as if he, too, has been waiting all morning.

You hold hands the whole way to Amy and Jacqui’s; it's a perfect day to bring Jefferson home. Your steps quicken as their house comes into view. Joel squeezes your hand once before you knock on their door.

Jacqui answers with a smile. "Right on time. Come in, come in."

You follow Jacqui through to the living room, where a small pen has been set up.

"Your parents are here," Jacqui calls, kneeling beside the pen to reach in and gently scoop up the black and white kitten to hand to you. You cradle Jefferson’s fluffy body against your chest. A tear sheds, rolling down your cheek before you can stop it.

"Hey, little guy," Joel says softly, leaning over you with a smile on his face. He carefully reaches his finger out, gently stroking Jefferson's head. It’s striking to see Joel's callused and work-creased hand against Jefferson's tiny, soft body.

"He likes you," you say, smiling up at Joel.

"Reckon he knows he's going to a good home."

Jacqui disappears into the kitchen, returning with a small bag tied with twine. "Some food," she says, handing it to Joel. "The recipe's stapled on it—it's what we've been feeding them. You can transition him to whatever you prefer, but this'll help for the first few days."

Joel takes the bag with a nod of thanks.

"You're always welcome to bring Jefferson over to visit," she adds. "We're happy he and his sister will be neighbors. Ellie's coming to get her this evening."

"That's perfect," you say. “Thank you for everything, Jacqui."

You hold Jefferson against your chest and say your goodbyes before making your way back home. The walk almost feels different somehow—more meaningful. Jefferson against your heart and Joel's hand in yours as you now take home your shared commitment.

When you finally reach home, you settle on the couch with Jefferson, letting him explore the cushions, watching as he tests his new surroundings.

"What movie tonight?" Joel asks after a while, nodding toward the TV and the stack of tapes.

"Mm, I feel like Lord of the Rings."

"That's a long movie.”

"And we have a lot of time," you respond.

—-

Joel looks down, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest as you sleep on the couch, only wearing his t-shirt, head resting on his lap, Jefferson curled on top of you. You barely made it halfway through the movie before you fell asleep. He had watched both of you drift off, unwilling to disturb the sight of you and Jefferson resting peacefully. The Fellowship of the Ring plays quietly in the background. He watches the soft glow of the TV cast across your peaceful face. Your hand rests atop Jefferson’s sleeping body, curled on top of you; the sight fills Joel with a feeling that a life he never thought possible is finally falling into place.

He sits and tries to memorize this moment… your cheek on his thigh, Jefferson on your chest, his hand against your shoulder brushing back and forth against your skin. He tells himself this will last forever, but there’s still a bitterness held inside him that refuses to believe it. There’s a small voice in the back of his head imagining him alone in this house, waiting for someone who isn’t coming back. The fear comes on him fast and hard. He has to look away from you, shutting his eyes and steadying his breath, fighting against the panic that’s rising in him.

He used to be good at losing things. At ignoring the all-encompassing pain and realization, then retreating. But he can’t do that anymore. He can’t even imagine it.

He reaches down, petting Jefferson, grounding himself to the feel of his soft fur and the short breaths the tiny kitten makes. He takes slow, even breaths, counting them out.

He opens his eyes, watching your even and slow breathing, the same soft patterned cadence he wakes up to every morning.

“Baby,” he gently says, “let’s go to bed.”

Your eyes flutter open, and you smile up at him. His heart stutters at the sight of you stretching before looking down at Jefferson. “Whoops, I fell asleep.”

“S’okay, just don’t want to sleep on the couch all night, it’ll kill my back.”

“I know,” you say, sitting up with a yawn, gently cradling a still sleeping Jefferson against your chest.

He stands, stretching the slight ache from his knees, shuffling up the stairs to the bedroom as you follow, kitten pressed against your collarbone.

In the bedroom, Joel watches you nestle Jefferson into a folded blanket at the foot of the bed. He doesn’t even stir, your touch is that gentle.

When you climb into bed beside him, burrowing yourself into him, he wraps his arm around you with a contented sigh.

This is his home. He tries to remind himself that he deserves this life as he drifts off to sleep.

—-

When you wake, your body warmed by the sunlight shining in through the window, Joel is already up, propped up against the headboard, hunched over a paperback with his reading glasses on. Jefferson lies on his lap, curled and sleeping.

“Mornin’ baby,” Joel greets, gravelly and still husking with sleep.

You scoot closer to him, resting your head on his thigh.

“What do you want to do today?” he asks.

“Nothing,” you say. “Absolutely nothing.”

He smiles, setting the book on the nightstand. You reach over to pet Jefferson as Joel’s hand glides up your arm in a lazy, slow pattern. You two stay like that for a long time. Not saying anything at all, just cocooned together in the warmth of the sunlight and each other.

You used to count the hours until the next day, telling yourself that Joel had survived another 24 hours. Time used to be measured in the progression of his recovery, working through the fear and stress of healing him… now, time is measured differently. There are no hours to count, no days to make it through; now, time is counted in happy events, kisses, and lazy mornings in bed.

Jefferson stalks across the kitchen when you finally pull yourself out of bed. You fry the eggs and toast the bread, Joel sets the table, and feeds Jefferson.

Your feet rest on his lap as you sit across the table from him and enjoy your late breakfast, splitting a cup of coffee between the two of you.

After the dishes are cleaned, you spread out on the couch, Joel’s legs resting on the coffee table, your body stretched across the couch with your head against his chest. Joel’s choice of Spaceballs won over your choice of Bridget Jones’s Diary with a coin flip.

The blue text of the Spaceballs opening scroll begins as Jefferson investigates his cat tower, before climbing onto the top platform. He sits, observing the outside as you cuddle close against Joel, feeling the rumble of his quiet chuckles. 

It’s all so cozy and domestic, a perfect, lazy day with your perfect man and kitten.

—-

You’re sitting on the floor playing with Jefferson, moving the makeshift cat toy you made across the hardwood. Jefferson chases it, his little paws trying to catch the tassel. He loves watching you interact with him, the softness and sweetness that seems to exude from you.

It’s already 4 PM, and the two of you have done nothing today except cuddle on the couch and watch movies. He can’t remember the last day he’s had that’s been as easy as this.

He sits on the couch, a smile plastered on his face as you urge Jefferson to chase the toy.

“So, I was thinking,” you say, “maybe tomorrow Maria and Tommy want to come over? Introduce Benji to the cat. We can ask Ellie if she wants to bring Sally over.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I’ll make dinner, we’ll have a little party.”

“I’d like that,” Joel says, genuinely meaning it. He’s never been a get-together hosting type, but there’s something to the idea of you and him welcoming those he’s closest to into the home you share.

You scoop Jefferson up from the floor and join Joel on the couch, settling beside him. He immediately wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you against him. It always amazes him how well you fit against him.

“What movie tonight?” you ask, leaning your head on his shoulder.

"Hm, let's go classic. Alien?"

"Oh god," you sigh. "I haven't seen it. I heard it's terrifying."

"Mm, it is. But don't worry," he whispers, "I'll protect you."

You giggle. "Aww, my hero.”

His heart always swells at the sound of your joy.

—-

So, everyone was right, Alien is terrifying. You’re curled up on the couch, hiding your face against Joel’s body, practically sitting in his lap. Jefferson sleeps peacefully on the back of the couch, completely oblivious to the terror on the screen.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, burying your face against his shoulder.

He chuckles, pulling you into his lap, cocooning you between his broad chest and strong arms.

"I got you, baby," he says, his lips pressing against the top of your head.

There’s a quieter moment when the ship crew gathers for dinner, and you decide now to muster the courage and watch. "I know I've seen far scarier literally in real life. I know that, but oh my god, I can't deal with this."

You force yourself to watch, determined to make it through the film, but then Kane starts convulsing on the table and an alien bursts from his chest.

"Nope!" you scream, turning to nuzzle your face against Joel's strong, warm chest.

You choose instead to just watch Joel watch the movie, a far more entertaining option for you. 

He catches you ogling him. "Enjoying the movie?" he asks.

"Very much," you joke. "This might just be my favorite movie. A very handsome movie, in fact."

You stay in his arms, watching him watch the movie as the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, and his warmth lulls you to sleep.

“Baby,” Joel whispers. You open your eyes to find him looking down at you. “You can’t even make it through a full movie at night, can you?” he teases as you sit up.

You stretch. “You’re too comfortable.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, nodding towards the back of the couch. “Jefferson didn’t make it either.”

You both get up, Joel picks up Jefferson, and the three of you head to bed, another perfect day of your vacation coming to a close. 

—-

A/N: My taglist has grown too large. Please follow @whocaresposted and turn on notifications to be alerted about new chapters!

My perma tags: @forspringcleaning, @schnarfer, @mothandpidgeon

“What you got there, kiddo?” 

Ellie finally looks up, concentration still written all over her face, but it breaks into a big grin at Joel’s curious look. She’s clearly pleased to have been disturbed from her task. 

“You might want to put your glasses on for this one.” 

He groans, “Not more moths?” 

“Nope. Sam said she only had one photo with her mom, so I wanted to do a picture for them. Maybe you could use it as part of this grand romantic gesture you’re working on.” 

Joel tries to ignore his embarrassment at Ellie’s ribbing, how silly he feels that she’s watching him flounder around working out his feelings when really he should be past all that nonsense, shouldn’t he? He can feel himself becoming flustered, searching for some words but sort of just making a disgruntled ‘hmm’ noise instead, patting down his body to see if he’s put those stupid glasses somewhere about his person. 

Ellie giggles, points at the mantlepiece where his glasses are inexplicably sitting, a thin layer of dust on the lenses. He lets out a grumpy sigh, makes a big show of wiping the lenses clean on his plaid shirt as he walks round behind Ellie, places a hand on her matching plaid shoulder as he peers at the drawing. 

“Oh! Ellie! Babygirl, this is beautiful!” He’s genuinely shocked at what an effect the picture has on him, because it’s not just you and Sam, Ellie’s drawn all four of you. Delicate pencil lines pulling the shapes of all your faces clearly into view; careful shading has captured Sam’s big, curious eyes perfectly, your knowing half smile so well done he can feel the teasing warmth of it. The Joel in the drawing is looking at you, side profile etched with such thoughtfulness it’s bringing a lump to his throat. He can see through her work that Ellie knows, she has drawn all that she can see when Joel looks at you, that what it does in his heart is echoed in his face. She’s shown herself grinning, as if to a camera. 

“Yeah, you like it? It’s not too cheesy?”

He squeezes at her shoulder, swallows thickly, “Ellie, this is really special. They’re both gonna love it. We look…”

“Like a family?” 

Joel’s eyebrows raise up in surprise, “Is that what you’d like? You’d be ok with somethin’ like that?” Ellie shrugs a noncommittal shrug but he can see the corners of her mouth turning into a small smile, “I don’t even know what that somethin’ is if I’m being honest… I don’t know if I can promise you anything. I don’t want to mess it up and disappoint people.” 

“I see the way you look at her, and the way she is with you. Every time you call her ‘darlin’,’ she practically melts into the floor, even when she’s in a mood with you.” 

Joel chuckles, half astonished at how perceptive Ellie is but also aware that is one of the things that makes her so special; her intuition and her bravery, all tangled up in this fierce little creature he loves so much he doesn’t know what to do with it. She leans back against him, lets the shoulder squeeze become more of a half hug. 

“I won’t let anything change what we have, you know that don’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But I like her for you, she seems to get you. Was she always like this, when you knew her before everything went to shit?” 

He thinks for a moment. It’s hard to look back that far without it hurting, scratching at old wounds he tries so hard to forget, but he’s aware he doesn’t often talk to Ellie like this, that the moments when they quietly connect have become further apart as she continues to grow into her own person, small steps away from him that he can’t control however much he wishes he could. So he truly considers her question, tries to be as truthful as possible.

“She’s always been sort of magical to me? She can be hard and cold, but also so soft and kind when she lets you in. I think she’s that same person now, only, having Sam, havin’ a child, it does change you. Makes you vulnerable and scared, because, well, the only way I can explain it, it’s like having your heart outside of your body. All exposed.” 

Ellie’s face is solemn, serious, “Like with Sarah.” 

Joel makes sure he leans down, looks into her eyes, “And with you.” 

She gives him a watery smile, one that he can feel in his chest, this understanding they both carry, the connection he selfishly holds onto. But he knows it’s not quite the truth. What he’s done, who he’s had to become to make it through to moments like this, to have Ellie still by his side, alive, a life full of possibilities, he can’t explain that to her. She’d think him a monster, push him away.

He muses for a second that perhaps you would understand, that he’d witnessed flickers of that same kind of determination across your eyes when he’d admitted he’d do anything to keep Ellie safe. What was it you’d said to him? ‘Then we’re the same.’ 

Ellie leans away from him, picks up her pencil again, “I better get this finished, if it’s going to be ready for your Big Date tomorrow.” 

Joel huffs out grumpily, “Don’t call it that, I’m already stressed enough.” He likes the laugh Ellie lets out, it breaks the tension, helps distract him from the darkness that is threatening the corners of his mind, “Let me fix you a sandwich.” 

He pats her shoulder one last time, a sort of thank you, he hopes, not just for the picture, but for the blessing he didn’t know he was holding his breath for. 

You’re not nervous. You’re 100%, definitely not at all, nervous. Maria is wielding the scissors with a determined confidence, so why would you feel anything other than pleased to be under her care? 

Perhaps it’s because you’re thinking about yourself for the first time in, well, you don’t know how long. Forced to sit still and surrender to the process and actually look at your face in the mirror for once.

You used to love how you looked, not an ounce of shame in your vanity, you delighted in playing with your make-up and watching how your face changed as you added another thick layer of black eyeliner or lined your lips with a blood red pencil before you applied a slick of a Mac red. You didn’t think you were pretty, you never wanted to be pretty, but you knew you were striking, could cause some serious damage with a sharp look in any boy's direction, enabling you to twist them round your little finger with ease. You enjoyed the game of it all, the smudged look of the morning after the night before just as sexy as the freshly applied war paint. 

You lashes have been bare of mascara for so long, you’re not sure you’d recognise yourself. It almost feels too indulgent, too frivolous, even in the comforts of Jackson, to consider spending time and effort on such things. Yet the girl in you longs to look in the mirror and feel a touch of that pride again, to like your reflection and hold onto that power. 

You know it’s silly, but you also want to offer Joel a glimpse of what used to be. Yet you’re still scared you won’t like what you see. That Maria will finish cutting your hair and instead of feeling a bit like your old self, you’ll just see someone tired and irrevocably changed staring back at you. You’re not sure if you can handle the disappointment. You worry at your lip as you watch Maria try and tame your long neglected locks. 

Maria has let you sit in silence for a while, but you know she’s just warming up, readying to send a barrage of well-timed questions your way. You brace for impact. 

“How are you finding your work at the bakery, are you settling in ok?” 

An easy one to start, fine. 

“It’s great, I’ve always loved baking. Such a treat to be surrounded by fresh bread all day as well. Thank you for organising.”

“It was my pleasure, we’re lucky to have you there.”

There’s a slight pause, just the sound of the scissors slicing through hair for a few moments. 

“And Sam’s enjoying school?” 

“Oh she adores it, she was made for it, I swear. She’s already better at math than I ever was.” 

“That’s great. Good to see her getting on well with Ellie, that’s a sweet friendship. I think Sam is a positive influence on her.” 

You laugh, careful not to move your head too much, you don’t want to accidentally lose a few extra inches, “Yeah, it’s cute. Can’t say I’ve ever met anyone like Ellie before, she’s a force of nature.”

Maria smiles a knowing smile, keeps her voice level, but you see in the mirror how an eyebrow is raised slightly and you wait to see what she’s cooking, “Looks like Sam is warming up to Joel?”

You’re impressed, clever of her to go the Sam route rather than diving right in. You consider how much you want to share with her, if you’re ready to let yourself have a friend with insight into your thoughts when it’s just been you alone with them for long. It’s impossible not to think of how close you used to be to your girlfriends, how the original Sam had known you better than you’d known yourself, the intimacy of being loved and not judged, how  you missed that just as much as romance and passion. You take a deep breath.

“I hope so.” 

Maria nods with satisfaction, you can see she’s pleased at your answer, you dare a question of your own, “So does Joel talk to Tommy at all, about… about this?” 

“A little.” Her laugh snuffs out the disappointment you feel blooming in your chest that Joel might not have shared his thoughts with Tommy, “Don’t take it personally. He finds it difficult to talk about things. Tommy says he’s much more closed off than he ever used to be. The fact he’s been talking to Tommy at all shows it’s pretty serious. I know he’s been working hard getting ready for this Big Date.” 

You groan, feeling heat in your cheeks, “Don’t call it that, I’m already stressed enough.”

“Well I think that’s good. That you’re stressed I mean, shows it’s important to you. Not to add to the pressure, but we all need a bit of hope these days.” 

“Oh great, no pressure at all.”

You laugh together and it feels good, to share this moment, another small building block in your friendship. You dare a brief thank you hug when she finishes your hair and you don’t feel self-conscious as you admire yourself in the mirror, some of that nervous energy tingling in your fingers as you smile at your reflection. 

“I got you a couple things you might like to try on here, if you’d like? And Gail sent over some make-up supplies. I don’t know where she sources it from, it’s pretty impressive.” 

Maria insists you have a glass of whiskey with her as you slip into a delicate white blouse and somehow perfectly fitting jeans, spending a few moments to apply some lipstick as blush to the apples of your cheeks and a dab on your lips. You feel giddy with it all; with the girlishness of chatting to Maria while you get ready, the anticipation of seeing Joel, of what the evening might hold. It all swirls around in your chest, a heady mix that you’re daring to enjoy. 

Tommy’s arrival, a sleeping Benjamin wrapped against his chest, with Ellie and Sam in tow, both buzzing with excitement for their sleepover at Maria’s, is your cue to get ready to leave. They pile through the door front, sleeping bags and overnight things in their arms, delight on their faces. 

Tommy whistles in your direction, “Looking good darlin’! Joel isn’t going to know what to do with himself!” 

Ellie’s laugh is gleeful, “Oh man, he’s gonna have a heart attack, I swear.” 

“You look pretty, mama.” Sam wraps her arms around your waist, nuzzles her head into your side. You’re conscious you mustn’t linger, that the longer you stay with Sam, the harder it will be for you both to say goodbye. 

“Thank you, baby. You ready for your first sleepover? I’m excited for you! I bet Ellie has got you a midnight feast hidden somewhere in that pack.” 

Ellie’s smile is wonderfully smug, “Like you wouldn’t believe. Come on Sam, let’s go get set up by the fireplace.” 

Sam’s eyes go very big, a little fear now edged around the excitement, “If I get scared, will Tommy come get you?” 

“Of course, baby, you just holler and he’ll come get me. I won’t be far, I promise.” You squeeze her tight, pepper her little face with kisses, “I love you. Now be a good girl for Maria and I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“Night night, mama. Have fun!” 

You pull on your coat and call out your thanks to Maria, slipping out the door before you give yourself a chance to hesitate. The frozen ground is pleasingly crunchy under your feet as you make your way home, a little spring in your step that you can’t deny is excitement. 

The tug of a smile spreads across your face as you catch sight of Joel sat on your porch, waiting for you. 

Joel POV

The Bison is hot. The band is loud and it feels like most of Jackson has squeezed into the bar tonight, the heady energy in the room is making Joel flustered. He shifts uncomfortably in his good jeans, which suddenly feel a bit tight, moving from foot to foot to try and ease his discomfort. You have to shout to try and be heard and Joel has to crane his good ear towards you, but he still can’t quite make out what you’re saying half the time. 

It feels like there’s a physical barrier between the two of you, the music holding you apart rather than bringing you together. It doesn’t help that he can feel the warmth of what feels like a hundred eyes; it’s one thing to know people are talking about you both, it’s another to actually be able to sense the gossip moving around the room. He wants to put his arm around you, somehow make the jangling nerves calm, but the anxiety coursing through his veins keeps one hand wrapped around his drink and the other hangingly uselessly by his side. His eyes dart from face to face, briefly nodding in acquaintances' directions as they say good evening, but not starting a conversation with any of them. And he still can’t draw you closer. 

Joel feels stuck. All that planning and plotting but when it comes down to it, he’s still fucking it up. 

He’s getting frustrated. The excitement that was washing around his insides all day is slowly twisting into disappointment in his gut. A horrible kind of inevitability that maybe the reality is that you’ve both changed too much, the whole world has changed too much for this to be anything at all.

You look so beautiful it’s hurting his chest, but all his terrors of not being good enough, not worthy of love, they’re making him stupid. The images he had of you melting into his arms, glitter in your eyes as he spun you round for a dance, they feel delusional now he’s stood in the sweaty, uncomfortable atmosphere of the bar. There’s a hesitation from both of you that he can almost taste.

You try a, "Do you want to dance?” 

He knows he looks horrified and he can practically feel your heart actually sink, watching your shoulders lower and something like irritation itching at your skin. He has to shout to be heard, “I ain’t much a dancer these days.” 

Joel remembers that sulk well, the one he can see written all over your face now, finishing off the last drops of your drink in a way that’s practically petulant. The grump is infectious, a frown at his own face as he puts his own glass down onto the bar with a little bit too much force. He knows it’s not fair, that he could easily reach out to you, pull you up close and whisper sweetness into your ears, he just has to make himself do it. Feel all this fear but not let it keep stopping him. 

There’s a pause in the music, so he puts out his hand, tips your chin upwards and looks into your eyes, searching in the silence between you. Thinks again how he could look at your face forever, wants to imprint this new version of you into his mind and keep you safe there. A smile slowly creeps back onto both your faces, bubbling up into a shared laugh, a recognition of the absurdity of the situation. 

“Darlin’, let’s say we get out of here? I’ve got something I wanted to show you back at your place.” 

To his external relief you laugh again, “Oh thank god, yes, please.” 

The space between you closes, he wraps his arm around your shoulder, ignores all the stares and you walk together out of the doors. 

As you walk through the front door to your house, hand in hand, you pull Joel hard from behind you and in one smooth movement you lean back against the hallway wall and yank him along with you, pulling him tight against your chest. You feel no resistance, just the flow of your bodies connecting together as he leans down, slots a knee between your thighs and holds your face between his palms as he gently pins you against the wall. The weight of him divine, the solid presence of his breath on your neck making you feel dizzy and adored.

“Been wanting to do this all night, darlin’.”

You let your eyes run over that beautiful face, lit only by a single light coming from the kitchen along the hall, enjoying those dark, pleading eyes centered on you, plush lips open just a touch. You close your eyes for a second, brush your nose against his, before you lean back to admire him again. The look in his eyes is making you ache and you hope he feels the same looking into yours, that he can see how much you want this, want him. 

“I know, I know, me too. I don’t think we’re quite ready for big dates just yet.”

You wiggle slightly, enjoying the burn of his knee against the cotton of your jeans, and he groans, moves his mouth a tiny increment closer to yours and you roll your bottom lip against your teeth and tongue in anticipation, “This is better, just us.” 

You agree, move your lips to meet his, “Just us.” 

It’s easy to cast aside any awkwardness between you, because when Joel’s tongue chases yours, you find you can forget almost anything. Your whole being seems to vibrate with a different energy, one that matches perfectly the way he eats into you, soft and needy one moment and fierce and hungry the next, a push pull of desire that has you both almost breathless, soaked in each other’s spit and want. 

Your fingers toy with the curls at the nape of his neck, a hard tug to meet the way he pulls at your lip with his teeth, a shudder of pleasure running down both your spines. You find he’s kissed away all those doubts, instead the excitement and anticipation of the day is growing in your belly again, a wave of desire flooding your senses. You’re feasting on the taste of him, the familiarity of his scent and the soft scratch of his scruff against your skin as you kiss and kiss and kiss. 

“I gotta show you something, darlin’.” 

“Oh yeah? I think I’ve seen it before, Joel.” 

He chuckles, holds up a big hand in front of your face, “It’s your surprise, that big romantic gesture you wanted. Close your eyes.” 

You let him lead you forward, hand clasped over your eyes, resist the temptation to lick at the finger dangerously close to your mouth. You want to bite at him, take his thumb between your teeth and lick at the pad, hungry to have his skin beneath your tongue again. You remember it was like this before, never quite enough. You were always greedy for more of him, a need that sat both in your heart and between your legs, a heat that grew with every touch and demanded to be sated. 

“You ready?”

“I’m ready.” 

To be honest, you’re so focused on the throb of your pulse and the warmth of your cunt, that you’ve not even thought for a second what Joel might be showing you. So the reveal of the finished kitchen, painted a rich dark green and covered with delicate plants in terracotta pots truly makes you gasp in surprise. Among them, a long ivy trails along the top of the new cupboards, a trio of snowdrops perches by the window, a pretty fern sits on the kitchen island, all so alive and lush.  

“Fuck, Joel! Oh my god! You did all this? For me?” 

“I never forgot how much you loved your plants before, your apartment was always full of greenery and… well, it’s been on my mind since you moved in here. Do you like the colour? I discussed it at length with Sam and we decided this dark green was the one that you’d like most.”

“Joel, I adore it. Truly, it looks like something I would have torn out of a magazine and stuck on my fridge. Thank you, thank you so much.”

A sly smile reaches his eyes with a twinkle, “Better than before?”

You use the flat of your palm to push him gently in the chest, teasing, “Don’t push it, Joel Miller. I’m still workin’ on forgiving you for that mess.” 

He wraps his arms around your shoulders and you lean back to kiss him your thanks, softer, more tender, the forgiveness already caressing his skin. 

There are two more things sat on the counter and Joel nods towards them, “Ellie did you a little somethin’. And… I made you, um, I made you a mixtape? Fuck, that sounds lame when I say it out loud. Makes me feel old.” 

You swat him on the arm half heartedly, “None of that, Joel. This is all too much, it feels like my birthday or something.”

“I like doing things for you. I always liked doing things for you. Makes me feel good, useful.” 

You skip over to the counter, eyes drawn immediately to Ellie’s incredible drawing. You turn your whole body towards Joel, mouth open in awe, “Holy shit, this is amazing. Joel, she’s made us…” 

“…look like a family?” 

You nod furiously, you can’t get any words out right now, those Jackson tears are back, filling your eyes to the brim, but in a way that feels good. An overwhelm of happiness that Ellie could be thinking these things and then spending time creating something for you that shared those thoughts. 

“Joel, I’m gonna need you to put that tape on, otherwise I’m going to start bawling. Please tell me it’s full of Britney Spears to lighten the mood.” 

He laughs, that gorgeous low wheeze, the one that lights his eyes on fire, pulls the skin tight around the apples of his cheeks, “Darlin’, I might have misjudged this slightly if that’s what you were after.”

Joel slides the tape out of the cover, hands you the handwritten track list. You haven’t seen his handwriting in twenty years, but something about looking at his familiar scrawl is so incredibly nostalgic. You didn’t realise you’d missed seeing it all this time. You take in all the names, the bands you used to have albums of, stacked up by your CD player, posters on your walls as a teen; Fleetwood Mac, Radiohead, Massive Attack and Nick Drake all listed in Joel’s black-inked script. 

The unmistakable sound of Jeff Buckley drifts into the kitchen, followed by the heady scent of incense, and you’re trying not to grin too hard as Joel comes back into the room, arms outstretched. 

“Might take you up on that offer of a dance now, if that’s ok, darlin’?” 

“I reckon so,” you rest your head on those broad shoulders for a moment. “This is one of the most thoughtful things anyone has ever done for me, Joel, even from the before.” 

You lift your head slowly and he twirls you round once, so gently, that your feet feel light on the floor. The music fills your heart and lifts you onto your tiptoes so you can cross your arms behind Joel’s neck and kiss at his face and throat, little tiny thank yous that cover him in your devotion, your tongue salty from his skin. 

You rub at the heart shaped patch in his beard with your thumb as your mouth finds his, the bliss of connection swaying you in time to the music and each other.

It’s a dizzying rush as you try and make your way up the stairs together, a tangle of limbs and discarded clothes, the press of your bodies against the wall and then the banister with no regard for how much weight it can bear; no thoughts other than skin against skin, tongues playful and hands tugging. 

It’s like being thrown headfirst into a dream, something so uncanny in the way you know exactly how Joel feels and yet it’s new; the same but different. The way his head tilts as he licks into you, the press of his thumb against your chin, the scratch of his scruff against your cheek. It’s an alchemy of recollections and new sensations that makes those dreadful years melt away and it’s just the two of you together again, bound by chemistry so strong that pleasure is your only purpose right now. You pull at the buttons on his shirt with swift fingers, uncovering his skin, still golden in the depths of winter, and you find you’re thanking the stars that you get to cover him in kisses, drown him in your devotion, make him feel so loved and adored that the atmosphere around you is thick with bliss. 

This man, your man, you know he deserves all the love you can lavish on him. 

He carries you the last few steps to the bedroom, your arms wrapped around his neck, knees tight against his chest in the bridal hold, one sock still remaining on your otherwise bare legs. You laugh, round, happy, as you yank off the offending article in a way that shouldn’t be sexy, but somehow feels like you’re unwrapping yourself for him, the gift of your body to Joel. As he places you reverentially on the end of the bed, he takes a hold of that same foot, the warmth of his hand seeping into the arch and you point your toe like a ballerina. The way he’s looking at you, the hunger and the softness all blurred together, it’s making you feel so powerful, no hint of shame in your near nakedness or the body you now inhabit. 

He squeezes his hand, places a kiss on the inside of your ankle, “Gonna kiss every inch of you, darlin’, make you mine again.” 

You gaze at him, eyes heavy with sex, “Take your shirt off, Joel, I want to be able to see all of you.” 

The shirt is half undone anyway, so it only takes him a moment to shuck it off, leaving him in just his boxers. The hard outline of his cock makes you groan. You ignore his plan, fly up from the bed and kiss at him again, hand greedily rubbing against the cotton of his boxers and seeking out his want for you.

“Fuck, Joel, I remember this so clearly… how you feel, how turned on I get with your cock in my hand.” You sneak your fingers under the elastic of his waistband and wrap your hand around him; thick, heavy, just as you dreamed it. You whine, “I need it, I need you.” 

You begin to move, a pulse of want, but Joel’s hand is at your wrist, stopping you, a smirk on that beautiful pout. “Yeah, I remember too, darlin’. I remember as well how fun it was to tease you, have you begging for me to fuck you. Don’t think I’m gonna miss that opportunity now I have you again, am I?” 

You groan as he pushes you back down onto the bed, forceful in a way that only heightens your excitement. He turns you onto your front, unhooks your bra and unceremoniously chucks it on the floor, covering your body with his and kissing at your neck whilst he pushes your thighs apart and grinds himself against where you need him most. You can feel your cunt throbbing for him, a rhythm of desire as he slides his hardness in time with the beat of your pulse; you push back against him slowly, deliciously.  

You want to bite down on something and almost as you think it, Joel snakes his thumb into your mouth. You take it gratefully, teeth hard against the pad, tongue licking at it. The joy of it all is making your eyes roll into the back of your head, a groan of pleasure escaping your throat. 

“You like that still, darlin’? You like feeling how much I want you?” 

You nod furiously, unwilling to let go of his thumb just yet. 

“Yeah I know, you’re soaking through these panties. already so wet for me, aren’t you?”  He whispers into your ear, a tingle running down your spine as his words drip in like honey, “I’ve never forgotten how good you taste, darlin’. Keep thinking about taking you apart with my fingers, fucking you with my tongue, I wanna make you come so hard you’re seeing stars.” 

He pulls his thumb out, drags it against the wetness of your lip before he crushes his mouth against yours, sloppy, needy. You hiss a ‘fuck’ as he lifts his weight off you, wriggles your panties off and then spreads your legs again. He bites at you first, teeth against the plushness of your arse whilst he lets his fingers explore, dipping into your wetness as he kisses between your thighs. 

“Fuck, Joel, feels so good, always felt so good with you. Always.” 

You lift your hips, resting on your forearms and looking over your shoulder so you can watch as he eats into you from behind, his groans of pleasure adding to the heavenly sensations of his mouth and fingers. You feel a tight coil building in your belly as his tongue laps at you and his finger rubs tight circles on your clit. 

“Joel,” you moan, it’s all you can do, you can’t find any other words. A rush of memories is flooding your mind and you can’t help but think of all the times you were like this together before, how somehow he still knows just how to turn you into a puddle of neediness, make your legs begin to shake with the pleasure of it, soft enough to feel playful and fun, hard enough to create the intense heat that’s about to consume you whole. 

He turns you over once more, burying his face in your soaking cunt, nose rubbing at your clit as he pushes two fingers into you, curling them just right as you begin to lose all reason. 

“Fuck, fuck, Joel, I’m coming, I’m coming,” a cascade of swears trips from your lips as the heat crashes into your cheeks and your orgasm washes over you. You grab onto fistfuls of his thick hair, let the pleasure thrum through you as he drinks up your release, nosing you as the aftershocks pulse through you and make you feel so soft you might just melt into him completely.

“Fuck, Joel, that was so good.” You reach for him, desperate to have his lips against yours again, the warmth of his tongue and the taste of your release making your head spin with ecstasy.

“Still the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, you coming apart like that, darlin’.” You hook your leg over his hip, pull him as close to you as possible, angle yourself so he can push his cock into you and you both sigh with the relief.

He brushes your hair out of your eyes, kissing at your cheeks as he moves slowly within you, a gentle rhythm that you meet with a rock of your hips, gradually stretching around him so that the ache becomes pure pleasure. 

“Didn’t think I’d ever get to feel like this again, darlin’.” He looks into your eyes, his own blown black with desire, whispering secrets into your skin, “I never felt the same way, you know, it was never like this again.” 

The smile that reaches your eyes dances across your lips, “I know Joel, I know. It was the same for me.” 

The vulnerability, being this exposed physically and emotionally, it locks you together. You’re both on your sides now, your hand wrapped around the back of his neck as you slide against each other, face to face, so lost in one another it’s impossible to know where you begin and he ends. Your breasts are pressed against Joel’s hard chest, his strong arms pulling you up and down as his cock fills you again and again, the bliss of connection making your kisses desperate. 

“I can’t…” he gasps, “I gotta come darlin’, it’s too much, fuck, you feel so good.” 

“I want you to, I want to feel it.” 

You roll onto your back, legs over his shoulder as he fucks deep into you, thumb back at your clit as you both fall apart, messy, magical, bound together in your bliss. As you come around his cock, Joel’s release is accompanied by a moan of pleasure so divine you feel it in your chest. He literally collapses onto you, a tangle of limbs and sated happiness. 

Joel kisses at your lips with the kind of softness that you only feel when you’re this close, breath mingling together as one, sweat and lust on both your skin, “There you are, my girl.” 

“And there you are, my man.”

PREV / NEXT

My Masterlist / Series Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Tagging in some pals (please let me know if you'd like to be taken off/added on)

@katareyoudrilling @sin-djarin @sizzlingcloudmentality

@yopossum @youcancallmeelle @aurorawritestoescape @almostfoxglove

@evolnoomym @magpiepills @maggiemayhemnj @sp00kymulderr @ghotifishreads

@jessthebaker @bitchwitch1981 @beefrobeefcal @arcane-fox @oliveksmoked

@laughing-in-th3-purple-rain @copperhalfcent @sixhours @bergamote-catsandbooks

And the Are you ready to love me tag list (continued in the reblog)

@there1snothingleft4u @givemeth @umadirectioner

@registeredbelcher55 @tangled-tumbler-blog-blog @missladym1981 @casa-boiardi

@soci0plath @jazzimac1967 @fanf1ctionislife @chewie-bars @fallout-girl219

“Let me guess, flying visit? When are you leaving?”

Dieter’s smile fades quickly, “Whiskey commercial. My flight is tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll miss you then.”

“You can have me now? All of me.”

It’s hard not to scoff, you let a mean, sharp laugh out at the very idea, “Dieter, I never get to have all of you, it’s always these ridiculous stolen moments where you belong to someone else… the studio, the people shooting an ad, the PR guy… your wife? You know you’re never mine.” 

You shudder at the cruelty in your tone, wish you’d been able to cool it before it slapped him in the face. You haven’t seen each other in years, why is your first impulse to push hard against him, hurt him with little jabs, your words like sharpened nails scratching at his skin? He looks so broken, eyes downcast and shoulders slumped. 

“Ex-wife.” It’s practically a whisper. 

You take a breath so hard your whole body tilts back, unsteady, a dizziness descending down your spine, making you unsteady on your feet for half a second. Your sarcastic reply dies in your throat and your hand instantly reaches up around yourself, feeling the rush of your pulse against your fingers. Your grip stills the jumble of words that almost spill out. 

A useless, “Oh,” falls from your lips instead. 

You had no idea. He hadn’t told you, hadn’t thought to send one text, not even a rushed email. He’s ended his marriage so quietly even the gossip mags didn’t know. You have to remember to take another breath. 

Dieter’s eyes lift to meet yours for a just moment; pleading, questioning, “I should have told you, but I… well… I wanted things to be different this time and we hadn’t spoken in so long. I didn’t know how to break back in, to be us again.” You watch as he swallows thickly, “Maybe now, maybe I can truly be yours? No pretending.” 

And you don’t mean it to happen, but you can feel hot tears filling your eyes. You have to turn away, purposefully root around in the Chanel bag slung over your shoulder for a lighter, so you don’t have to meet his eyes. You roll the cigarette in your lips gently from side to side in your anxiety. Hope your mascara won’t betray you.

You will the tears back, refuse to let them escape, ignore their sting, “D, this is a lot. I need a moment to think.” 

You’re both a little better at silences now. He waits patiently. Well, as patient as Dieter fucking Bravo can ever be. That nervous energy always bubbling underneath, feet unable to be still, a tap tap tap coming from his hotel-slippered toes as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. He grips a glass of whiskey low in his large hands, dropped down unnaturally to be level with the loops of the dressing gown belt. He jiggles the glass so the ice rattles against the sides. 

He shuffles a little closer, fingers lightly grazing your fluorescent bob, head cocked to one side, “I like the pink on you…” He tucks a tiny bit behind your ear, so soft, so gentle, as if every part of him is calling out to you, “Let’s get out of here shall we, angel?” 

You glance up from your bag, let your gaze linger on those sad, deep, dark eyes that hurt you just by looking in your direction, “Dieter, it’s pouring with rain? It’s 11 at night?”

He throws back his whiskey, places the now empty glass on the marble side next to him. He closes the gap between you, reaches out a hand to grip yours, silver rings hard against your trembling fingers, “Do you care? Did we ever care?” 

You finally find the lighter, waste not a second more in igniting your long, thin cigarette and taking a smooth drag, letting your eyes flick up and down Dieter. It’s the same boy, it’s always your same boy. Maybe a little more tired around the eyes, maybe the mess of his hair a smidge wilder, maybe a touch more greys flecked into that patchy beard. You wonder if he’s doing the same to you, appraising if you’re changed? How you’ve weathered the years since you last ran into each other in a hotel halfway round the world and somehow, somehow, not been surprised that fate has brought you together again. 

The loss of your life. The permanent missed connection. You’ve let go so many times it’s a wound that’s become a scar, it doesn’t even itch any more. Fine, sometimes, in the middle of the night when you’re barely conscious, you do feel a prickle in your skin. Where it used to be soft and smooth, now there are eternal indents, ridges where he once was, flesh knitted together in a way that isn’t quite right. 

Seeing him now, it picks at what felt like it was almost healed.

But you still wait for him. In a sad, lonely-looking chair by the elevator, while he leisurely makes his way to his room to put on some actual pants. You throw away the wig, sit and smoke, try to keep your mind blank, stop yourself from rushing to all the corners where you hide the decades of Dieter mementos. You keep them packed up normally, safely in boxes behind doing taxes and standing in long queues and books you never finished. Places you don’t rummage around in too often, so he can’t escape and haunt you with his stupid lopsided grin and the way he whines ‘angel’ when he comes. 

He finally reappears when you’re on your second cigarette. 

As you step into the street Dieter opens a huge Suntory whiskey umbrella to shelter you from the cascading rain. He’s a walking advert for the drink he’s here to promote, although you question the wisdom of the marketing director who selected a Hollywood star just as famous for his frequent stays in rehab, as his Oscar. 

“I thought you were in recovery?” You try to keep your voice neutral, know that your judgment never does any good, never changes anything. 

He shrugs his shoulders, “California sober. And Hibiki 17 year. Maybe the 12 year at a push.” 

There’s a sharp tension in your jaw that you ignore, your tone still soft, “Not the hard stuff?”

“No, not since… well, you know.” 

You do know. Keep that particular episode in an entirely different place. Can’t keep it upstairs and around to infect the other memories. It has its own special place in your chest, locked tight. 

He wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulls you in close and you let him. The bright lights that surround you, the noises of the street, you feel like you’re entering a doorway into the future and it’s not quite real. Yet you are very much here, the now impresses itself upon you; it’s in the smell of the rain, in the familiar sound of Dieter’s gravelly voice as he nervously fills the silence. His voice has deepened with age, yet it’s somehow softer, an echo of all the Dieter’s you’ve known and loved. 

You’re not sure where you’re walking to, just focus on putting one foot in front of the other, instantly in step with Dieter, sure strides together across the shiny wet pavement. 

“Do you dream of me, angel? I dream of you all the time. Not anything creepy, just like, ordinary shit. And then when I wake up, it’s weird that you’re not there.”

You stop abruptly, a jarring moment where he sort of tumbles a bit against you as his body had expected you to keep walking. 

He takes a deep breath, resets himself, “I know, I know, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say shit like that to you.”

“It doesn’t do any good, D.” 

You purposefully won’t catch his eye, keep looking forward into the hazy futurescape before you. You resume walking and you can feel his grip on you getting tighter, almost like he’s worried you’re going to slip away into the night, into the rain, if he doesn’t hold you close enough. 

He finally gives into your need for silence and you thank him by winding your arm around his waist. Thicker maybe than it once was, a softness that you find you want to squeeze against. You always fitted just right, all these years. You could slide into each other like no time had ever passed. Kisses, fucking, fingers through fingers. You just fit. 

A jagged feeling of dread runs down your spine. You didn’t always fit. You hurt each other in ways that obliterated the natural comfort that once existed. You weren’t a puzzle waiting to be put back together; you were fire meets fire, you were mutually assured destruction. 

You shake your head, as if that will stop this cascade of negativity, these same old stories you’ve told yourself one hundred times before. You were toxic and confused, twisted up in other people’s lives and never ready for each other, but what could you be now?

“It would have to be different this time, D. We’d have to be different.” 

He squeezes his hand at your shoulder playfully, “No boyfriends? No fiancés? No wives?” 

You knock your hip against him, “I’m being serious, D. No drugs either. And no scaring me to death by looking for answers at the end of too many lines, please?” Your voice cracks a little, your fingers tight at his flesh, kneading at it a little, finding comfort in the warmth and softness of him. 

Dieter whispers into the shell of your ear, “No running away from our feelings and shouting at each other in the middle of the street?” 

You suddenly realise that you’re soaked through, the downpour is so heavy that even the giant branded umbrella has done no good. Fat drops of rain are bouncing off the ground and hitting your exposed skin. You both start laughing at the same moment and hearing Dieter’s familiar wheeze is a strange kind of relief. You hate it because it stings, pokes at you and your closed doors, but it also makes you smile mindlessly, mirror it with your own breathless laughter. 

There’s a sense of freedom that’s opening up, one neither of you have experienced together before. Just as quickly as the dread flooded your senses, this new feeling crawls into your chest; a lightness, a warmth that tastes like a sweetness. 

You think you’re beginning to understand now, that you don’t have to be defined by this shared, tortured past. As chaotic and as messy as it has always been, perhaps it’s the love that will bleed through to the present and somehow you can leave the doubt and the hurt behind. That’s what it feels like now, wandering these streets you’ve never encountered before, wrapped in Dieter’s arms and walking into the unknown. You are safe. You are loved. 

The invisible strings of your life are tugging you both into place one last time. It feels like there’s finally a chance to rewrite the prophecy that you and Dieter forced upon yourselves. A break in the timeline, a pause where you can at last make sense of it all, together.

Dieter tips the umbrella to the side and you both hold out your palms to feel the rain against your hands. Let it run down your neck, wash away some of the heaviness that was hanging between you both. You’re still giggling as he takes a hold of your soggy hand, the painted black nails of your fingers intimately linking together. He runs with you to find cover under a brightly lit canopy. 

You want to kiss him now. An inevitability that there’s no point in fighting. He can see it in your eyes and he looks so fucking grateful, so fucking soft, that you stand on your tiptoes and reach out to stroke at his scruff. He leans into your hand, pressing himself against your touch. 

“I love you, angel.” 

“I know.”

“And you love me too?”

“I’ve always loved you, D.” 

Dieter lifts up his hand so his thumb caresses your cheek, as he’s done a hundred times before, like it was made to be there. You know he’s got a confession, you can feel it seeping into your skin, so you wait. You wait and you hope. 

“Back at the hotel, I cancelled my flight. I’m staying here with you.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes, but a small smile edges its way onto your lips, “Oh yeah? For how long?” 

“I was thinking… for as long as you’ll have me? Maybe… maybe we try forever this time?” 

Somewhere, a door opens. You take a deep breath, step through it.

“Oh, D. Yes, yes, I think so too.” 

His arms envelop you and you sink into them. You’re both wet and clammy but the discomfort feels right, there are no perfect moments. Even if it does feel sort of perfect when his always warm lips meet your always cold ones, when he pulls you even closer and your mouth opens to beckon him in.

When his tongue finds yours, you don’t feel a surge of electricity, you finally feel peace.

Series Masterlist / PREV

All images Pinterest & dividers from @saradika-graphics

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