bibi

Almost half a day sitting around watching Everly try on dresses and you can’t help but think of everything you could have done. You have a paper due this week and extra studying can never hurt. Even just the thought of a nap feels more productive than watching lace and chiffon swirl around her perfect figure.

“We done?” Andy growls as he stands by the door.

Everly shrugs into her cream-coloured jacket and smirks, tilting her head.

“Daddy, you can go home. Me and my friends are going to catch up!” She chimes. “It’s been a long time since we all got together.”

You shift awkwardly. You were unaware of these plans and you suspect you might not have been factored in. You chew your lip.

“Give me your credit card,” Andy steps closer to Everly.

“What?” She squeals.

“Now,” he holds out his large palm.

“But daddy–”

He doesn’t budge. He glares at her and you rock in your shoes. You glance at the door. Would anyone notice if you just ran out?

Everly pouts and puffs. She digs in her purse and rolls her eyes as she hands him the card. He pulls out his wallet and slides the card inside. He thumbs through the bills inside and counts several out.

“Make it last. You’ll get your card back when you can be responsible,” he says.

“Daddy, that’s not fair,” she whines.

He flinches and pulls the bills away from her. She gasps and clings on to the money. He growls.

“Okay, daddy. I’ll be good.” She promises.

He clings to the bills and they stand in a tug-of-war. He narrows his eyes and finally lets go. She clasps her other hand over the money protectively.

“Don’t even think of using your digital card. I’m locking the account,” he warns.

“Daddy.” She groans.

“More than enough for you to get by,” he intones flatly.

“Whatever,” she sneers. “Come on, let’s just get out of here.” She shoves the money into her purse. “Why are you always so mean?”

She stomps past him and he rumbles. He turns as she struts by you, not so much as looking at you. You put your hands behind you and wring them.

“You going with them,” Andy asks under his breath. You flinch and look at him.

“I’m just going to go home and study…” you say quietly, “Um, you have fun.”

Everly turns and bats her lashes, as if she didn’t even see you. “Oh, honey, no! You should come with us!”

You’re too embarrassed. You don’t want to be the third wheel. Or the ninth. You shrug.

“It’s fine. I have to do my schoolwork,” you insist. “Really, you have fun.”

“Are you sure?” She asks.

“I’m sure.” You say. “Really, I can catch the bus.”

“Oh, but you’ll have to come over tomorrow.” She insists and pulls you into a hug. “Maybe help me look up some more dresses! It’s going to take forever to make up my mind.”

Andy sniffs and you stand stiffly in Everly’s embrace. She lets you go and you force a smile. She turns and grins at her friends.

“Come on. I have the perfect place, you guys.”

She shimmies and hurries out the door. The girls follow her but not without cautious glances in your direction. No, not yours. Andy’s.

You go to trail them out the door and he follows. He extends his arm over your shoulder and opens the door from behind. You step out as his jacket tickles your back.

“You don’t gotta take the bus. I’ll drive you.” He says.

“Oh, um, thank you but… students get a free bus. I can get home,” you assure him as you face him, swaying nervously.

“Free? Not really, is it? Comes out of your tuition,” he counters.

“Erm, I guess,” you chuckle nervously. “But you probably have to go home too. It must be far.”

“Not worried about me,” he intones. “You’ll be waiting for as long as it takes me to get you back.”

You want to refuse. You want to just go back to your dorm and decompress. After all the tension and the new faces, you really can’t take much more thinking. You were looking forward to finishing your podcast on the bus too.

He watches you so intently your scalp itches. You look down and play with the button on your sweater.

“Okay. Thank you, Andy. It’s very nice of you.” You say.

“Hm.” He hums.

He turns and you follow him. He waits so you walk beside him, not behind him. He leads you to his silver SUV.

He opens the passenger door. You grab the inside and the set and haul yourself up. Your toe slips and he catches you with his hand just above your ass, his other on your hip.

“You okay?” He asks.

“Sorry, I… didn’t realise it was so high up,” you wiggle out of his grasp and sit. “I’m okay.”

He stares at you a moment. “Good,” he drawls, then shuts the door.

He goes around and gets into the driver’s seat. You pick at your cuffs as you stare through the windshield and wait. He turns the engine and grips the wheel, twisting to see behind him. His hand is just above your shoulder.

He pulls out and cranks the wheel, turning the car straight. He drives quietly, his knuckles paling as the steering wheel creaks. He clears his throat as he waits to turn out of the lot.

“What do you study?” He asks.

“Microbiology,” you answer.

He whistles. “Wow. Heavy load.”

“I… guess. It’s… a lot.” You cross your arms and try to roll the tension out of your shoulders.

He doesn’t respond.

Silence slowly rolls over you. Your cheeks go hot as your mind races. You watch the road. It’s too quiet.

“Er… what do you… do?” You ask quietly.

At first, he doesn’t answer. You glance over, thinking he didn’t hear you. He slides his hands down the wheel, his grip not so tight.

“Law.” He says. “Got a practice and all that.”

“Oh, wow. Everly never said…” you murmur.

“Her favourite topic is herself,” he tuts. “She’s my daughter but she’s got a lot of growing up to do.”

“I don’t… I guess…” you stammer. You don’t want to insult Everly. She’s always been nice to you. Maybe oblivious but not malicious.

“Don’t worry, I know you’re too sweet to agree with me.” He says. “But I hope she learns a thing or two from you.”

“Hm, yeah, she’s… we’re both pretty young.” You say.

He exhales audibly and lifts his chin. “Hey, sweetheart,” he says. “You mind if I make a pit stop? It’ll save me some time on my way outta town.”

You shrug. He’s nice enough to offer you a ride. You’re not going to complain.

“Sure, if you need to, Mr. Barber.”

You walk at her heels, anxious as you peek down at your phone. You’ve been trying to check your grades all morning but the site won’t load. For all the funding thrown at the sports teams, you think they could spare a bit for some software upgrades.

It’s the weekend and you should be enjoying it. You should be as happy for your friend as she is. You wish you could just forget for that day but you can’t help but hyperfixate on the thought. You can’t afford the dip in your GPA. One course could bomb your whole scholarship.

“I called ahead to make sure they had all the designers I like and—” She stops suddenly and you hit her elbow. Your phone falls out of your hand. You frown. “Daddy?”

You bend to pick up your phone. As you stand, you see her father, waiting by a silver car. He’s in a dark suit, just like the other night, and his jaw is set in stone. You cradle your cell as you trail behind Everly.

“What’s going on?” Your friend asks unevenly.

“Going to try on dresses. Isn’t that right?” He intones.

“Um, yeah, but… like, me and my friends, daddy.” She puts her hands on her hips. “It’s kinda a girl thing.”

“It’s kinda a family thing.” He rebuffs. “If I’m paying for it, I get a say.”

“Ugh, Daddy,” she whines.

“Don’t be ungrateful,” he warns. “Now, come on. Don’t want to be late and lose the deposit.”

“Why do you have to ruin everything?” She bounces on her square heels.

He tuts and tilts his head. They stare at each other silently. Finally, she stomps and steps around him. He turns to open the car door and she flops into the front seat. You sway and turn to look over your shoulder.

“Coming?” The deep grizzle jars you back to Everly’s father as he shuts the passenger door.

“Oh, er, I guess,” you near awkwardly as you clutch your phone.

 You peek down shyly and slump at the sight of the crack down the middle of the screen. You forgot the dang protector fell off in your chem lab. You don’t look up as you feel him watching you.

He puts his hand on the back door as you near. You stop on the curb as he clears his throat. “We didn’t get to meet. Formally.” He drawls. “Andy.” He offers his hand. “And you?”

You look at him and your lips part slightly. You press the screen to your shirt, hiding the damage and glance at his large hand. You swallow dryly.

“If you don’t got a name, I can just call you sweetheart,” he says.

You blink and snap your mouth shut. You take his hand gently. His fingers firmly enclose yours and he squeezes. He shakes your hand as you utter your name.

“Pretty,” his blue eyes twitch. You let go but he doesn’t. He watches you a moment before he releases you and opens the back door. “Don’t forget to buckle up.”

You slide into the back seat and he softly closes the door. You lay your phone in your lap and pull down the seatbelt. Everly clucks.

“Whatever my dad’s nagging you about, don’t listen to him,” she sneers.

You don’t say anything. You look around the interior; lamb grey leather and vinyl. You make yourself as small as you can, afraid to mess any of it up.

Andy gets in the driver seat and hits the ignition. You scoop up your phone and run your thumb over the crack. The screen lights up and the lock bobbles up and down. You try to stop it but it won’t respond, it just keeps glitching. Great, how are you going to replace that?

“Everyone got their belts on?” Andy asks. He doesn’t sound as scary then; just like a concerned dad… or what you always imagined one sounded like.

You peek up and your eyes meet his in the rearview. You nod. “All good,” you murmur.

“Dad, just go,” Everly harrumphs. “The others are already at the boutique.”

“The others? I hope that doesn’t include Christina,” he shifts and checks his blindspot.

“Which one?” She giggles. Christina P and Christina D.” She taunts him. “And Marina and Sheyanne and Cece and Yazmin and Millie.”

Andy sighs. “That’s a lot.”

“I narrowed it down to eight. Seven bridesmaids and a maid of honour.” She counters. “I started with twenty.”

“Wow, self-control.” He scoffs back at her.

“I could’ve eloped…” she teases.

“I’d be dragging you back myself,” he growls. He sighs again and his grip strains the leather on the steering wheel. He coughs and shifts in his seat. “You alright back there?”

“I’m fine,” you squeak.

You’ll be all too happy to dissolve into nothing. The air is thick between them. You can’t imagine what your dad would do if you had that attitude with him. Or spent ten thousand dollars on holding a time slot. You try not to think of any of it. You see him at Christmas and that’s more than enough for either of you.

He drives on as you mourn your phone. You could try to move some money around or skip a few meals. You don’t like financing. It’s all interest. Used phones aren’t bad. This is a refurb from a neighbor back home. You could find an outdated model and pay a tenth of brand new.

The car slows and turns down a narrow driveway between buildings. A sign in cursive demarcates the parking area. Andy pulls in and quiets the engine.

He gets out and tucks his keys in his pocket. You put your phone in your sweater pocket as he comes around to open his daughters door and yours. He’s overly polite. You thank him as you get out and she stomps off towards the boutique.

He closes the doors and watches her strut away. He turns to you as you hug yourself and chew your lip.

“Ladies first,” he waves you ahead of him.

You thank him again and set off in Everly’s steady state. You go up to the front door, a white grate with gold roses attached to the bars. She’s already inside. You grab the handle but it doesn’t budge.

“Here,” Andy catches up and pushes the doorbell along the frame, a little label directing you to ‘ring the bell’. You cringe.

The intercom greets you. “Welcome to LaLa Rose. How may we help you?”

“My daughter just walked in. Everly Barber.” He says staunchly. “My card is on file.”

The door buzzes and the handle releases. You pull it open and he catches the grate. You flinch as he gently nudges your lower back, urging you in ahead of him. You evade him as you flit inside. You’re greeted by a woman in a sleek blush pants suit.

“Mr. Barber. I’m Rita. We’ve already shown Everly to the showroom. She’s looking around with her party.” The woman clasps her hands together. “May I get you some champagne? Or take your coat?”

“No,” he growls.

“And…” she glances at you. “Your wife?”

You blink and snort. He peers over at you and you blanch. You look between the two of them.

“Oh no, I’m… with Everly. I’m her friend.”

“Of course, of course,” she accepts. “My mistake.”

You went to the supermarket? Joel was there, watching the way you moved between the aisles, like he wanted to rip that dress off you right there. A jog in the park? He was jogging too, catching every bounce, every sway. An evening at the bar with your friends? Yep. There he was, leaning against the counter, hungrily drinking in the sight of you, like you were made for him to want. You told yourself it was coincidence, what happens in a town with one bar and one supermarket, but that didn’t stop the heat crawling up your thighs every time his gaze roamed over you.

And it wasn’t just his eyes. It was the way he talked too, those low, gruff words he muttered whenever you passed by, like he wasn’t supposed to say them out loud, but couldn’t help himself. “Damn, look at them fuckin’ titties,” he’d growl. “Goddamn, that ass is sinful, girl.” “Shoot, sugar… I’d bend you over and fuck you till you screamed on this big ol’ cock.” You always pretended not to hear him. You weren’t some prude or a virgin, but you’d been raised with manners and modesty. You weren’t the type to throw yourself at a man in his sixties, some rough-and-ready redneck who ogled you like a piece of meat and spoke nothing but cruel, filthy words.

Tonight was a hot summer night, and like most Saturdays, you found yourself at the local bar with your girlfriends. Joel Miller was there too, sitting alone at the counter, knocking back beer after beer while grumbling with the bartender, but even then, he couldn’t take his eyes off you. You watched him narrow those hungry eyes, lick his lips, shift in his seat like he was uncomfortable. His hand kept drifting to the front of his jeans, tugging at his cock in a way that was supposed to hide his erection, but the shameless way he did it told the real story. Truth was, Joel had never been this twisted over a woman before. It wasn’t just your sweet little body, it was you. That sweet personality, the way you blushed, pretending not to hear his filthy mutterings, while every inch of your body was built for sinning.

He followed you around town every damn day, like a predator that couldn’t help himself. A lonely, horny old man with nothing better to do than watch his pretty girl go about her life. You bending down at the supermarket, reaching for that box of cereal? Tits spilling out of your tank top just enough to drive him insane? His cock jumped instantly, straining against his jeans. He had to bolt to his beat-up pickup, shove his hand down his pants, and jerk himself raw. His hand moved fast, slick with his own precum, imagining you on your knees, taking him down, hands clutching his thighs, the way your mouth would wrap around him, hot and wet, gagging as you took every inch. God, he wanted to see you swallow it all, wanted to empty himself deep, filling your mouth. not just waste it on his trembling knuckles. And the park… oh, the park. You jogging, your tits bouncing, ass swaying like it was made to be grabbed and slapped. And hell, would it really be wrong if he snuck a few pictures? Maybe a video? Just something to keep him company on those lonely nights? Just some visual stimulation that would have him cumming all over his phone screen with the video of you jogging playing in the background.

Maybe it was the heat tonight, or the beers he’d been pounding back, or the fact that he, just a few years shy of seventy, with a cock that should’ve long since quit working, was worse than a horny teenager discovering porn for the first time. Every vein, every twitch in that stubborn, hard-on cock of his was desperate, alive, and aching for release. But he held back… for now. He waited, watching, listening, knowing the moment you slipped off to the bathroom, he’d make his move, letting all that pent-up lust explode without restraint.

You laughed at a story one of your friends was telling, took a slow sip of your cherry Coke, and excused yourself. “Sorry, need to go to the powder room,” you said, standing and sauntering toward the restroom.

That’s when Joel moved. He slid off his barstool, and followed you down the hall without a second thought for who might be around. Lucky for him, you were alone. He realized it the second he slipped inside, sliding the bolt across the door to lock it. There you were, standing in front of the mirror, reapplying that soft pink lip gloss, looking impossibly cute and untouchable. But to Joel, untouchable only meant tempting. Every curve, every inch of your skin glinting in the harsh bathroom light, made his cock twitch in his jeans, thick and hard despite his age.

“Powder room, huh?” Joel’s voice rasped, mocking. “Sweet little thing can’t even say bathroom like the rest of us.”

“Mr. Miller,” you gasped, spinning, back pressing hard against the door as his body boxed you in. “You—you startled me.”

He didn’t move away. Just leaned closer, his breath hot, scanning with his eyes your dress to the soft swell of your breasts. “Ain’t tryna startle ya, sugar. Just can’t keep my fuckin’ eyes off ya. You sit in there with them tits bouncin’ ‘round like two scoops of ice cream on a hot day, and you expect me not to notice?”

Your face burned. Joel had said filthy things before, but always quiet, never straight to your face. “Don’t you—don’t you speak like that—”

“Like what?” Joel moved his hand up, hooking his fingers on the neckline of your dress, tugging it just enough to see the lace of your bra underneath. “Like the truth? Jesus Christ, girl, you got the prettiest pair I ever seen. Makes my mouth water just lookin’ at ‘em.”

“Stop,” you whispered, pressing your palms against his chest, though you made no real effort to push him away. “This is indecent. We’re in public—”

“Yeah, we are.” Joel smirked, nosing along your cheek, voice dripping crude satisfaction. “All them folks out there drinkin’, laughin’—ain’t got a clue their precious lil’ girl’s pinned up in here with a dirty old man, soakin’ her panties ‘cause he won’t quit starin’ at her tits.”

“Mr. Miller!” Your scandalized cry only made him grin wider.

“Mmm. Say my name, sugar.” He pressed his hips into yours, nudging at your belly with his thick bulge. “Say Joel while I tell ya what you really got between them thighs.”

“I won’t,” you protested, shivering when he dragged his thumb over your nipple through the fabric.

“Bet’cha will.” Joel brushed his mouth over your ear. “Bet that pretty pink cunt of yours is already wet f’me. Ain’t it? Sweetest little cunt in town.”

You whimpered, but pressed your thighs together anyway, the heat between them betraying how scandalized and grossed out you tried to act.

“Don’t say that word,” you begged him. “Please.”

“What word? Cunt?” Joel growled, grinding against you. “Cunt, cunt, cunt. Say it, darlin’. Say ‘I got the sweetest cunt.’”

You shook your heas desperately. “I can’t—I can’t say that.”

“You can.” He caught your wrists, pinning them above your head against the painted door, pressing you down with his body until you had nowhere to go. “Either you say it, or I’ll make ya scream so loud here in the ladies’ room they’ll hear ya over the jukebox.”

Your whole body trembled. It was wicked, wrong, so far from the life you were raised to live, yet the words spilled out, broken: “…I got the sweetest… cunt.”

Joel groaned like he’d been waiting his whole damn life to hear it. “Good girl. Again.”

This time it came faster, hotter. “I got the sweetest cunt.”

“That’s it,” he praised, grinding his cock against you through his jeans while his mouth latched to your throat. “My sweet little girl, dirty as sin. You ain’t walkin’ outta this bar the same way you walked in, sugar. Not after I’m done with this cunt.”

His cock was already hard, thick ridge straining against his jeans, grinding right into your soft belly. “Feel that?” Joel rasped. “That’s what your sweet little tits do to me. Can’t fuckin’ breathe watchin’ ‘em bounce ‘round. Got me hard as a goddamn fencepost.”

You whimpered, he was still trapping your wrists above your head in one of his hands, the other pawing shamelessly at your chest, squeezing until your breath hitched.

“Say it,” he ordered, pressing harder, slow drag of his cock against you making sparks fire low in your belly. “Say what I just told ya. Tell me what my cock is.”

You shook your head frantically, face flaming. “I—I No—I can’t.”

“Can’t, my ass,” Joel growled, rutting forward, grinding his length over you, making sure you felt every inch of him. “Say it. ‘Joel’s cock’s hard as a fencepost.’”

The filth of it stuck in your throat, but the pressure between your legs throbbed hot and insistent. “…Joel’s cock’s hard as a fencepost.”

“Good girl.” He groaned, grinding again. “Christ almighty, hearin’ that sugar-sweet mouth say the dirtiest shit—gonna fuckin’ ruin me.”

He slid his hand down, cupping the heat between your thighs through the thin cotton of your panties. He pressed two fingers in, right against your soaked center, grinding slow just like his cock.

“Goddamn,” he laughed, “wet as a whore’s cunt already. You lettin’ this dirty old man grind on ya in public and it’s got you gushin’ like a spring.”

“Don’t—don’t say anything else,” you gasped, trying to twist away, but he held you pinned tight.

“Cunt,” Joel spat, grinding harder, cock dragging against your belly as his fingers rubbed you mercilessly. “That’s what you got here, darlin’. A sweet, tight little cunt, all sloppy f’me.”

“Stop—please—”

“Nuh-uh” he growled, catching your earlobe between his teeth. “Say, ‘I got the sweetest cunt, and Joel’s cock makes it wet.’”

You fluttered your eyes shut, but he grounded into you again, harder this time, his cock stiff and insistent, pressing his fingers until you moaned helplessly.

“Say it, girl.” His voice was rough, desperate and commanding all at once. “Say them dirty words f’me.”

And before you could stop yourself, your voice broke on the filth: “…I got the sweetest cunt… and Joel’s cock makes it wet.”

Joel let out a ragged groan, rutting harder, nearly lifting you off your feet as he ground himself against you like a man starved.

“Fuck yes,” he snarled. “Thass it, sugar. Sweetest lil girl in town, and now she knows her cunt belongs to me. Gonna make you say it all night long ‘til you believe it.”

You whimpered his name, arching your body into his, shame burning bright as your arousal soaked through your panties under his touch. “Goddamn, sugar,” he said while he rubbed over the soaked fabric. “You’re fuckin’ drenched. Pretty lil’ cunt can’t lie to me, she’s beggin’ for my fingers.”

You gasped, trying to shake your head, but he ripped your panties to the side and shoved two thick fingers straight into you, knuckles deep and unrelenting. Your cry echoed down the hallway, and his grin only widened.

“Listen to that,” Joel growled, pumping them slow and deep, dragging his thumb up to grind against your clit. “Squishin’ around my fingers like it was made f’me. Sweetest little pussy in the whole damn county, sittin’ here takin’ my hand like she’s starved for it.”

Your legs trembled, trapped between his body and the door, your dress hiked indecently around your thighs. “J-Joel, please—”

“Please what?” He twisted his fingers, crooking them until you jolted, until he hit your g-spot with precision. “Please don’t stop? Please ruin me harder? Say it, sugar. Say you’re my little slut.”

“I c-can’t,” you whimpered, chest heaving, breasts spilling out of your dress as his free hand groped them mercilessly.

“You can.” He pinched your nipple, hard. “Say it. Say, ‘I’m Joel’s little slut and I’ve got the prettiest cunt.’”

The filth of it scorched your tongue, but he curled his fingers just right, hitting your sensitive spot again, and it made your back arch against the door. The moan ripped out of you, and the words tumbled after: “…I’m Joel’s little slut… and I’ve got the prettiest cunt.”

Joel groaned, grinding his cock harder into your stomach, fucking you on his hand. “Fuck yes, thass it. Thass my girl. Pretty girl turned cock-drunk slut in the restroom of a bar. Jesus Christ, you’re squeezin’ my fingers like you’re tryin’ to milk me.”

“Joel!” you sobbed, clenching your thighs around his wrist as his thumb worked your clit in ruthless circles.

“Say it again,” he snarled, pumping faster, his mouth hot against your ear. “Say who owns this cunt.”

“You do!” you cried, tears spilling, body shuddering as you clamped down on him. “Joel owns my cunt!”

“Thass right,” he rasped, fucking you with his fingers until the wet smack of it filled the air. “Mine. This sloppy, perfect little hole’s mine to use. An’ you’re gonna cum on my fingers like a nasty whore while the whole bar’s sittin’ ten feet away.”

You rolled your eyes back, the filth of his words crashing over you as his hand drove you closer and closer.

“Say it, girl,” Joel growled. “Say, ‘I’m cummin’ on Joel’s fingers.’”

You broke, sobbing it out as your cunt fluttered around him: “…I’m cummin’—on Joel’s fingers!”

Your orgasm tore through you, relief flooding as Joel finger-fucked you through it, grinding his cock against you the whole time, groaning like he’d split you in half right there if not for the denim keeping him back. When your knees gave out, he caught you, still buried in you to the knuckle, grinning down like the devil himself.

Joel finally dragged his fingers out of you with a wet sound that made your cheeks flame hotter than hellfire. You sagged against the door, panting, and thought maybe he’d let you go. He didn’t. With a growl, he shoved his free hand down the front of his jeans, working himself out. The sound of his zipper rasped loud, and then the weight of him slapped heavy against your thigh.

“See that, sugar?” Joel gritted, wrapping his calloused fingers around the base of his cock before grabbing your wrist. He hauled your hand down and wrapped it tight around his member. “That’s what your sweet lil’ cunt did to me. Hard as a goddamn tree trunk.”

Your eyes went wide, your palm hot against the thick, pulsing length of him. You tried to pull away, but his grip was iron. He made you stroke it while he jerked his hips into your fist.

“Say it,” Joel ordered you. “Say, ‘Joel’s cock is big an’ thick.’”

You shook your head, trembling. “I—I… don’t make me say it—”

“Yes you can.” He tightened his hand over yours, forcing your strokes to quicken. “Say it, pretty girl. Say every dirty thing I tell ya, or I’ll drag this cock right between your tits and fuck you ‘til you choke.”

The words tangled in your throat, but his cock twitched hot in your hand, and his voice left you no choice.

“…Joel’s cock is big and thick,” you whispered.

“Thass it,” he groaned, throwing his head back. “Say it louder.”

“Joel’s cock is big and thick!”

“Fuck,” Joel snarled, snapping his hips into your fist. “That’s right, sugar. Say it’s heavy. Say it’s the heaviest cock you ever held.”

Your lips quivered, shame burning your cheeks, but you said it. “It’s—it’s the heaviest cock I ever held.”

Joel’s laugh was raw, full of triumph. “Goddamn right it is. Look at your little hand barely wrappin’ ‘round me. This cock’s too big for a sweet girl like you, ain’t it?”

“Yes,” you gasped, your wrist aching as he drove into your palm, using you like you were nothing but a toy.

“Say it,” he demanded, eyes burning into yours. “Say, ‘Joel’s cock is too big f’me, but I want it anyway.’”

Your body betrayed you, more slick still dripping down your thighs from what he’d done with his fingers. You moaned, and the words came tumbling out. “…Joel’s cock is too big for me, but I want it anyway.”

Joel groaned loud, his hips stuttering, precum slicking your fist as he forced your hand tighter. “Fuckin’ perfect. Pretty lil’ girl with the filthiest mouth. Keep strokin’, sugar. Keep tellin’ me what this cock does to ya.”

“It… it makes me wet,” you whispered, trying to hide your flushed face.

“Oh, I know, sweet thing,” Joel chuckled, clearly enjoying your shyness. “You want this big, fat cock o’mine deep inside you, don’t ya? Say it… tell me. Say, ‘I want Joel’s big, fat cock to fuck my tight little cunt.’”

You bit your lip, trembling, words tumbling out before you could even stop them. “I… I want Joel’s big, fat… cock to… fuck my tight little cunt,” you mumbled, voice barely above a breath, but dripping with need.

“Oh, this old man’s gonna fuck you so good, you’re gonna be beggin’ f’r more,” Joel growled.

The mirror rattled against the wall when Joel shoved you forward, palms flat on the sink. Your gasp fogged the glass as he pressed up behind you, the bulk of him pinning you in place. The neckline of your dress was already low after Joel’d groped your breasts, but before you could catch your breath, Joel fisted the neckline with his hand and yanked it down harder. The seams groaned, the fabric scraped over your skin until your breasts spilled free, pressing against the cool mirror.

“Goddamn.” He palmed the heavy weight of one tit, flicking his thumb over your nipple before giving it a squeeze that made you squeak. He met your eyes in the reflection of the mirror. “Looka’that. Look a’how they bounce, baby. You see it? That’s f’me. That’s mine.”

You whimpered, biting your lip, and he grinned at your reflection. “Say it,” Joel ordered, lining his cock up against your slick folds. “Say, ‘these tits are yours, Joel.’”

Your eyes fluttered shut and you shook your head.

He grabbed your ass cheeks with both hands, spreading them wide, leaving your dripping pussy exposed and glistening for him. He pressed the thick, veiny head of his cock against your entrance, teasing it with slow nudges before slamming his hips forward in one brutal, relentless stroke. The sheer girth of him split you open, filling you so deep you gasped and cried out, your mouth falling open in shock and pleasure.

“Bet you can now.” He started to move, rough, his cock dragging deep while his hand shoved between your shoulder blades, keeping you bent to the mirror. “Go on, sugar. Say it. ‘These tits are yours. This pussy is yours, Joel’.”

“They’re… they’re yours,” you breathed, your voice shaking as your breasts bounced with every thrust, smearing the mirror with your skin.

“Louder.” His hand cracked against your ass in a sharp slap, the sting making you yelp. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

“These tits are yours. My pussy is yours, Joel!” you cried, feeling the tears of humiliation at the corners of your eyes.

Joel couldn’t believe it, not really. He’d spent months looking at you with those hungry eyes, and now? Now he had you bent over a dirty sink with your tits squashed against the mirror, burying his cock to the hilt in your pussy.

“Fuck,” he groaned, dragging his hips back and slamming forward again, splitting you open with the thick head, so deep you choked on your breath. “Tighter than I ever dreamed, darlin’. Been sittin’ at that bar thinkin’ about this little cunt wrapped ‘round me, an’ now… Jesus Christ, it’s better. Always so sweet, sittin’ there sippin’ your cherry coke, crossin’ your legs all polite, actin’ like you don’t know I’m starin’ holes through your dress. Wanted to bend you over right there in front o’everyone, show ‘em this nice girl’s got the tightest, wettest cunt I ever fucked.”

He dragged over every nerve inside you with his cock, stretching your hole until it burned, filling it until you thought you’d split.

Joel groaned at the grip of you, his eyes glued to the reflection of your tits slapping against the glass. “Look at ‘em bounce,” he pulled your nipples until you yelped. “That’s my cock makin’ ‘em dance.

Every thrust was a claim, every grunt from his chest a promise he’d never let you forget this night. He bottomed out again and again, fucking you so hard the slap of his balls echoed, the wet sounds of your pussy filling the air. Joel’s face twisted with the strain of holding back, he’d wanted this for too long, thought about it too many nights with his hand wrapped around his cock, imagining your tight little body squeezing him dry.

“Fuck, darlin’, been dreamin’ about this. You know that? Strokin’ myself to the thought of this sweet cunt. An’ now it’s real. Now I’m buried in ya.”

You could only whimper, your face pressed to the glass, tits bouncing violently as his pace turned savage.

He groaned, fucking into you harder, watching the obscene jiggle of your body in the reflection. “Atta girl. Now tell me what this cock feels like. Say it.”

You scraped the porcelain sink with your nails. “It—it feels… so big.”

Joel snarled, slamming you so hard the mirror shook. “Not good enough. Say it proper. ‘Joel’s cock is stretchin’ me open.’”

The shame flushed your cheeks, but the filthy pleasure between your legs made your voice crack. “Joel’s cock… is stretching me open.”

“That’s right,” he rasped, grabbing your tits from behind, squeezing them tight as they slapped against the glass. “Sweetest little cunt takin’ every inch of me.”

Joel’s grip on your tits was bruising, the kind of hold that said you weren’t going anywhere, not until he was done. He drove his cock into you from behind, every thrust heavy, the blunt head forcing your cunt wider each time it slammed in deep.

“Looka’that,” he groaned, leaving your tit for a moment to land another sharp slap on your ass. “See them in the mirror, darlin’? Watch ‘em. Watch how my cock makes your tits bounce like that.”

You whimpered, shame and heat twisting together, watching yourself getting ruined by Joel Miller was something you’d never expected.

“Say it,” Joel demanded, grinding in deep until your belly pressed against the counter edge. His hips rolled, cock dragging slow, filling every aching inch before slamming again with a wet slap. “Say, ‘Joel’s cock makes my tits bounce.’”

Your breath fogged the mirror as you whispered, “Joel’s cock makes my tits bounce.”

“Louder,” he barked, snapping his hips hard, making your breasts smack against the glass with a lewd slap.

“Joel’s cock makes my tits bounce!” you cried, eyes wet as you watched yourself fall apart in the reflection.

“Good girl,” Joel rasped, squeezing your nipples between his calloused fingers, tugging them until your back arched. His thrusts grew sharper, his soft beer belly slamming into your ass with obscene force, the base of his cock grinding against your clit with every stroke. The sound of his cock sliding in and out of you was wet and filthy, mixing with your gasps and his guttural groans.

“Now tell me what this pussy’s feelin’,” he ordered, fucking you so deep your stomach clenched.

“It—it feels so full,” you whined, barely able to think, let alone speak.

Joel rutted into you faster, his cock hammering that spot inside you until sparks burst behind your eyes. His hands were everywhere, kneading your tits, shoving your face closer to the mirror, spreading your cheeks apart so he could watch himself fuck into you, how his cock glistened with your juices every time he pulled out.

“Thatss it,” he groaned, thrusting harder. His grip tightened, his pace brutal, every thrust punching a moan out of you. “Tell me it’s the best cock you ever had.”

“It’s the best—oh God—it’s the best cock I ever had!”

“Say you’re my filthy little fucktoy.”

“I’m your filthy little fucktoy!”

He could hear the obscene squelch of your cunt milking him, and it was only making him more desperate. “That’s my girl,” he growled. “Now beg f’r it. Beg f’me to cum.”

You were nearly sobbing, your body clenching around him, pleasure tearing through you with each punishing stroke. “Please, Joel! Please cum!”

Joel’s breathing grew ragged, his hips starting to stutter. “Gonna cum, baby. Gonna paint you.”

Suddenly his hands left your waist, and he yanked out with a wet slap, hauling you down by the hair. You landed on your knees in front of him, tits bouncing free, your mouth parted in shock as he fisted his cock in front of your chest.

“Look up,” Joel ordered. “Watch these pretty tits get covered.”

You obeyed, and Joel let out a deep groan as he fisted himself hard, jerking with brutal, greedy strokes. Within moments, thick ropes of hot, sticky cum shot from him, splattering across your breasts, coating your nipples, and sliding down the swell of your tits in messy streams. Your tits were slick and glistening, coated in thick, white stripes of his hot cum,

“Fuck, yes,” he growled, watching every messy drip. He pressed his cockhead against your chest, smearing his release across your skin. “Thass where it belongs. All over these perfect fuckin’ tits.”

He grabbed the back of your neck with his free hand, forcing you to watch the sticky mess in the mirror. “Repeat after me, ‘I love how Joel covers my tits with his cum.’”

Your voice shook, you were breathless. “I love how Joel covers my tits with his cum.”

Joel let out a broken laugh as he gave your tits a rough squeeze, watching his spend leak between his fingers. “That’s right, darlin’. Look atcha. Sweet little thing, all dressed up polite, now on her knees with my cum runnin’ down her tits.” He smeared the head of his cock across your lips, leaving a sticky streak, then dragged it over your chin, your cheek, up to your nose. “Goddamn mess, ain’t ya? Just like I wanted.”

You whimpered, but you squeezed your thighs together at the sound of his voice.

“Repeat it,” Joel ordered, giving your face a heavy slap with his cock. “Say, ‘I’m Joel’s messy little slut.’”

Your voice wavered. “I’m Joel’s messy little slut.”

“Can’t hear ya,” he barked, slapping your cheek with the thick weight again, watching the way your face jolted.

“I’m Joel’s messy little slut!”

“That’s more like it,” he groaned, dragging himself across your face again, smearing more cum along your temple and your jaw. He pressed his cockhead to your lips, but instead of pushing inside, he rubbed himself over your mouth until you were coated. “Now tell me how good I fucked ya.”

You blinked through the sticky mess. “You… you fucked me so good, Joel.”

“Not loud enough.” He gave your cheek another hard smack, then pushed his tip against your lips until they parted. He didn’t go in, just rested there, leaking more against your tongue. “Say, ‘Joel fucked me better than anyone ever has.’”

You fluttered your eyes shut as the heat rushed through your chest. “Joel fucked me better than anyone ever has.”

Joel’s growl was guttural, giving a sharp thrust with his hips that smeared more across your face. He angled himself, dragging his cock down your cheek, across your nose, over your other cheek, marking every inch of your skin.

“Look at yourself in the mirror. Look what I did to ya. Cum all over those tits, face painted with my cock. Say it. ‘I love bein’ covered in Joel’s cum.’”

Tears pricked at your eyes as you stared at the filthy reflection, your breasts were slick and sticky, your face streaked and shining with him, Joel looming behind you with pressing his cock to your lips. You didn’t recognize yourself.

“I love being covered in Joel’s cum,” you whispered.

Joel groaned, tightening his grip in your hair, watching the sight with a dark hunger. “Hell yeah, you do. You’re perfect like this. Princess turned into my dirty fucktoy.” He slapped his cock down against your tongue. “Say it, baby. Say, ‘I want more of Joel’s cum.’”

“I… I want more of Joel’s cum.”

“Atta girl.” His grin was crooked, his voice full of satisfaction. “Don’t worry. You’ll get it. Every goddamn drop I’ve got in me, right on these pretty tits, all over this sweet face, up inside that cunt.”

A/N: I know I’ve been posting like crazy, hope you’re not too tired of me! I just want to get these out before Kinktober. Anyway, I hope you’ve been enjoying the content, I’ve been having so much fun writing for Pervy!Joel. All your words and comments are very appreciated and make me so happy🩷

I wasn’t sure if I should tag people when I write these shorter fics based on people’s ideas (and honestly, Joel’s tag list is so long it takes me like 10 minutes to tag everyone), but I figured if you’re on the tag list, you probably want to know when I post, even if it’s a shorter fic.

If you’re reading this and you’re the one who sent me a request asking for pervy!joel and virgin!reader, I’m gonna work on it soon! Also on a Toxic!Joel someone else requested, tho I don’t know if I’ll have both of them up before October.

@unforgivemn @puduvallee @gorzelnia-blog @conrzd @applebloom928 @glitterspark @imjustaprettyyprincess @mani-pedro @jettia @sunnyssimming @sethell @thescxrpio @cowboylikejoha @dugiioh @crimsonxcobra @twigleektribute23 @alexxavicry @thievin-stealing @tearsweetenedtea @serenity-1221 @lover-of-books-and-tea @joelsgoodgirl @nightbornangel @millersweetheart @spacemooi @bbyanarchist @nixiaw @dlwrish @yeswhale456 @mxyjailer-blog @uncassettodiricordi @looking1016 @sofisweb @lanasdolll @hauntedbymiller @bolitadesol @anheloamores @chrrypascal @afyreinjuly @mslxsx07 @mxmsuki @deardev0teddelicate @thecatgurly @leomiloo @freephantomluminary @macbaetwo @anqieluv @naughtymistress4u @ryskissr @clusiesuzie

Joel’s chest rose and fell heavily, his jaw looked tight like he was fighting the words back, but he lost that fight long ago. He lost it the second he saw you earlier laughing with another man, realizing how that could’ve been him, how if he didn’t act you were gonna spend the rest of your life with someone else making you happy, and Joel would spend it drowning in what ifs, in the thought of what could’ve been. He knew this was his last chance.

“Look… you don’t gotta take me back right away,” he said, the words sounded as if they were being ripped out of his heart. “I know I screwed it all up, I know I did. But we can take it slow. Real slow. I’ll… I’ll earn my way back to you, one step at a time if that’s what you need.”

You just stared at him, your heart was twisting, but not enough to break open. Not anymore. “Joel,” you whispered, shaking your head, “you’ve said that before. And I know that if I give in again, I’m the one who’s gonna end up bleeding for it.”

The rain kept spitting down, cool drops sliding over your hair and your cheeks. Joel didn’t move, he didn’t blink, just stared at you like he was drowning. His whole body looked rigid, like a man held together only by stubbornness and sheer desperation, water soaking through his shirt, plastering it against the ridges of his chest and shoulders.

“Please,” he rasped, stepping closer, his hand twitching like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare, he couldn’t stand the sight of you pulling away from him. “Don’t shut me out. Don’t—don’t tell me it’s too late. I can’t—” His voice broke off, he didn’t know what else to say to take it all back, to make it better, but he knew he had to keep trying.

You crossed your arms tight across your chest, as if to hold yourself together, you were trying to be brave, but seeing the man you once loved…the man you still loved so broken in front of you, completely consumed by the sorrow and the pain, it was still hard. “I am tired, Joel. Tired of waiting for you to be the man I’d want you be. Tired of believing that this time, maybe, things will work out.”

“Please. What do you want? Do you want me to get on my knees?” He said, laughing, but nothing in his face showed any amusement. “Do you want me to get on my fuckin’ knees and beg you?”

“No, Joel. I don’t want that. I just want-”

And that’s when he dropped. Literally dropped to his knees in the mud, right in front of you. The sight nearly undid you. Joel Miller, who never bowed to anyone, who you were sure the last time he’d ever kneeled down was at church, many years ago before the world had gone to shit, he was now kneeling in front of you, like you were his altar.

He grabbed onto you, his big, work-worn hands were clutching at the fabric of your jeans as his forehead pressed against your stomach. The scent of that familiar soap you used to wash your clothes nearly intoxicated him, he had missed your smell so much. And even if the night was cold, and you were completely soaked by the rain, your body heat still warmed his face. His body shook with sobs he didn’t even try to swallow down, he’d been dying to feel you again, just this barely there contact was enough to remind him of all he’d lost for being a coward, for not maning-up when he had to.

“Don’t say that. Please don’t say it’s over,” he begged, his voice was muffled against you. “This is the last time, I swear it to God. You give me this one last chance, darlin’, I’ll show you. I’ll prove it. I’ll do it right. I’ll love you the way you should’ve been loved all along.”

His tears mixed with the rain soaking into your sweater, his arms were locked around your waist like if he held tight enough, maybe you wouldn’t slip through his fingers again, maybe he’d be able to hold you forever, maybe you’d be his once again.

“I can’t lose you,” he choked out, shaking his head against your belly. “I can’t. You’re—hell, you’re the only thing I got left. Please, sweetheart. Don’t turn me away. Not for good. Not when I finally see it clear.”

You closed your eyes, the pain splitting through your chest was too much to withstand, just when you’d finally started to move on again, when you were trying to enjoy the little things in life after he’d shred your happiness, he appeared again, begging for another chance. Even if seeing him like this broke your heart in little pieces, you still didn’t move your hands to hold him, you didn’t comb your fingers through his wet hair the way you wanted to. You just stood there, stiff, trying to swallow the sob that threatened to break free.

“Joel…” your voice was soft, “you always come back like this. Begging, promising. And I know if I open the door for you again, I’ll end up with another scar to show for it.”

His grip on you tightened, almost frantic now, the need to hold onto you was imperative, he knew that if he let you go now, it’d be the last time he ever held you. “No more scars,” he swore. “I’ll spend the rest of my damn life patchin’ the ones I gave ya already. Just—just let me try. I’ll take it slow, I’ll wait, I’ll crawl if that’s what it takes. I’ll do anythin’. Just don’t walk away from me.”

The rain came down harder now, as if mother nature was a sucker for soap operas and wanted to give dramatism to the pain you both were feeling. The rain was plastering his hair to his face, running in rivulets down his cheeks, masking his tears but not the trembling of his body. And still you didn’t touch him, because love wasn’t always enough, you’d always believed it was, that love could cure it all, that it was the answer to every problem, that love could save people… that it could save the world. And now for the first time, you were finally starting to believe that it wasn’t nearly enough.

“Joel,” your voice cracked, barely more than a whisper as the rain slicked your face and hair, “please stand up. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

You tugged gently at his shoulders, at his arms wound tight around your waist. But Joel just clutched you harder, pressing his face into your stomach, soaking your sweater through as he tried to memorize the scent of you, the feel of you. His beard scratched against the wool, his lips trembling where they brushed your skin through the damp fabric.

“I can’t,” he rasped. His voice was broken, because that’s how he was. He was only the shell of a man ever since you’d walked out of his life, he moved through the motions, but he wasn’t really there. “Don’t ask me to stand. Don’t ask me to let go. I ain’t strong enough to do it.”

“Joel—” You tried once again, almost asking him to have mercy on you, because he might’ve been hurt, but you were too. This might be painful for him, but he didn’t know just how much it was for you as well.

“You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved like this,” he cut in, his words were a confession straight into your body. “I’ve loved before, sure, but not like this. Not where it feels like I… like I ain’t even a whole man without you. I can’t breathe without ya, darlin’. I can’t—” His voice splintered into a sob. “I can’t lose you.”

The rain poured harder, pattering against the mud, streaming down your faces, running cold into your collar and sleeves. You were shivering, but Joel was warm, his grip was desperate, unyielding. Every time you tried to step back, he shuffled with you on his knees, clutching and dragging himself through the wet dirt just to keep his face pressed to your belly.

“Stop it,” you said, your voice sharp with hurt. You tried to pull away again, your hands pushing at his shoulders, but he only buried himself deeper against you, his arms just simply wouldn’t let go. “Joel, you’re making this impossible.”

“I’ll make you happy,” he promised, his voice rising over the storm. “Every single day of my life, I’ll make it up to you. You won’t go one mornin’ without knowin’ how much I love you, you won’t lay your head down one night without me showin’ you. Please, darlin’. Please let me.”

The words gutted you, but they weren’t enough. Not anymore. “Joel, I can’t just forget all the things you said about me before.” Your voice shook. “I’m tired of patching myself back together after you break me. I can’t—”

“Please,” he begged, over and over, the word collapsing into itself. “Please, please, please. Don’t walk away. Don’t leave me like this. I can change. I swear it. I’ve changed. I swear it on Sarah, on Ellie, on my life. Just one more chance.”

The pain in his voice shredded you, but you forced yourself to breathe through it, to press your shaking hands against his head and try, one last time, to pry him away. “Joel,” you whispered, squeezing your eyes shut through the pain, “I need time. Time to think. Time to breathe without you swallowing me whole.”

He shook his head fiercely against you, his arms locking harder. “Don’t need time. Don’t leave me. Don’t—” His voice broke, the words were spluttering sobs.

Your heart cracked in two as you finally pried yourself free, peeling his hands off your waist, one finger at a time. His palms clung, slipped against your wet skin, trying to hold on even as you pulled yourself back. The moment you stepped away, Joel collapsed forward into the mud, still on his knees, hands grasping at the empty air where you’d been.

“Please,” he begged again, and you couldn’t help but think about how much he looked like a ghost, like a man who’d been alive once, but now he was cursed to just wander, trying to hold onto that life he once was able to have. “Please, please, please…”

You turned, your whole body shaking, and even if it felt like getting your heart ripped out and stepped on, you walked away through the storm, leaving him kneeling in the rain, clinging to nothing but your absence. His broken voice followed you into the night, that one word echoing, echoing, only for the storm to hear.

“Please… Please, sweetheart… Just—please.”

Joel stayed where you left him all night long. The rain never let up, it poured down through the darkness of the night, pounding the ground, and soaking him to the bone. There was mud clunging to his jeans, crepting higher up his thighs where he knelt in the dirt, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was that your warmth was gone. And even when the echo of your touch still lingered on his skin, he was terrified that if he moved, if he even breathed too hard, it would vanish completely. So he stayed kneeling in the storm, whispering your name and that one word he had left. “Please.”

Joel’s back ached, his knees screamed, his throat was raw, but he stayed there, rooted to the ground like a tree refusing to fall. At some point, the storm shifted from night into morning, and still Joel hadn’t moved an inch. His lips muttered broken scraps of your name, half-formed promises he’d already made and already failed to keep.

That’s when he heard boots squelching up behind him.

“Jesus Christ,” a voice he instantly recognized as his brother’s drawled. “Ain’t this a sight.”

Joel blinked blearily up through the rain, and saw Tommy standing a few feet away, his mouth half-curled like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or drag Joel to a doctor for the pneumonia he was about to catch.

“Don’t tell me you been sittin’ here all night,” Tommy said.

Joel didn’t answer. He just dropped his gaze again, he was too lost in his own thoughts to even feel embarrassed about people seeing him on his knees in the mud, with his eyes red from crying.

Tommy let out a whistle. “Well, hell, brother. You really went full soap opera, huh? I swear I saw it last night from my porch… you, on your knees, rain pourin’ down, beggin’ like a man in a goddamn telenovela. All you needed was some dramatic music behind ya. Almost woke up Maria to come see it with me.”

Joel’s head lifted, and he gave one of his unamused looks to Tommy. He was in no mood for his brother’s jokes. “Shut it, Tommy.”

Tommy smirked, but his voice turned into something a little gentler. “You’re lame as hell, y’know that? Whole town’d agree. But—” He walked closer to crouch down in front of Joel. “Lame or not, you love her. That part’s real clear.”

Joel swallowed hard, the words he didn’t want to admit left his mouth for the first time. “She’s gone, Tommy.”

“She ain’t gone, she’s three houses down the block. She said she needed time. That ain’t the same thing.” Tommy studied him, his expression was more serious now. “You sittin’ out here all night in the mud don’t prove nothin’ but that you’re stubborn. But if you mean what you said to her, if you really want her back, then you get your ass up and you prove it the right way.”

Joel’s hands flexed in the mud, and he lowered his head again. “I can’t lose her.”

“Then don’t.” Tommy reached out and gripped Joel’s shoulder, squeezing it hard in an attempt to show him some support. “But you can’t just sit here like some fool prayin’ she’ll come back. You gotta move. You gotta work for it. Y’hear me?”

Joel closed his eyes, the rain was dripping from his lashes, carving paths down the worn lines of his face. He knew Tommy was right, he knew this wasn’t over until it was really over, but the thought of another rejection, of watching you walk away for good… he wasn’t sure he could survive it.

Tommy stood, clapped his brother’s back. “C’mon now. You look pitiful. Get up before somebody else sees you like this and starts spreadin’ stories. ‘Cause lord knows, I’ll be tellin’ this one at every damn poker night for years.”

Joel let out a hoarse sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, wasn’t quite a sob. He braced his hands on the ground and finally pushed himself up. His knees cracked, his back screamed, his clothes clung heavy with water, but he stood anyway. And even though he swayed, when he met Tommy’s eyes, there was something flickering there, behind the ruin of the man he was, there was a spark of hope.

Tommy nodded. “There you go. That’s my brother. Now let’s get you cleaned up. You got a woman to win back.”

Joel glanced down the street, toward the direction of your house. He might be wrecked, but he wasn’t broken. Not yet. And he sure as hell wasn’t going down without one last fight, one last chance to get you back.

By mid-morning, he’d made up his mind. If words weren’t enough, and God knew words had never been his strong suit, words had ruined you, then what else did women like? Flowers. That’s how he ended up at the edge of Jackson’s little greenhouse patch, staring down at rows of wildflowers that had somehow survived the brutal climate. Purples, yellows, a few red blossoms. He picked a handful, made an improvised bouquet of mismatched flowers. He figured you were the kind of woman who’d like it, who wouldn’t care if it wasn’t red roses. You’d probably say the colors looked pretty together. Because you were the kind of person who saw beauty where no one else did, who saw worth in broken, pitiful things, like you once saw it in him.

As Joel turned back toward town, he felt the eyes. Women passing on the street didn’t bother to hide their stares. Some whispered behind their palms, others just gave him the full-on stink eye, shaking their heads like he was scum. He was convinced the women of Jackson were part of a secret club called Screw You, Joel Miller, with Maria and Ellie probably running it as co-presidents.

“Look at him, does he think flowers will fix it?” one muttered, loud enough for him to hear.

“Poor thing. She deserves better,” another said.

Joel’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t fire back. He couldn’t, because they were right, you did deserve better. Still, he wasn’t going to stop trying to be better. If all he had were some wildflowers, a shattered apology, and a promise to be the man you deserved, then that’s what he’d give.

Halfway down the street, Maria spotted him. She crossed her arms and blocked his path before he could duck away. Her eyes flicked down to the flowers in his hands, then back up at his face with pure disdain.

“You’ve got some goddamn nerve, Joel Miller.” Her voice cut sharp. “Turn around and leave that poor woman alone.”

Joel tightened his grip on the stems. “I’m goin’ to see her.” His voice was steady, the kind of voice of a man who’d already made his choice. “I’m tryin’.”

Maria let out a short, humorless laugh. “Tryin’? Joel, let her breathe. She doesn’t need you draggin’ her down more than you already have.”

Joel looked down at the flowers, then back at her. His voice cracked under the weight in his chest. “I can’t, Maria. I ain’t givin’ up on her. I—” He faltered, but forced the words out. “She’s it. And I’m not gonna stop tryin’.”

Maria’s expression softened by a fraction, but she still sighed, shaking her head. “You’re pathetic, Joel. You know that?”

Joel almost smiled at that. “Yeah. I know.”

She held his gaze for a beat, then stepped aside. “Don’t expect me to feel sorry when she slams the door in your face.”

Two blocks later, Joel was at your door. The flowers, already wilting from his rough grip, looked smaller and sadder the longer he stared at them. His heart pounded hard enough to split his ribs. He raised his fist once, hesitated, lowered it. Then finally forced himself to knock.

For a moment all there was, was silence. He thought maybe you weren’t home. Or worse, that you were, and just ignoring him. He almost turned to leave the flowers on the porch like some coward’s offering, but then, the lock clicked. The door cracked open, and there you were. Joel, hair still damp from the rain, shirt wrinkled, a little mud on his jeans, looked at you like you were the only thing in the world.

He swallowed hard, held out the crooked bunch of flowers. “They’re… uh. They’re not much. But I saw ’em growin’ and thought maybe…” He trailed off, cleared his throat. “Maybe you’d like ’em.”

You looked down at the flowers, at his hand trembling as if it would break if you didn’t take them. Slowly, you reached out and accepted them. Joel let out a breath like he’d been holding it for hours.

“I told you I needed time,” you said.

He nodded, exhaling. “I heard you. And listen… I know I can’t just come knockin’ and expect everythin’ to be alright. I know I—” His voice cracked, lips pressing tight before he tried again. “I know I hurt ya. What I said, what I did… I ain’t proud of it. Hell, I’d give anythin’ to take it back. But I can’t.”

You opened your mouth, but he lifted a hand. “Just—just let me finish. Please.” Your hand tightened on the flowers, but you nodded. “I ain’t askin’ you to take me back. Not like before. Not right away. I don’t deserve that, not after how I treated ya. But maybe… maybe you could let me try again. Start over, bit by bit. Let me prove I mean it this time. That I won’t hide, or push you away, or, God help me, make you feel small ever again. I’ll wait. I’ll keep showin’ up, however long it takes, ‘til you see I ain’t the same man that broke your heart.”

Your chest ached at the rawness in his voice. And all your girlfriends, the ones who trashed Joel endlessly, repeated time after time that men never changed, and made you swear you’d never forgive him… well, they’d be furious, because when you looked at Joel, in his eyes, you believed him. You believed every word that came out of his mouth.

He shifted on his feet, cleared his throat again. “Uh… I heard they’re playin’ a movie down at the theatre tonight.” His lips twitched, almost a smile. “It’s Jaws. Great movie. ’Bout this shark. I uh… I thought you’d like it. You like animals, and I figured you’d have some shark facts you could tell me while we watch it.”

“While we watch it?” you repeated.

Joel rubbed the back of his neck, nervous as a boy half his age asking his crush out for the first time. “Yeah… I thought maybe… maybe we could go together. Just sit in there, watch a good movie.”

“You realize people will be there, right? They’ll see you with me. I don’t want to embarrass you. Or maybe I’ll talk too much and won’t let you watch in peace.” Your voice was full of sarcasm, proof of how much you were still hurting, and Joel couldn't blame you, he deserved that and worse.

Joel didn’t flinch. “I don’t care if they see. Hell, I want them to see me takin’ the most wonderful girl in town to the movies. And I don’t care how much you talk, I just—” His voice dropped. “I just wanna be there with you.” The words hung heavy between you. “You don’t gotta decide now, you can slam this door in my face and I’ll still be here tomorrow, knockin’ again. But I had to ask. I had to try.”

He stepped back, giving you space, and bracing himself for the worst. You leaned against the doorframe, the flowers were clutched in your hand, but your eyes were studying him, this man who looked beaten down but still stubbornly alive. His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare.

Finally, you let out a breath. “Alright,” you said softly.

His head snapped up so fast it made your chest ache. His mouth opened, shut, then opened again, but no words were coming out. Instead, he gave a shaky nod, and then the biggest smile you’d ever seen cracked across his face, his eyes lighting up so bright you almost wanted to punch him for looking so damn handsome.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, alright.”

You didn’t promise forgiveness, didn’t kiss him, didn’t say things would be like before, but you gave him a chance. And for Joel Miller, that was enough to keep standing, enough to keep fighting.

When the door shut behind you, Joel stood there on the porch for a long time. He hadn’t expected you to say yes, not even to something as small as sitting through a movie. But this was the proof he needed to know that not everything was lost, there was still a flicker of hope.

He turned back toward the street, muttering under his breath like a man giving himself orders. Don’t fuck this up, Miller. Don’t you dare.

Back at his house, Joel stared into the mirror above his dresser. He hadn’t thought about what to wear to a movie in… hell, decades. His clothes were all the same, flannel shirts, worn jeans, jackets. Nothing fancy, but he wanted to look like he tried. He trimmed his beard, buttoned a clean shirt, pulled on his best pair of jeans. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, heart pounding too fast for a man his age. He remembered the first time he’d ever taken a girl to a movie, back when he didn’t have grey hair in his body, and his knees didn’t ache. It was just a movie, but for him, it felt like standing on the edge of something bigger, a chance to start over. A chance to finally do it right, to be the man that you deserved.

After Joel left, you closed the door and pressed your forehead against it, clutching the flowers so tight you nearly crushed the petals. Your stomach was a tangle of nerves, half of you wanting to laugh, the other half wanting to sob. Maybe you’d made a mistake. Maybe it was weakness. Maybe it was the image of him standing there, wrecked after he’d spent the entire night crying under the rain, that broke your resolve. The worst part was that you believed him. You actually believed he’d changed, or at least that he was trying. And you knew, deep down, that if he broke your heart again, you wouldn’t be able to blame him anymore. The blame would be all yours, for giving yet another chance to a man who’d already hurt you too many times.

But it was done now. You’d said yes, and now, you had a date with Joel Miller.

You set the flowers carefully in a chipped jar with water, watching as their colors brightened the kitchen table. And when the sun dipped lower, you found yourself standing in front of your closet, staring at clothes you hadn’t worn in months. For what? A movie, just a movie. But your hands still smoothed over the fabric, pulling out a shirt Javi had once told you looked nice on you, as if you were really trying to look pretty for Joel. The whole time, a voice in your head whispered, Don’t make this bigger than it is. But your heart thudded harder anyway.

By the time the sky turned soft shades of orange, Joel was pacing outside Jackson’s theatre relentlessly. He was starting to worry you’d changed your mind, that he’d been foolish to believe this would work out, that you’d actually accept a date with him. But then he saw you, walking toward him, and the sight instantly took his breath away. He swore you looked prettier than you’d ever looked, which was saying a lot, because he’d never seen anyone more beautiful. And here you were, looking like you’d tried, like you’d purposefully fixed yourself up nice for him.

He smiled at you, just as wide as before, and your stomach flipped. You forced yourself to move forward.

“Hey,” you said softly when you reached him.

“Hey.” His voice was quiet too, rough at the edges, as though he hadn’t spoken all evening. His gaze swept over you, and then he cleared his throat. “You, uh… you look nice. Real nice. I, uh… I like the shirt. And the hair.”

You bit your lip to hold back the grin tugging at your mouth, you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of making you smile just yet. “You too.”

He glanced down at himself, clearly unconvinced that his jacket and shirt deserved the compliment, then gestured stiffly toward the door. “We should… go inside and, uh… find our seats.”

The theatre was alive with chatter and laughter, with bowls of popcorn and mismatched mugs passed from hand to hand. There was something about Jackson’s normalcy Joel still struggled to get used to, how much it looked like the world before. Because here he was, at the movies. On a date. With a pretty girl. Sitting side by side.

You ended up near the middle of the room, close enough that others could see you sitting together, not hiding in the last row like you would’ve assumed Joel wanted. His thigh brushed yours when he settled into the seat, and even though the touch was small, it sent a spark of warmth rushing through you.

“You watched this one in the theatre when it came out?” you asked, trying to make light conversation. It felt strange, talking to him after so long, and even stranger still knowing you were talking to a man who’d once seen every inch of your body.

“Darlin’, I’m not that old.” Joel chuckled. “Nah, this one came out ‘fore I was born. But I’ve seen it a couple o’ times. ’m sure you’ll love it.”

The lights dimmed, murmurs rippled, and the projector sputtered to life. The movie began, and the audience hushed except for the occasional cough or laugh. You couldn’t care less about the movie, for you it might as well have been the best film in history, but it was still hard to focus when Joel Miller sat right beside you. You could smell his cologne, the one you knew he’d put on just for you, and you couldn’t stop thinking about how the same man who, a month ago, had been ashamed to be seen walking with you, was now sitting proudly in the middle of the theatre, on a date.

“I don’t understand this.” You leaned close to his ear, brows arching. “I thought it was a shark movie. Where’s the shark?”

Joel chuckled low. “That’s what makes it better, y’know? The suspense. You never know when it’s gonna show up.”

“People really got scared of this? I thought we were gonna see some blood or something.” You huffed, and Joel couldn’t help but find your complaints endearing.

About halfway through, you noticed Joel’s knee bouncing. A nervous tic, or maybe just restlessness. Each bounce brushed his hand against yours, once, twice. At first you thought it was accidental, but then he didn’t pull away. Slowly, he shifted, his palm hovering against the back of your hand, hesitating, asking permission. And then, carefully, he turned his hand over and slid his fingers between yours. That simple gesture had taken Joel half the movie to gather the courage for. He didn’t want to pressure you, didn’t want to make this bigger than it was, but he wanted you to know how much this meant to him, and that he didn’t care who saw.

The air left your lungs. You’d never expected this, not from him, not here. The man who had once been private, closed-off, ashamed to claim you, was now holding your hand in front of everyone. The world narrowed to the warmth of his skin, the solid weight of his fingers wrapped around yours. And in that silence you realized: for Joel, this was louder than words, louder than promises or apologies. This was him saying, I’m here. I want this. I want you.

And you realized, with a start, that Joel Miller was nervous. Not about the crowd, not about the movie, but about you. About whether you’d pull away, whether you’d let him hold your hand.

You squeezed back, gently, and felt the smallest shudder of relief ripple through him. When the movie ended, the crowd spilled out of the theatre, voices rising with chatter about the shark, some laughing, some complaining how old movies always looked fake. You didn’t say much, you’d held Joel’s hand until the very end, but when the lights came up, instinct made you pull away before too many people noticed.

Joel had insisted on walking you home, and you’d let him.

“Come on,” he said as you walked. “I know you wanna give me one shark fact. Been waitin’ for it all night.”

Hearing him beg for something he used to complain about made your chest ache with equal parts pain and tenderness.

“Don’t have any,” you replied flatly.

“Y’know I’m not buyin’ that.” He shot you a look. “I know you’re full of shark facts.”

You sighed, pretending it annoyed you, though Joel could probably tell you were dying to share. “Fine. Did you know sharks can eject their stomach when they’re under stress or threatened? Because it can—”

“Distract their predators? Like lizards and their tails?” he finished for you.

You froze, staring at him. He remembered. All those patrols, all those times you rambled useless facts while he pretended to be annoyed by it, while he ignored you… he’d been listening. He’d remembered.

“Y-yeah. Like the lizards,” you murmured, blinking away the tears threatening to spill before he could notice them.

“That’s some crazy shit. What do they do after? Just… swallow it back?” He tilted his head like he really wanted to know.

“I don’t know.” You giggled. “That’s how far the book went.”

Joel laughed with you. The sound was easy, unguarded. It felt simple, just two people sharing an evening together, walking home, trying again. Even though the walk was short, Joel dragged it out, slowing his steps, wishing it were longer. Every second beside you felt borrowed, precious, like something he couldn’t afford to lose again.

When you reached your porch, you turned to face him. “I’m not inviting you in.” Your voice was firm, you needed to set the boundary before he made you weak enough to break it, before he pulled you closer and kissed you, making your brain go stupid to the point where you’d agree to have his babies if he asked you to.

Joel shifted uneasily, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know… I wasn’t expectin’ you to.” It was true. Just you agreeing to the movie had been more than he could’ve hoped for, more than he deserved. “I know you don’t want me comin’ in, and you’re right.”

You crossed your arms, head tilted. He swallowed. “I just… I need you to know what tonight meant to me. Bein’ next to you. Sittin’ in the same room, hearin’ you breathe, feelin’ your hand in mine—” His voice cracked, and he forced a breath through his nose. “That was more than I deserve. More than I thought I’d ever get back.”

You shifted, chest tight, but stayed silent. Joel took a careful step closer, not too close to invade your personal space. “I’m grateful, darlin’. More grateful than I can put into words. You gave me somethin’ I thought was gone forever. You don’t know how happy you made me tonight.” He gave a shaky laugh. “Probably looked like a fool, sittin’ there grinnin’ like an idiot every time you didn’t pull away.”

Your eyes softened despite yourself, though you steadied your voice. “Don’t make me regret it this time, Joel.”

His face sobered, the humor was gone. He nodded once. “I won’t. I swear it. I’ll spend every day provin’ it, even in the smallest ways. No more hidin’. No more pushin’ you away. You gave me this chance, and I ain’t wastin’ it.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. Joel’s eyes stayed fixed on you, until you finally stepped back toward your door. “Goodnight, Joel,” you whispered. “I had a good time.”

“Me too.” His lips pressed tight, as though holding back a thousand words. “Goodnight, darlin’.”

You closed the door gently, leaning against it once it clicked shut, your chest rising unevenly. Out on the porch, Joel stood there for a long moment, staring at the door, before turning and walking back to his house, feeling like the luckiest man alive.

The movie date had been a beginning, and a good one. Joel couldn’t just sit still with his arms crossed after that. Not now, not after finally getting the chance to win you back, to prove himself, to earn that forgiveness he’d been wishing for ever since the day he lost you.

He’d spent the whole morning rehearsing this invitation in his head, trying to make it sound casual, trying to convince himself it wasn’t a big deal. But when the time came, when he finally saw you, his palms were sweaty, and his throat felt dry.

“Thought maybe you’d let me cook for you tonight,” Joel said, like he was testing the ground under his own feet. “Nothin’ fancy, just… somethin’ I’m good at.”

You raised an eyebrow, biting back the smile tugging at your lips. “What’s on the menu, chef Miller?”

His ears went red instantly, and god, he must’ve looked ridiculous, like a schoolboy working up the courage to ask his crush to the dance. “You’ll see.”

By the time you showed up at his place that evening, Joel had gone all out. The table was set with two plates, a clean cloth laid neatly across it, and a couple of candles flickering in the center, throwing soft light across the room. The kind of romantic ambiance you’d only seen in old movies, not something you ever expected from him. You had no idea Joel Miller could be thoughtful like this, or maybe you’d just never been allowed to see that part of him before.

The smell of what he was cooking hit you as soon as you walked in: rich and savory. And it surprised you, realizing that Joel Miller could actually cook. You knew so little about him, you realized that most of what you’d pieced together had been from looking around his place, seeing what books or music he was into, what were his hobbies and interests. You knew about Sarah, and that Joel had once worked in construction, because Tommy had let that slip once. But this… this domestic, careful side, was something newer entirely.

“Spaghetti,” Joel explained, stirring the pot. His voice softened with the memories. “Used to make it for Sarah back in the day. Nothin’ special, but she always said it was her favorite.” A small half-smile tugged at his lips. “She really liked it.”

You set your coat aside and leaned against the counter, your chin propped in your palm as you watched him fuss in the kitchen. He was trying to chop garlic with one hand while the other rushed to stir the sauce before it burned, mumbling under his breath about needing another pan. You liked watching him like this, concentrating on the little things, lining up the spoons neatly, double-checking the salt like the world would end if he got it wrong.

By the time you sat down across from him, Joel couldn’t take his eyes off you. You talked with your hands, animated and full of energy, telling stories about your day around Jackson, and he hung onto every word like he’d been starved for them. And he had been, he knew it now, sitting here, listening to you ramble about small, ordinary things.

“So me and Javi spot this bear,” you said, waving your hands around with exaggerated enthusiasm, wide-eyed with mock horror. “And he’s like, ‘Relax, that’s one of the good ones.’ And I just look at him and go, ‘Are you insane? That’s a grizzly!’”

Joel was grinning already, his eyes fixed on you. “And what did you do?” His voice was different than usual, the same story that before would’ve earned a grunt of annoyance from him, was now one that he was invested in.

You shrugged, breaking into a laugh. “Turns out it wasn’t a grizzly. Just a really, really big marmot.”

Joel chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest, and it made your stomach flip, he looked stupidly handsome when he laughed, and when the sound faded, the smile didn’t, it lingered on his lips, like he couldn’t shake it off even if he tried. You made him happy, that was the truth. He’d always thought that happiness was something that he wouldn’t ever experience again, that just simply wasn’t in the menu for him after everything life had taken away from him, but then you came into his life, and reminded him that it wasn’t too late yet to be happy, that maybe he wasn’t broken beyond repair, that he could still have something worth living for, a reason to wake up and try to do better every day.

“You’re smilin’,” you teased him tilting your head. You liked seeing him like this, and knowing that you were the reason for it.

Joel cleared his throat, trying to keep his expression neutral, but it was hopeless... he was hopelessly in love with you. “’m allowed to smile, ain’t I?”

You giggled, and Joel swore it was the sweetest sound in the world. His chest tightened, a stupid sort of warmth spreading through him, and he didn’t even try to hide how much he loved it. He wanted to wake up every morning with that sound, wanted it to be the last thing he heard before falling asleep at night. He wanted to be the one who could make you laugh like that, uncontrollably, until tears ran down your cheeks, and only ever tears of joy, never sorrow, never pain again.

The spaghetti turned out better than you expected, it was simple, yes, but delicious. You finished your plate with a satisfied sigh, leaning back in your chair. “Okay. I’ll admit it. You’re a pretty damn good cook. Honestly, I had zero hope for you.”

Joel’s eyes crinkled at the corners, his chest swelling with pride after hearing your words. It had been a simple gesture, but he wanted to share all the little details with you, to fill you with the proof of how much you mattered to him, how much you lingered in his thoughts every moment, how he longed to let you into the ordinary pieces of his life, even something as small as a simple dinner.

“Glad it passes,” he said, dropping his gaze to his empty plate for a fleeting second before lifting back to meet yours. There was a vulnerability he rarely let anyone see. “Been a long time since I cooked for someone who… mattered.”

Later, after the dishes were washed and the candles burned low, Joel shifted on his feet, clearing his throat again. You could see him working himself up to something, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes fixed on the floor. He didn’t want you gone yet, but he didn’t want to push, didn’t want you thinking he’d really meant it when he called you a warm body in his bed, the last thing he needed was for you to think he only wanted you back because he missed the sex. But god, how he missed your warmth at night.

“Listen…” he began. “I know it’s late, and I ain’t askin’ for nothin’ like that. But—” He finally looked at you. He was being vulnerable in a way Joel Miller never let himself be. “Would you stay? Just the night. We don’t gotta do a damn thing. Keep your clothes on, hell, pile up blankets between us if you want. I just… I missed you. Missed wakin’ up knowin’ you were right there. If you let me have that again, even just for one night, I’d be real grateful.”

Your heart pounded so loud you thought he might hear it. Joel Miller, the man who not so long ago never begged, never asked, never admitted how he felt, him who’d been so reluctant to admit his feelings for you... was laying himself bare in front of you, nervous and hopeful, and he looked so ridiculously endearing you almost laughed.

You let him squirm under your silence for a beat longer, watching the way his thumb rubbed over his palm. Then finally, you said, “Alright. I’ll stay.”

He exhaled with relief, like he’d been holding his breath all evening up until this very moment. He ducked his head, but not before you caught the gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Swear I won’t push. Just… need to feel you near.”

That night, Joel rummaged through a drawer and came back holding a folded-up t-shirt and some old sweatpants. He offered them to you with an almost sheepish shrug.

“They’ll swallow ya whole,” he said. “But they’re more comfortable than your jeans.”

You took the clothes from him, brushing his fingers in the process. They were warm from his hands, soft and worn from years of use, like most of his clothes. He immediately turned his back, giving you privacy to change without his eyes on his body, his shoulders were stiff like he was holding himself too carefully.

You smirked, because even if he was acting like a new man, there was something that had always been there, and that was how gentlemanly he’d always behaved, even when he didn’t need to. Clutching the clothes to your chest, you teased, “Joel, you’ve already seen all there is to see.”

The blush that crept up the back of his neck nearly made you laugh out loud. “That don’t matter,” he said gruffly. “I’ll look when you want me to look. Not before.”

And he didn’t turn, not even a glance, just stood there, looking at the wall, head tilted down like a boy caught doing something wrong, until you were done changing. Your smile softened, this wasn’t just him trying, it was him showing you respect, patience, proving he meant every word he’d said that night under the rain.

You slipped into his bed, the clothes hanging loose on you, soft with the faint scent of him. Joel followed after a moment, settling on his side of the mattress, careful not to crowd you. True to his word, both of you stayed fully clothed, but you could feel the restraint in his body, how badly he wanted to reach for you and how hard he was holding back. Finally, after a long stretch of silence filled only by the patter of rain against the window, Joel shifted, and tentatively, his arm stretched across the space between you, offering the palm of your hand to you. You hesitated, just a second, but then you slid your hand into his, your smaller fingers curling around his calloused ones.

The two of you lay there, hands joined, rain singing outside. Then Joel chuckled under his breath.

“What’s funny?” you whispered.

He turned his head, his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Feelin’ like I’m sixteen again. Layin’ in bed next to a girl, heart beatin’ outta my chest, too nervous to do nothin’. Never thought I’d live through all that again.”

Your chest tightened at the tenderness in his face. “I think it’s good to take things slow,” you said, giving his hand a squeeze.

“’m grateful,” he murmured. “More’n I can say. You bein’ here… just this? Means more than I got words for. I wanna do things right this time.”

Warm silence stretched between you, but your mind wouldn’t settle. You thought back to dinner, to the way his voice softened when he mentioned Sarah, to how much you still didn’t know about his past. The question slipped out before you could overthink it. “Joel… can I ask you something?”

He shifted slightly. “’Course.”

You hesitated, then took a breath. “You’ve talked about Sarah, but uhh… you’ve never mentioned Sarah’s mother.” The words landed hard between you, and you immediately felt him tense. For a moment you worried he’d shut down. You rushed on, stumbling. “I mean, she had a mother, right? Well—duh, obviously, I mean, unless maybe you adopted her, well she’d still have a mother then but I—”

“She had a mother,” Joel interrupted softly. His gaze fixed on the ceiling, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand in slow strokes. “We were young. High-school sweethearts. And I uh… got her pregnant.”

Your brows furrowed. “How young?”

“Not relevant,” he said quickly.

You tilted your head, studying him. “I thought condoms were pretty accessible in your time.” The innocence in your voice made him let out a laugh that was half scoff, half disbelief.

“They were. That’s not the— Look, we were just kids. Young and reckless. Had no damn clue what we were doin’.” You stayed quiet, letting him untangle it in his own way. “So I did what you were supposed to do back then,” he continued. “Married her. Got a job. Tried to build somethin’ steady. Be a man, and a father.”

You could see the way he struggled, the clench of his jaw, so tight it definitely had to hurt, the stiff line of his shoulders, the way his grip on your hand tightened without him realizing.

“Sarah was born, and for a while, I thought maybe it’d work. But…” He swallowed, shaking his head. “She didn’t want it. Not that life, not the baby. She wasn’t built for stayin’. One day she just… left. Walked out. Left me with this tiny little girl who needed me for every damn thing.” His voice cracked.

Your heart ached. “What?” you burst out, indignation bubbling in your chest. “She just left you two alone?”

Joel gave a tired shake of his head. “I can’t say I blame her. Not really. She was young. Scared. Did what she thought was better.” His tone was calm, but it carried the weight of years, the sound of a wound that had never fully healed.

“Well, I can blame her! You were young and scared too,” you said fiercely.

“Not gonna lie to you, I hated her for a long time.” He gave a humorless huff. “But… I understand why she did it. Doesn’t mean it hurt any less. After she left, all I had was Sarah. She was my whole damn world.”

You rolled onto your side, facing him fully now. You let your hand slip free from his only to press your palm to his chest, right over his heart. His steady heartbeat thudded against your touch.

“And even if it might’ve seemed like a mistake at first,” he whispered, “Sarah never was. Not once. Lookin’ back… I wouldn’t change a damn thing.”His voice cracked on Sarah’s name.

“Joel…” you whispered, feeling your throat tight.

He turned his head at last, meeting your eyes, they looked glassy. “It’s hard for me to talk about this. But I’m tryin’. F’you. Tryin’ to open up.”

“I’m glad you did,” you murmured. “Thank you.”

His lips twitched into a small, sad smile. “Reckon I don’t wanna keep nothin’ from you anymore. Don’t wanna screw it up again.”

You let out a shaky laugh through the heaviness. “At least now I know where all that repressed trauma and fear of abandonment comes from.”

“Hey,” he shot back, mock warning in his voice, though there was no real bite. Just a hint of amusement shining through the sadness. “Don’t you start psychoanalyzin’ me.”

“I mean it,” you said softly. “You clearly have abandonment issues, and struggle with the idea of people leaving you.“

“Hell, why didn’t I think of that?” He said with sarcasm in his tone.

“Not everyone’s gonna leave, Joel. I won’t. Not unless you push me away again.” You leaned in then, resting your forehead against his shoulder. He didn’t move, didn’t ask for more, just let you settle against him. And in that moment, the two of you felt it… something different, something new. A fragile new beginning for you two.

When you thought Joel Miller couldn’t possibly surprise you anymore, he went and proved you wrong.

“A picnic?” you gasped, half-laughing, half-shocked, your hand flying to your mouth as you stared at the scene laid out before you. A colorful blanket stretched across the soft grass of the hills just outside Jackson’s gates, a basket perched in the middle, looking like something out of a storybook. You turned on him, your eyes full with mock suspicion. “Who are you and what have you done with Joel Miller?”

Joel shifted his weight, a huff slipping from his chest. His mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile, but failing. “So you like it or what?”

“Like it?” you repeated incredulously, dropping to your knees on the blanket. “Joel, this is adorable. This is… this is like some man from a romance novel possessed your grumpy self.” You laughed, shaking your head in disbelief. “Nobody’s ever done anything like this for me.”

And it was true. Joel wasn’t the first man who’d ever broken your heart, but every one before him had only shown you how wrong love could go, how careless, how selfish. But this? Joel setting out a picnic? That was something different entirely.

“’S nothin’,” he brushed it off as he knelt down beside you and began pulling items from the basket. He was careful with each one. “You deserve more’n this.”

Your eyes widened as the spread grew before you, loaves of sweet bread, scones, slices of pie, your favorite blueberry muffins wrapped neatly in cloth.

“Joel,” you breathed, reaching forward like child on Christmas morning. “How much was all of this? Don’t tell me you robbed the bakery, ‘cause I’ll have to turn you in.”

Joel shot you a look, half amusement, half reproach, as he sat down fully. “Ain’t that desperate. Just traded somethin’.”

You tilted your head, catching the way his hand went up to rub the back of his neck, his tell whenever he wasn’t sure how you’d react. “What’d you trade? Couldn’t have been anything small.”

“Nothin’ important,” he said quickly, dismissing it.

You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, come on. If you traded anything good for me, I’m gonna feel guilty as hell.”

His jaw worked for a moment before he gave in. “Coffee beans. No big deal.”

Your mouth fell open. “Coffee? Joel!” You smacked his arm lightly, with playful scolding. “You love coffee more than anyone I’ve ever met. Whenever we patrolled and you didn’t have coffee, you were grumpier than usual, which is saying something.”

He gave a little shrug, but you caught the faint smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, well. Figured it was worth it.”

Something in your chest pulled tight. Joel Miller, the man who had clung to coffee like it was his last tether to the world before it ended, had given it up for you. Just so you could sit on a blanket and eat muffins under the sun. He’d traded what he liked the most for you.

And maybe that’s what undid you most. Because you couldn’t remember ever being loved like that before, not this way, not with someone willing to give up pieces of themselves just to make you smile. The same man who’d once broken your heart was now stitching it back together with quiet gestures and patience, piece by piece, with love and care. He was showing you that you were one of his priorities, making you see how much he wanted you in his life. He was giving you back all that hope you’d lost, all those dreams he’d shattered.

You dug into the baked goods eagerly, savoring every bite and going on and on about how the baker deserved a medal, about how you’d drag Joel back to the shop next time so you could try everything else. Joel just sat beside you, leaning back slightly.

“Oh Jesus, this pie is so sweet I swear it’s attracting every ant in a ten-mile radius,” you groaned, licking sugar from your fingers.

Joel let out a laugh at your theatrics.

“No, this is serious,” you insisted, mouth still full. “Did you know ants have one of the biggest brain-to-body ratios in the animal kingdom? They’re planning world domination, I swear.”

Joel chuckled low. “Oh yeah, I’m sure. Guess we’ll have to start worryin’ about ants instead of clickers.”

“Laugh it up,” you said, pointing your fork at him, “but ants are evil, they raid other colonies, kill the queen, enslave the rest. If I were you, I’d be terrified.”

He shook his head with amusement. “I missed this,” he said suddenly.

You blinked, thrown off. “Missed what?”

“Hearin’ you go on ‘bout everythin’,” he admitted. “You know I don’t ever get tired of it?”

You froze, cheeks heating, caught off guard by the raw honesty in his words. Ducking your head, you smiled shyly. “Well… you better not. ‘Cause I’m so happy I don’t think I could stop if I tried.”

He leaned back on one hand, watching you with a look that made your stomach twist and flutter. “Don’t. Don’t stop. Feels… quiet in my head when you’re not talkin’. Don’t like that kind of quiet.”

Your throat tightened. For a long moment, you couldn’t even answer, couldn’t even breathe. So you did the only thing that felt right, you reached across the blanket and brushed your fingers over his. He didn’t hesitate, his hand turned, catching yours, holding on firm, like he’d decided he had no intention of letting go.

“Don’t reckon I ever been this happy just sittin’ still,” he said softly, as though admitting it too loud might shatter the moment.

Your smile broke free, you shifted closer, your free hand pressing against his chest, feeling the beat of his heart beneath your palm. You leaned in and kissed him. It started soft, just a brush of lips, sweet. But the second his hand came up to cradle the back of your neck, you deepened it, pouring everything you’d been holding back into that kiss. Weeks of patience, of stolen looks, of wanting… it all unraveled at once.

Joel kissed you back like a starving man, like he’d been holding this in for too long, like this was the moment he’d been waiting for since the second you’d given him another chance. Enough of trying to take things slow, you’d been seeing Joel for weeks now in all kinds of dates without not even a peck on the lips. And now all that restraint, all that patience, was being poured into this kiss like you both couldn’t afford to waste another second.

You needed him, you were hungry for his touch, for his kisses, and for his sex as well, because no other man you’d had before had ever compared to him, and it had been months since the last night you shared with Joel. Your thighs rubbed together in restless ache, your core clenching with every shallow breath as you remembered the stretch of his cock, the heat of his mouth. Nobody else even came close, Joel ruined you for anyone else, left his mark inside you in a way no man could erase. Your body was on fire and he was the only one who could put it out.

“Lord,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Don’t let me mess this up.”

You smiled against his mouth, brushing your thumb over his jaw. “Then don’t. Just… keep showing up like this. That’s all I need.”

He pulled you closer, and when your lips parted for him he didn’t hesitate. The taste of him filled you instantly, his tongue slid against yours, and you melted into it, a little whimper escaping you. That sound seemed to undo him, his other hand came to your waist, gripping you firmly, and he kissed you harder.

You broke the kiss with a laugh, breathless, pushing at his chest lightly. “Joel… we’re outside.”

He looked at you. “Ain’t a soul out here, darlin’.” His thumb stroked along your jaw. “Ain’t lettin’ you go back without remindin’ you how much I missed you. As long as you want me to.”

Your stomach flipped at the hunger in his tone, and in his eyes. “Yeah?” you teased softly, even though your pulse was racing. “Missed me that much?”

Joel didn’t bother answering with words. The answer was in the way he devoured you, his mouth crashing back onto yours, until you were leaning back against the blanket, your head spinning. His mouth trailed down your throat, biting lightly at the sensitive skin there, and you gasped, fisting your hands in his shirt.

By the time his fingers worked at the waistband of your jeans, you were already trembling with anticipation, every tug at your denim making your cunt clench harder. You let out a shaky laugh. “You’re really gonna do this? Out here?”

Joel looked up at you, his beard rough against your stomach as he tugged your pants down. “Been dreamin’ about this every damn night. Miss the taste of this sweet pussy.”

The heat in your cheeks burned hotter at his words. You lifted your hips to help him slide your jeans down. Your was cunt throbbing with need as the damp heat of your panties grew unbearable. When he settled between your thighs and pressed them apart with his big hands, he couldn’t help but shiver, because your panties were fully soaked, he hadn’t even touched your cunt and you’d already dampen the fabric, with only a few kisses on your mouth and neck. You were so easy to unravel under him, it made Joel full of proud that he had that effect on you, like your pussy knew who she belonged to, who she opened up for.

He pressed the tip of your calloused fingers against your clit over the thin cotton fabric, and your body instantly spasmed, the fabric stuck to your folds as he massaged little circles over the swollen nub. Your back arched, thighs twitching, the wet spot spreading wider under his touch. He groaned, his eyes locked on the outline of your cunt through the soaked cotton.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” He said, looking at the expression of pleasure in your face.

“You… uh… you know…ah… what.”

“You’re gonna have to say it.” He traced kisses all over your stomach, down to your navel, to the inside of your thighs, leaving your skin wet. His voice was muffled. “Say what you need.”

“Your mouth!” you said with desperation. “Want you to eat me out, please Joel, please.”

“Attagirl.” He murmured, and not a second later he was moving the fabric of your underwear to the side, parting your soaked folds with his thumbs, and licking a long stripe across your pussy, from your hole up to your clit. “Fffuck, missed this pussy, baby. Tastes sweeter than I remembered.”

Your head fell back as he dove in properly, licking you deep, savoring you. His tongue worked you with an ease that had your toes curling, his beard dragging over the insides of your thighs in the most delicious way. He groaned into you, like he’d been dying of thirst and finally got water. He’d never seen a pussy so pretty, never tasted anything as good, eating you out didn’t feel like an obligation, like something he had to do. It was something he deeply enjoyed, hearing you moan in pleasure, squirm under him, gave him so much satisfaction.

“That’s it sweetheart ,” he whispered against your soaked flesh, his tongue circling your clit slow before flicking it mercilessly. “Let me take care of you, baby. You deserve it.”

“Fuck, Joel,” you gasped, your fingers sinking into his hair. He groaned at the pull, rutting his face deeper between your thighs, smearing his chin with your slick. “I—I missed this. Missed you so much.”

He pulled back just enough to smirk up at you, lips glistening, his beard drenched in your arousal. “Then don’t you ever leave me starvin’ again, sweetheart.”

He hummed against you, the vibration making you jolt, your thighs twitching helplessly. “Wanna die between your legs,” he paused just long enough to drag his tongue flat in slow, filthy circles around your entrance, slurping your juices obscenely. The wet sounds filled the quiet evening, every lap and suck was loud in your ears. He groaned, lapping you up like honey. “Goddamn… pretty pussy’s creamin’ f’me. Can taste how bad you missed me.”

“Joel, please—” Your voice cracked, broken with need, your hips squirming against his mouth.

“Please what, baby?” His eyes flicked up to look at your face. His mouth stayed pressed to your folds as he spoke, his breath humid over your clit. “You want my tongue deeper? Want me to fuck your pussy with it? Split this sweet little hole open on my tongue?”

You whimpered, nodding desperately, the words tumbling out in a stuttering plea. “Yes… please… please Joel, fuck me with your tongue.”

“Good girl,” he rasped, and without another word, his tongue pushed inside you in long, hungry strokes, pumping in and out of your tight hole. The lewd squelch of his tongue fucking you had your eyes rolling back. He groaned into you, rutting his face like a man starved.

Your hands clutched at his hair, hips jerking as he forced his tongue deeper. “Oh god—Jo—oel—” The syllables broke apart on your tongue, your cunt clenching down around the wet muscle inside you.

He pulled back suddenly, leaving you empty, only to circle your clit with ruthless precision, sucking so hard you nearly screamed. Joel just pinned you down, his broad hand pressing firmly against your stomach to keep you from writhing away, holding you like you belonged there under his mouth. His tongue flicked quick, until your thighs were trembling, until your vision blurred.

“Keep those pretty legs apart for me,” his voice was muffled against your cunt, the words vibrating into your clit. “Don’t you dare close ’em. Wanna see how good I’m makin’ you feel, baby.”

“Joel, fuck—ahhh—” you cried, trying to obey, your legs quivering too much to stay open.

His hand slid under your ass, lifting your hips higher into his mouth like you were a meal he couldn’t waste a drop of. His other arm hooked around your thigh, forcing it wide, making sure he had you spread for him, your pussy swollen and glistening in front of him. You were moaning louder now, your thighs trying to close around his head, but Joel just pried you apart and shoved his face back in, devouring you like he owned you.

“F-feels so good… oh Joel,” you choked the words out in breathless moans, your nails dragging down his scalp. “Y-you d-don’t know h-how good it—ahh—”

“Shhh, I know,” he growled into you between sucks. “I know this pussy better’n anyone. Can’t believe it’s mine. Can’t believe you still open up like this just for me.”

“Joel!” you wailed as his mouth latched tight around your clit again, tongue swirling and flicking against the swollen bud until your entire body seized.

“Can’t believe this pussy’s mine.” He licked and sucked and moaned into your cunt like he was obsessed, and God, maybe he was.

You broke with a cry, your back arching off the blanket, thighs quivering uncontrollably, Joel’s name falling from your lips in a stuttering moans. “Joel—ohmygod—Joel—”

“That’s it,” Joel grunted, dragging his mouth down just enough to press two thick fingers into your soaking pussy, curling them deep while his lips sealed back over your clit. Even if his fingers were long and thick, your pussy was so wet and desperate it sucked him in greedily, stretching wide around the invasion, swallowing him to the knuckles. “Look at that, takes my fingers like you been waitin’ for ’em. C’mon, baby. Give it to me. Lemme feel you cum.”

You were already so close, the pleasure hot in your belly, ready to snap. “Joel, I’m gonna—”

“Good,” he growled, his lips glistening when he glanced up at you for just a second. His fingers pumped in and out of your cunt, knuckles-deep, curling to hit that spot that made your entire body jolt. “Give it to me, darlin’. Soak my goddamn face. Wanna drown in it.”

That was all it took. You shattered, screaming his name as Joel licked you through it, never letting up, groaning against you like he couldn’t get enough. Your thighs clamped around his head as your pussy gushed on his tongue. He just held you open, tongue lapping up every drop, coaxing every last tremor out of your body until you were sobbing his name.

When you finally slumped back against the blanket, gasping for air, your whole body slick with sweat, Joel lifted his head slowly. His beard was dripping, his mouth shining with you, and he licked his lips with a satisfied hum, moaning as he swallowed you down. “Sweetest thing I ever had,” he said as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, only to lick his palm clean, smirking at your wrecked body. “Ain’t never gonna stop eatin’ that pussy. You hear me? Gonna have this pretty thing sittin’ on my face till the day I die.”

You let out a shaky laugh, tugging him up by his shirt to kiss him again, tasting yourself on his tongue. The kiss was sloppy, your lips still trembling as his tongue slid against yours with the taste of your orgasm. When your body finally stopped trembling, Joel stayed right where he was, with his head laying against the inside of your thigh, his beard scratchy against your skin, lips still wet from before

“Yep, it’s confirmed.” You were the first one to break the quiet. “You still haven’t lost your touch.”

He hummed against you, and tilted his head lazily to look up at you. His eyes were heavy-lidded, like a man drunk on the taste of you. “You enjoyed that then?”

“You ate me into a new dimension, what do you think?” you giggled, but stopped when you looked down and noticed the big tent that had taken residence in his crotch under his pants. The outline was thick, straining against rough denim, the kind of hard-on you could see and feel just from looking. “Do you want me to…?” You ask him pointing to his erection.

Joel cut you off with a small shake of his head and a soft smile. His lips brushed your thigh before he pulled back, a little flush painting his cheekbones. “No, darlin’. Today’s all about you.”

Your brows pinched. “Joel…” the outline of his bulge against the zipper of his pants was hard to ignore. The denim looked like it was punishing him, biting into his cock where he was swollen. “You’re like… hard.”

He reached up, cupping your hip in his big hand. “Ain’t askin’ for nothin’ back. Just needed to make you feel good. Still got a lot to earn with you, and I don’t mind waitin’.” His mouth quirked into something between a smile and a grimace. “Hell, this was more than I deserved already.”

Your chest tugged, that familiar ache of loving him mixing with the frustration of how little he seemed to think of himself. You shifted, stroking your fingers through his curls, damp with sweat at the hairline. “But Joel, you’re really hard.”

“Yeah, I noticed, sweetheart.” He chuckled, a little embarrassed. He dropped his head back onto your thigh like he was hiding. “Ain’t the first time I’ve had to walk it off. Don’t worry ‘bout me.”

You sighed, exasperated but softened. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Just a little uncomfortable. Nothin’ I can’t handle.” He explained with calm. “You just relax.”

“Oh I am relaxed. I’m very relaxed.” you sighed. “I was scared you had lost practice, but that tongue it’s still very much trained.” The orgasm had left you loose-tongued, and Joel was quiet, content to listen, so you filled the silence. “You know,” you began, “the clit actually have more than eight thousand nerve endings? Twice as many as—” you flicked your eyes meaningfully downward—“yours.”

Joel lifted his head just enough to raise a brow at you, looking downright smug now. “That so? Guess I’ve been doin’ my homework all these years without even knowin’ it.”

You laughed, threading your fingers deeper into his curls. “Apparently. You get an A-plus in pussy eating. Obviously.”

“Christ,” Joel muttered, hiding his face against your thigh again. But you could feel the smile stretching against your skin. And worse, you could feel the faint throb of his cock as he shifted slightly, the poor man trying to ignore it while his body betrayed him.

You kept going, your words tumbling out easily. “Oh! And did you know men are actually more likely to die during sex if they’re cheating? Stress levels, heart rate, all that. Not trying to scare you, but just so you know.”

Joel barked out a laugh. His shoulders shook against your leg. “Good lord, what the hell kinda facts are you readin’?”

“The interesting ones,” you teased.

His laugh softened into a hum, “Don’t worry about that. Don’t have any intentions in ever doin’ this with anybody else.” He said, and you could tell he was honest, a man you had so much trouble opening up, who’d spent years without sex, who was a miracle he’d even let you in… yeah, he wasn’t gonna go find anyone else.

“You better mean that, Joel Miller.” You threatened him playfully.

“Darlin’, what would I even do if I slept with a woman and she don’t bomb me with sex facts after it?” he pressed a kiss on your belly, his lips lingering there like he wanted to brand you with his mouth. “Nah, you set the bar too high.”

You chuckled, his body felt heavy where it rested against you. After a while, his breathing evened out, like he could fall asleep right there with his head in your lap. His erection still strained stubbornly under his jeans, but he ignored it, too content to move. And still you stroked his hair, talked too much, filled the silence with more sex facts, while Joel listened, soaking up every word like he’d been hoping for this kind of peace his entire life.

“Keep your eyes closed,” Joel said while standing behind you, his hands firm on your waist as he guided you carefully through his home. His voice was soft but carried that quiet command of his. “Come on, I see you peekin’ through.”

“I’m not!” you insisted, laughter spilling out. “But I’m worried, you’ve been secretive all day.”

Joel’s workshop smelled like wood and sawdust. It was a room he’d remodeled in his house as his studio. You’d seen it before, the walls lined with guitars he’d built with his own two hands; shelves stacked with his animal carvings, deer, rabbits, wolves, even a little pig. He led you there with a nervous energy you could almost feel through his palms on your waist.

He scratched at his beard, that shy little shuffle of his boots on the floor betraying him before he even spoke. “Been workin’ on somethin’. For you.”

Your heart gave a little kick, but you forced your voice steady. “For me? What, like a chair?”

“Not a chair. Open your eyes.”

You blinked them open, and the familiar sight of his workshop filled your view: tables crowded with tools, shelves full of bottles of paint and brushes, scraps of wood scattered all around. Your gaze darted eagerly. “Where is it?”

He grunted, pretending to be put out by your excitement, but there was no hiding the twitch at the corner of his mouth. Reaching to the back of his table, he pulled something from behind a folded cloth. When he set it in front of you, your mouth dropped open.

It was a small wooden carving, polished smooth by his hands. A scene, tender in its detail: a rooster with its chest puffed out proudly, head tilted down, a worm held delicately in its beak. A hen leaned toward him, accepting the offering, while two little chicks stood at their feet, round and soft with etched feathers so fine it almost looked like they could fluff out if you breathed too close.

You stared at it, feeling your throat tightening. “Joel,” you whispered, brushing your fingertips lightly over the rooster’s tail feathers, the wood smooth under your touch. “This is…”

He cleared his throat, shifting his weight like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself now that you were looking. “’S just somethin’ small. Nothin’ fancy. I remembered ‘bout that time you told me you’d like to be a chicken and… ‘bout the rooster cacklin’ to call the hen when he found food.”

He might’ve said it was nothing, but it wasn’t true. It was everything. It was proof, once again, that he remembered, that he cared, that he took the time to carve something meaningful just for you. Not some generic piece, not a trinket for anyone else. He had carved your silly little rambles into wood, made it permanent with his hands.

Your smile trembled as your eyes watered. “You—you listened. You actually listened.”

Joel huffed softly, almost embarrassed, his beard scratching against his shirt as he ducked his head. “’Course I did.”

You cradled the statue like it was something fragile, something you knew you would treasure forever. “What are their names?”

Joel blinked. “Names?”

“Yeah,” you said, grinning now. “The rooster, the hen. You can’t just give me this whole family and not tell me their names.”

“They’re… they’re just chickens,” Joel said baffled but amused. “They don’t have names.”

You gasped dramatically, clutching the statue to your chest. “Just chickens? Come on, they must have names.”

“That’s Rooster. That’s Hen.” He pointed gruffly at them. “And those are chicks number one and two.”

“Oh, those names suck.” You complained, but your smile didn’t falter. “They’re obviously in love. Are they married or what?”

He sighed through his nose, long-suffering. “They can’t get married. They’re chickens.”

Another gasp burst out of you. “Of course they can!”

He wanted to argue, you could see it, but the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying him. “Yeah. Sure. Married.”

“Good,” you said firmly, then tilted your head at him, your eyes gleaming. “So… are they us?”

Joel froze. For a moment he looked like he might deny it, but then he gave a short, rough laugh. “They’re nobody. Just chic—” He stopped when he saw how bright and wide your eyes were. “Yeah, guess they’re us.”

Warmth spread through you, overwhelming and giddy all at once. You set the carving down carefully before launching forward, wrapping your arms around his middle. Joel caught you with a surprised grunt, but his arms folded around you tight.

You mumbled against his shirt, “I love it. I love you for making it.”

His hand slid up your back, fingers curling at your nape, tilting your face up. “Ain’t much, but… it’s yours.”

“It’s everything,” you whispered.

Joel kissed you right there in the sawdust-scented workshop. Just a slow kiss, a way to seal this tender moment between you two. The second you cradled that carving in your hands again, your heart nearly leapt out of your chest. You kept brushing your thumb over the rooster’s beak, your smile stretching wider and wider until Joel finally muttered, “You’re grinnin’ like a damn fool.”

You only laughed, too full of joy to be embarrassed. “You made me a chicken family, Joel. A chicken family! Do you have any idea how much I love this?”

He tried to grumble something, but you caught that tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth, the one that gave him away every time.

“They’re adorable. Married. With kids. Deeply in love. And…” you let your voice dip playfully, “…I bet they’re mating like crazy when no one’s lookin’.”

Joel’s head snapped toward you, narrowing his eyes. “Darlin’…”

You bit your lip like you were considering something scandalous. “I mean, this time he might’ve cackled when he found a worm, but they already have two chicks, so I bet he does a lot of that other type of cackling, y’know, the one when he wants to have some fun with his wife.”

The noise Joel made was somewhere between a scoff and a growl. “Lord almighty.”

You pretended to sigh dreamily. “Maybe we should take a page outta their book. You feed me, I feed you… and we do other things.” You trailed off, letting the suggestion hang in the air.

Joel’s jaw tightened, his gaze burning heavy on you. “You’re pushin’ it,” he warned, though his voice was already lower.

“Am I?” you teased. “Or maybe you’re just thinkin’ the same thing.”

That did it. Joel moved before you could blink, his arms sweeping you up off your feet like you weighed nothing. You yelped in surprise, clutching the carving tight against your chest, then hurriedly set it back on the table before he carried you away.

“Joel!” you gasped, laughter bubbling out of you as your arms wrapped around his neck. “What’re you—”

He cut you off with a firm kiss, stealing your breath. His lips were hot, hungry now. “You should tell me now if you want me to stop,” he muttered against your lips.

“No,” you murmured back, breathless. “Been too long already. You earned it, you so, so, so earned it.” Your giggles spilled into his mouth as his grip tightened.

And just like that, you were being carried down the hall, his steps fast, as if he couldn’t get you to his bed quickly enough. His heartbeat thudded against your chest, matching the throbbing pulse between your legs. You could hear your pulse in your ears, a mix of nerves, and sheer happiness that this was finally happening again, after all the time you’d both gone without it.

When Joel laid you down on his bed, it was with a care that contrasted the urgency in his body. His hands lingered at your waist, squeezing, sliding up like he couldn’t help himself, his eyes scanning your face like he needed to memorize every expression you made.

“You sure?” he asked low.

You nodded immediately, pulling him down by his shirt. “I’m sure, Joel. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed this.”

That broke whatever restraint he had left. His mouth claimed yours again, deeper this time, a filthy clash of teeth and tongue. His hands slid over your body with reverence, cupping your tits through your clothes, squeezing your hips like he was afraid you’d vanish. You melted under him, the months of tension between you unraveling as he touched and kissed and murmured against your skin.

Clothes fell away in uneven bursts, you laughed when his fingers fumbled with a button, he chuckled when you tugged too hard at his shirt. But then there was only heat, bare skin against bare skin. His eyes roamed every inch of you, like he was trying to decide what do devour first.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your cheekbone. “Don’t know how I went so long without havin’ you like this. Don’t know how I fuckin’ breathed without it.”

“Then don’t,” you whispered back, arching into him, pressing your bare chest to his. “Don’t go without it anymore.”

You pushed him off your body, forcing him to lay next to you.

“Mm… baby… what’re you—” His voice cracked into a groan when you leaned in and climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, your cunt already slick against his stomach.

You slid down carefully, traveling down his body, your tongue dragging over his chest, his ribs, his stomach. Joel stood still, he didn’t move until your lips brushed the soft skin at his hip, making him shiver. His body twitched, and when you began to pull down his boxers to wrap your hand gently around him, already thickening, he let out a ragged sound from deep in his chest.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He mumbled under his breath, as your fingers stroked his heavy length. “You don’t have to, you don’t—” He shut up once you leaned in and took him in your mouth with eagerness.

His cock swelled fast against your tongue, your lips stretching around him as you sank deeper. Your throat fought to open, your jaw aching already, but the weight of him filling your mouth had you wetting the sheets under you. You set a steady rhythm, your hand twisting, giving him gentle strokes at the base where you couldn’t reach with your mouth. His cock was as big and gorgeous as you remembered, standing proud with its veins bulging from how hard it was.

Your tongue stroked the sensitive underside, because you remembered how much he liked that, and Joel’s whole body went taut. He slapped a hand over his face, groaning into his palm like he couldn’t handle the sight.

“Fuck… Jesus, baby, you tryin’ to kill me?” You hummed around him, the vibration making his hips buck involuntarily. His hand fisted in the sheets. “Goddamn, don’t deserve this… don’t deserve you.”

You popped off him just long enough to smirk up the length of his body, saliva slicking your chin, dripping down your throat. “You deserve every bit of it, Joel. After everything you’ve done to prove yourself? You earned this.”

His eyes fluttered shut, but he shook his head anyway, groaning. “No, no, sweetheart, I swear—don’t even know what I did in life to have you between my legs like this… lookin’ so goddamn pretty with your mouth full of my cock.”

You giggled softly, then swallowed him down again, taking him deeper this time, until your nose brushed the coarse hair at his base. Joel’s hips jerked helplessly, a strangled curse falling from his lips. His hand flew from the sheets to your hair, tugging, keeping you there.

“Shit—baby, that mouth… you’re perfect, you know that? My perfect girl. You love suckin’ me, don’t ya?” His voice was desperate, the filth rolling off his tongue without shame.

You moaned your answer around him, your throat working hard, clenching around him every time his fat tip hit the back of it. You bobbed your head faster, the big intrusion of his member had spit dripping down your chin and down his shaft, soaking his balls. You spread the wetness with your free hand, massaging one ball first, squeezing gently, rolling them slow, then tugging harder when he groaned. He hissed, the tendons in his neck standing out.

“Fuuuck, baby,” he groaned,“playin’ with my balls too? You dirty little thing. Gonna make me lose it…”

Every whimper, every curse that fell out of him only spurred you on. You pulled back to swirl your tongue over the head, teasing the slit, tasting the salty pre-cum that was already leaking. You licked it up eagerly, humming at the taste.

“Fuck, I ain’t gonna last… been so long without it, without you—oh, baby…” His free hand reached down, fingers tangling in your hair to hold you there, guiding your head with a rough urgency. Joel was gone. His thighs trembled under your palms. “Sweetheart, please—fuck—I don’t deserve you takin’ me like this… don’t deserve you worshippin’ my cock…”

You pulled back just enough to murmur against him, lips brushing the swollen tip. “Guess you’ll just have to get used to it. I like having your cock down my throat.”

That undid him. “Fuck—shit—baby, stop,” he let out a strangled groan, his hand yanking lightly on your hair. “Get off, baby, get off before I…”

You looked up at him, pulling off with a wet pop, a string of saliva joining the head of his cock to your lips. “Really want me to stop?” you asked him, giving soft kisses all along his shaft back to the tip, kitten-licking the swollen head.

“Y-yeah… don’t… don’t wanna cum just yet.” He said, looking at you with pleading eyes, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with surprising tenderness. “Come up here, sweetheart. Wanna feel you wrapped around me instead.”

You settled over him once again, straddling his waist, one leg on each side of his body. Your slick lips dragged over the thick length of his cock, teasing yourself and him both, before you finally sank down. The first slide of him into you had you both groaning, the stretch almost overwhelming after so long without it, but perfect… so perfect you clutched at his shoulders and pulled him closer, desperate not to lose the connection for even a second.

Joel moaned after feeling the stretch of your pussy, the warmth welcoming him around his cock. His head dropped back. “God, I missed you,” he panted. “Missed the way you feel, fuck, missed this pretty pussy wrapped around me.”

You rolled your hips in little circles, just barely-there movement to let your cunt adjust to him, the fat head of his cock grinding right against that spot inside you. You laughed softly between kisses. “Guess the chickens were right. You should cackle more often cause I… oh god… I really missed this too.”

Joel let out a shaky laugh, his smile breaking through even as your body moved with more urgency now, bouncing over him, sliding up and down over his cock. Each drop of your hips had him bottoming out, the thick head pressing so deep inside you it hurt in the sweetest way, your ass smacking down against his thighs.

“God, it’s been so long,” you moaned, palms running over the hard lines of his chest as your movements kept with the same intensity. “I tried using my fingers—”

Joel raised a brow, amused even through his ragged panting. “Oh yeah?”

You nodded, giggling at the memory, even as your pussy clenched down on him with every bounce. “But after you? Joel, I’d have to sneak into the garden and steal the biggest cucumber I can find just to get close.”

Joel groaned, dropping his head back against the pillow, one hand sliding down to squeeze your ass. “Jesus Christ, girl.”

“What? I’m serious!” you teased, giving one hard thrust that made him grunt. “This thing’s ruined me for life. There’s no goin’ back.”

Your chatter didn’t slow you down, in fact, it only seemed to make him harder. Even through the haze of pleasure, your words kept spilling out, half moans, half jokes, because you felt so comfortable around Joel, you could be filthy and messy and still laugh. You two weren’t just fucking, it felt like making love. Like two people who deeply trusted the other.

“You know roosters… ahhh… when they mate, they’re real quick? Like less than five seconds, oh God, guess I’m glad you’re not a rooster.”

Joel laughed, a breathless, sound as he thrust deeper, his cock driving up into you so hard your tits bounced against your chest. “Guess I oughta prove I’m not, huh?”

Your giggles dissolved into broken cries of pleasure as he began to push his hips up to meet your movements, setting a rhythm that was even deeper now. He held you by your hips, yanking you down faster while he kept thrusting up into you, the wet slap of your bodies echoing through the room.

His eyes moved to where your bodies were joined, and the sight had him growling. Your cunt was swallowing him greedily, stretched wide around his cock, creamy slick gushing down his shaft, leaving wet rings at the base every time he bottomed out.

“Fuck baby… gonna cum… this pussy, shit—it’s makin’ me cum.” He groaned, and the hands at your waist tried to lift you off him. “Sweetheart, gotta pull out.”

You shook your head, standing your ground, grinding down harder, your cunt fluttering around him like it was trying to milk him dry. “No,” you said, your voice breaking into moans. “Want it inside. Please Joel, please.” You begged shamelessly, “Just fill me up, wanna feel it dripping out of me.”

“You sure?” he managed to mumble, his back arching off the bed as his hips kept jerking up into you, fighting his own restraint.

“Yes… yes, please Joel—cum inside me,” you cried out, nails digging into his shoulders.

Your filthy words, and the way your walls kept gripping him tight, squeezing the life out of him, was all Joel needed to finally unravel. He came with a loud groan, grabbing your hips and forcing you down onto him as deep as he could. His cock throbbed violently, spilling into you, pumping you full of his hot seed. His body shook in pleasure, toes curling, as his cum kept spurting, filling you up just like you’d begged. Even buried to the hilt, he saw the way his milky cum leaked out of your stretched hole, dripping over his cock and pooling at his balls. The sight was obscene, and he felt such undeniable satisfaction at marking you, owning you from the inside out.

You felt the warmth of his release flooding your cunt, the thick spurts painting your insides, the heavy throbs of his cock pulsing with every spasm. The gush of him inside you was so much you swore you felt it in your stomach. And when you thought he might collapse on the bed, drained after the orgasm, he proved you wrong, because he yanked you down flat and rolled over you, pinning you under his body.

His cock, not one single bit softer, pushed back inside you in one brutal thrust that made you gasp, your pussy clenching hard around the intrusion.

“Oh wow,” you whimpered, half laugh, half cry. “You’re still… you’re still going, huh?”

“Not stoppin’ ‘til you’re cummin’ on this cock, baby.” His voice was dark with lust, as his hand slid under your thighs and yanked your legs up higher around his waist. “Gonna fuck you ‘til you soak me, ‘til you’re cryin’.”

“See? Definitely not a rooster,” you teased through the moans, even as your body shook from the way he drove into you. “You know… uh,” you started, words breaking around his thrusts, “in the… ahhh—animal kingdom, most males just… disappear after mating. Sometimes the female literally eats them. Aren’t you glad I didn’t bite your head off?”

Joel huffed a laugh that quickly turned into a groan as your pussy clenched around him. “Darlin’, sometimes I think you’d like to.”

You grinned, your hands clutching his shoulders. “Only if you deserved it. Which you don’t, ‘cause—” you tilted your head back with a moan—“uhhh, ohhh, this is way longer than five seconds. Roosters could never.”

You noticed how Joel’s grunts and groans only intensified as he kept pounding into you, rougher than before, his hips slamming against yours with relentless force. He was louder than usual. His eyes were squeezed shut, his face twisted like he was straddling the line between pleasure and pain. He almost looked like it hurt, but you knew he was probably just pushing himself past his limits.

“Jesus, baby…” His voice trembled, broken with every thrust. “So tight, so fuckin’ warm. Can’t—fuck… can’t stop.” Each push inside came with a ragged groan, a hiss, a strangled curse.

You couldn’t help laughing between your own gasps of pleasure. “Wow,” you pressed back into him, “you’re really feeling it, huh?”

Joel buried his face against your shoulder, teeth scraping your skin as he groaned again. “Yeah… feels so fuckin’ good, baby…” His words were ragged. “Pussy still grips me so goddamn tight… like it’s made for me.”

But underneath the pleasure, a different kind of strain was growing. His abdomen tightened with each thrust, and flashes of pain shoot through his stomach with every deep roll of his hips. He swallowed it down, masking it beneath louder moans and curses. He didn’t want you to know, didn’t want to ruin this. You felt too good, and he finally had you back, he wanted to give it all to you, to keep going until you broke apart under him.

But the pain kept building, sharper each time his cock drove into you, until his groans sounded almost desperate, and it was getting harder to mask it and pretend it wasn't there.

“Joel?” You twisted your head, trying to see his face. His jaw was clenched, there was sweat dripping down his temple, and his knuckles were white where he fisted the sheets. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he shoved into you again, though the sound that he made was more pained than pleasured. His hips faltered for a second. “Just—fuck—just feels good, baby… too good…”

But you knew him too well. You felt the tremor in his body, the uneven hitch in his breathing. His rhythm faltered, and his hips stuttered against you before he suddenly stopped altogether.

“Joel,” you whispered with concern.

He cursed under his breath, rolling carefully onto his back and clutching his side. His face was pale, he definetely wasn't alright. “Shit,” he groaned. “Ain’t—ain’t you, baby. Somethin’s wrong.”

Panic spiked through you, as you scrambled upright. “Wrong? Joel, what’s—what hurts? Is it your dick? DID I BREAK YOUR DICK? OH MY GOD, JOEL! PLEASE TELL ME I DIDN’T BREAK YOUR MOST PRECIOUS ASSET.”

“Relax, it ain’t my dick.” He pressed his hand into his abdomen as though trying to hold the pain back. “It’s somethin’ in my stomach. Shit—don’t feel right.”

Your throat went dry. “Hospital. Now.”

Joel groaned, shaking his head like he didn’t want to admit defeat, but the way he doubled over when he tried to sit up said it all, the pain was too sharp. You grabbed his clothes in a rush, tugging on his jeans for him, fumbling with buttons, helping him dress even as he muttered between clenched teeth, “Sorry, baby. M’sorry, I didn’t wanna stop. Just wanted you.”

The diagnosis came fast at the hospital.

“Appendicitis?” you repeated after the doctor explained. “Wait, wait, like, you’re sure? Not just a really bad stomach ache?”

The doctor gave you a look that practically screamed, ‘Did you go to med school or did I?’ “I’m sure. He needs surgery. He’s going to be fine.”

Your eyes widened with panic as your words tumbled too fast. “Okay but… like you’ve done this before, right? Not just read it in a textbook? You’ve done it more than once?”

The doctor sighed. “Yes. More than once. It’s a standard procedure. Quick recovery.”

Joel reached over weakly, his fingers searching for yours. “Darlin’, stop grillin’ the man. He knows what he’s doin’.”

You turned back to him instantly, clutching his hand tight. “Joel, don’t you dare die in there, you hear me? Not from your appendix. That’s like… the lamest way to go after everything you’ve survived.” You tried to sound like you were just joking, but your voice broke, and the tears started to burn at the corners of your eyes.

Joel let out a faint chuckle, though it clearly hurt him to do it. “You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, squeezing your hand. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere. You ain’t gettin’ rid of me that easy now that I got you.”

You pressed a soft kiss to the back of his hand, holding it against your cheek. “You better keep that promise. You don’t know how annoying I can be when I’m grieving.”

The waiting was the worst. You paced the hallways, then sat down, then got back up again. You asked the nurse if everything was going okay four times in half an hour. You asked if you could see the doctor’s med school diploma, and then if she’d allow you to personally step into the OR to supervise, just in case.

By the time you saw Joel again, he was lying in a hospital bed, looking groggy but alive, his eyes fluttering open as you rushed to his side.

“Hey, hey—” you grabbed his hand, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “See? You didn’t die. Thanks for that.”

He blinked at you, his pupils were still heavy from the anesthesia. “M’sorry, baby.”

Your brow furrowed, and you leaned closer to him. “What? Sorry for what?”

His mouth twitched in that tired, sheepish way of his. “Didn’t… didn’t get you to cum before. I left you hangin’.” His voice cracked around the words, like it cost him effort to even admit it.

For a moment you just stared at him with your mouth falling open. Then you dropped your forehead onto his shoulder, torn between laughing and crying. “Joel Miller, you just came out of surgery because your appendix tried to kill you, and you’re apologizing for not getting me off first?”

He gave you the faintest grin. “Well… yeah. You deserved to.”

You lifted your head, cupping his face in both hands, your thumbs stroking his scruff. “You’re alive. That’s all that matters. I don’t care about anything else. You think I’d trade you for an orgasm? Don’t answer that.” A watery laugh broke through your tears.

Joel chuckled weakly, his eyes softening. “Don’t deserve you,” he murmured quietly.

“Good thing you don’t get to decide,” you whispered back, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Then, despite everything, a little laugh slipped out. “You know, this is actually kind of funny.”

He grunted. “What’s so funny about it?”

“I’m gonna tell everybody I rode you so good I tore your appendix.” You giggled, already picturing it. “I mean, how many women can say that?”

He closed his eyes, scoffing. “‘m not sure your riding skills are related to my appendix almost explodin’ inside me.”

“Oh, I believe they are,” you said confidently. “Or maybe it was God’s divine intervention. You broke my heart, and whoever’s up there lookin’ down on us broke your appendix. It’s called karma, Joel.” You couldn’t stop grinning.

His gaze softened again. “Well, even if it’s karma… I’m glad. I’d take a failin’ appendix a thousand times if it meant havin’ you back in my life.” The sincerity in his words hit you so hard it made you ache.

Your fingers wrapped tighter around his, guarding him like you could fight off the whole world if it tried to take him from you again. “I’ll take real good care of you. Gonna make you my special soup, give you sponge baths, all of it.”

His lips twitched into the faintest smile. “Shit…don’t deserve you. But I’m so glad you’re mine.” Tears swelled in his eyes, whether from pain or from seeing you beside him, ready to care for him when he was at his worst, despite everything he’d put you through, despite all the pain he’d caused you before, here you were, without any resentment, just loving him like nobody had, “I love you. I just wish—wish I could find better words. But there ain’t. I just love you.”

You bent down, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, gentle enough not to hurt, but deep enough to leave no doubt. “I love you too, Joel Miller.”

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A/N: I hope you enjoyed this fourth part! I know not everyone’s going to be happy with the way it turned out, some of you probably wanted me to basically kill Joel, hahaha, but I really feel like he did things right this time. He’s finally earning reader’s trust and love.

I’d be so honored if anyone who draws ever made a little piece based on any moment from the series. I feel like a drawing of Joel’s craving gift for reader would be especially sweet, it’s such a cute and meaningful part of the fic, but it’s just a thought.

Sorry for the long chapter, I promise I wasn’t trying to bore you, but I felt like everything needed to be there so the whole forgiveness arc wouldn’t feel rushed. Hopefully you enjoyed the mix of fluff, smut, and the silly little moments in between.

I think this will be the last part before an epilogue to give them some closure. Thank you so much to everyone who’s been reading and supporting this series, it means the world🩷🩷

tags: @spacegirl-3 @kaseynsfws @wow-life-love4 @pixieeee101 @hhjhgdaiqoqoan @mydearzero @ultra-nina-bella @martuxduckling @unforgivemn @puduvallee @gorzelnia-blog @conrzd @applebloom928 @glitterspark @imjustaprettyyprincess @mani-pedro @jettia @sunnyssimming @sethell @thescxrpio @cowboylikejoha @dugiioh @crimsonxcobra @twigleektribute23 @alexxavicry @thievin-stealing @tearsweetenedtea @serenity-1221 @lover-of-books-and-tea @joelsgoodgirl @nightbornangel @millersweetheart @spacemooi @bbyanarchist @nixiaw @dlwrish @yeswhale456 @uncassettodiricordi @looking1016 @Ghostlover19 @sofisweb @lanasdolll @smvtwitchmiller @bolitadesol @anheloamores @chrrypascal @froggyloora @afyreinjuly @mslxsx07 @mxmsuki @deardev0teddelicate

Joel Miller didn’t really do friendship.

And it could’ve been a symptom of twenty years of the world turning neighbor against neighbor or perhaps he’d just always been wired that way. An introvert with a streak of cantankerousness that flared, especially on the wrong day.  He knew the folks of Jackson liked him enough to call him over to fix their things, to offer coffee beans or a cold beer or a slice of pie in return for the work he did. He liked doing it. Afterall, he liked being useful. It gave him a quiet satisfaction of knowing he was part of a community, even if he didn’t have what most people would call friends. He was aware that he was no ray of sunshine, and maybe a bit irritable. And when the job was done, people didn’t usually ask him to stick around, but he didn’t mind. He wasn’t sure what he’d have to say, anyway.

But there was one exception.

One person—besides Tommy and Ellie—whose name he didn’t mind hearing when patrol assignments went out. One he didn’t meet with a groan or an eye-roll. The rare soul he could spend a long stretch of miles beside without feeling the itch to fill any silences.

You were different from most of the people that Joel had met in his fifty something years. Independent and tough skinned but kind to the bone. You didn’t talk much, which suited him fine, but when you did, you were… hell, you were funny. You caught his awful dad jokes and lobbed better ones back when the mood allowed. You liked to learn, took pointers without bristling—though you rarely needed them. And when he offered a tip, whether it was coaxing a stubborn fire to life or stripping a rifle, he could tell you appreciated it. You could shoot straight, move quick, scavenge smart. You were steady in a panic and didn’t fold in a fight.

It was strange— enjoying someone’s company the way he did yours. Strange enough that Joel sometimes caught himself wondering if you felt the same.

This summer had been the nastiest so far in Jackson. The heat blazed during the day, pressing against the mountains until the nights split open with storms, leaving behind a heavy, lingering damp that clung to the air in a way the northwest rarely did. It turned the woods thick with biting insects, the trails slow and mud-ridden, and the nights long and restless. 

You were moving slower than usual, trailing behind Joel as you rode toward an abandoned lookout the patrol log had marked to make usable again for training new members of the community. Both of you knew it would take the better part of the day, and you’d packed in case it took longer: a sleeping bag rolled tight behind your saddle, extra rations stowed away. The dark clouds that were stacking over the far mountain range promised a storm you didn’t want to be caught in unawares.

He couldn’t say exactly what it was, but something about you felt…off that day. You were quiet, which wasn’t anything new, but the air around you carried a kind of unease he couldn’t place. For one, you hadn’t laughed at his god awful joke twenty minutes ago.

How you like your eggs? ‘Cause it’s hot enough I could damn near fry ‘em on my back right now.

Wasn’t his best work by any means, but he’d only said it to crack a smile on your face, but nothing ever came of it. He was almost certain you hadn’t even heard him, your mind a thousand acres away while your horse kept close behind his.

Joel slowed, reining in his steed until you drew up beside him. Ahead, the field opened into low brush, not tall enough to hide the cabin on its stilts. A weathered A-frame, the kind that had once been rented out for weeks at a time to families looking for mountain air in summer, or skiers in winter. Back when the world still turned like it should.

“What d’you say we run a perimeter check? I’ll take south, you take north. Meet in the middle. Blow the whistle if—”

But you were already nodding, turning your horse to the right and breaking off without a word.

Joel’s eyes stayed on you as you rode away, his stare heavy between your shoulder blades. Something about you was wrong today in a way he couldn’t shrug off. You weren’t just quiet. It was like you were somewhere else entirely, moving like the work in front of you barely registered. Normally, you’d meet his eye before splitting up, maybe toss him some dry comment to show you’d heard him, double check he had ammo in his gun or water in his canteen. Now there was nothing.

He didn’t like not knowing what was going on in your head. Not out here.

Still, he turned his horse toward the south side of the ridge, keeping his rifle close, boots shifting against the stirrups as he started down the slope. The air felt thick enough to press against his skin, and every sound—or lack of one—seemed louder for it. He kept his eyes moving, ears tuned to the treeline. For a while it stayed still and empty, the kind of quiet that made a man think that, just maybe, it’d be an easy sweep. He could picture the rest of the evening like this, eventually getting to the cabin and filling the log book with no sightings to report, working through a few repairs the rest of the day before splitting rations and building a low fire inside with you. It was almost enough to let himself breathe.

But then came the shrill of your whistle.

Cutting through the mountain air, all thoughts of finding you and splitting a strip of jerky over a well-earned cup of coffee went out of his head faster than a landslide. His horse, trained to react, lunged forward, ears pinned, muscles coiled and driving hard toward the sound. Joel leaned into the motion, tightening his grip on the reins as the world narrowed to a tunnel of wind and pounding hooves. His heart climbed high into his throat, his stomach dropping hollow beneath it, and still he forced the air steady through his lungs, urging the animal faster, faster, until the ground blurred beneath them.

North of the cabin now, his eyes raked the tree line, desperate for a glimpse of you. What he found instead made the blood in his veins turn heavy—your horse, crumpled in the grass, flank torn, eyes blank and lifeless, a knot of runners hunched over it, feeding. They didn’t look up, he was no use to them now. 

Your scream cracked the air, and Joel yanked the reins hard, swinging the horse toward the sound. You came into view in a break between the trees, boots sliding in the mud, shotgun bucking in your hands as you fired into the group closing in on you. They were too many, shadows spilling from the undergrowth, and still you fought, the wild light of survival blazing in your eyes.

Joel fired his gun into the mass as he closed the distance, each shot punching a hole in the tide until he was on you. His arm shot out, grabbing you at the elbow, yanking you forward in one hard pull that hauled you up and across the saddle behind him. 

He heard the breath knock out of you, but you managed to haul yourself up, seated behind him, your arms securely around his waist as the horse tore through the trees. Branches whipped past, the infected howls fading behind you but never enough to ease the knot in his chest. You were pressed tight against him, your breaths ragged and hot in the heavy summer air, and Joel kept his eyes on the path ahead, willing the trail to hold until they had four walls between you and the world.

When he finally made it to the safety of the A-frame, Joel didn’t waste a second. He turned toward the oncoming hoard that followed, yanked the lighter from his pocket, and set the rag of his Molotov ablaze. In one smooth motion, he hurled it at the advancing infected. The bottle burst in a roar of fire, and the snarls and shrieks of the fungal creatures were swallowed by the crackle of burning flesh.

Finally inside, he let you down from his horse in the stale basement garage. The air was full of breath; the horse’s throaty heaves, Joel’s bullish breathing, and your short, panicked lungfuls. Sweat dripped from every pore in the room, dripping to the floor as Joel hefted himself down to the ground, staying by the horse’s saddle for his canteen. He threw it to you, and you caught it, unscrewing the cap and sipping slowly. 

Your eyes stayed wide, fixed on nothing, like the last ten minutes were playing over and over in some loop you couldn’t step out of.

“What happened?” he asked finally, voice low, his own breathing still heavy but beginning to steady. He worked at the tack while he waited, pulling the straps loose, setting the weight down in the corner.

“I…” you shook your head, swallowing hard. “I thought it was fine. Jasper was—he knew something was there, and I didn’t listen to him. Oh god, Jasper—”

The words broke apart and you sucked in air too fast, your mouth opening in a soundless, gaping cry before it collapsed into sobs. You folded in on yourself, shoulders drawn up, forehead bent toward your knees.

“Hey, hey,” Joel murmured, stepping closer. “S’alright, you didn’t know. I shouldn’t have let you go alone, I should’ve helped—”

“i don’t need your help, Joel.” The snap in your voice was sudden, sharp, cutting between you like a knife. Your teary face turned up to him, eyes narrowed, cheeks hot and wet with anger.

Joel felt the sting of it in his chest, his head drawing back as if you’d struck him. You’d never spoken to him that way before. Never once had you been cruel to him, not even in jest.

“What the hell’s gotten into you today, girl?” His tone sharpened, though he hated himself for it, the old reflex of defense coming too easy. He could feel his temper straining at the leash, the collar of it cinched tight around his throat. Always there, always needing to be held short. With you, it usually heeled: quiet, watchful, content to sit at his side like a domesticated dog. And maybe your outburst had startled the beast, yanking the chain from his grip before he could close his fist around it.

“You should’ve left me out there, asshole. I had it.”

“S’that why you blew the whistle then?” His voice climbed with the words, “Sure didn’t look like you had it.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered! No one—” Your chest was rising too quick, too shallow, and he knew that sound, that pace, that look. He’d worn it himself, alone in the dark, waking from dreams that clung like a second skin, haunted by the things he could never take back and the ones he knew were still coming, no matter how hard he fought.

“Hey—” He said again, leaning down toward you, hands reaching.

“Don’t!” you cried, jerking back. “Don’t you hear me? It wouldn’t have fucking mattered. No one gives a shit, no one cares. No one even likes me. I have no one, Joel. If I didn’t make it back, no one—n-no—” your words punched into sobs, your fingers pushing into your eyes as if to stop the tears from falling.

The words landed heavy, his jaw tightening against the ache. “That ain’t true, darlin’—”

“You’re the only—” You cut yourself off, as if the words caught on your tongue, your mouth stitched closed for a heartbeat. Your breathing came hard and uneven, tumbling over itself. “You’re my only friend. And you don’t even trust me to handle my own shit. I’m useless. I’m useless.”

“You’re not—” He stopped, his throat locking around the rest. God, he was so bad at this. Watching you split open in front of him was like watching his own reflection splinter, all those same cracks he carried, all the same thoughts he’d fought down for years. This independent, capable, stubborn person—someone who could hold their own in a fight, who people relied on—sitting here convinced she had nothing to offer. It was baffling. And it made sense in a way he hated, because he’d known that angry, digging feeling all the same.

And now here you were, the one person he’d trusted, the only person he had left, looking at yourself the way he’d looked at himself for years. It was breaking his fucking heart.

He wanted to tell you everything he saw in you: your grit, your quickness, the way you made his worst days bearable. But the words wouldn’t come. All he could do was kneel there, feeling as useless as you swore you were, wishing he knew how to make you believe otherwise.

You hid your face in your hands and sobbed harder, the sound tearing through the quiet. Joel only knew one thing for sure, and that was to sit down beside you against the wall and wrap his arms around you. He pulled you in, and you let him—thank God. He wasn’t sure he’d survive another lashing of rejection from you. 

Your head found his chest, fingers clutched in his shirt. His hand settled over the crown of your head, stroking gently as you buried your face against him. You were still streaked with blood and mud, but he didn’t give two shits. This, he could offer, and so he gave it.

Eventually, your sobs ebbed to uneven sniffles, to a cough, to steadier breaths. You looked up at him from the concrete floor of the stupid A-frame’s basement, and Joel felt things he’d told himself long ago he’d never feel again. 

Because yes, you were his friend, he thought—through and through, the only person he could stand to be around outside of his family, both blood and chosen. But in moments like this, when the fight had gone out of you and you let yourself lean into him, there was something else stirring in him. He found himself looking at you longer than he should, noticing the curve of your cheek where it pressed into him, the way your lashes clung together in damp points. You, the sure-footed girl who maybe wasn’t so sure of her place after all, and yet to him you had never seemed more certain, more unshakable. He felt it like a pull, the quiet realization that somewhere along the way, he’d stopped seeing you as just someone to watch his back. And now he wasn’t sure what to do with that.

He smoothed your tear-stained wet hair back behind your ear, letting you sink deeper against him until your head rested in his lap, your body curled on the floor beside him. He kept his hand moving through your hair, eyes on your face.

“Somethin’ happened before we left, huh?” he asked quietly. 

Your lip quivered, and you nodded.

“You wanna talk about it?”

You shook your head quickly, then stopped, rubbing your eyes with a groan. “It’s so… so stupid.”

Joel stayed quiet, still combing his fingers through your hair.

“I was gonna watch a movie last night with Ellie and Dina, and… they never came to get me. This morning I heard them laughing about the actors. I guess they’d watched it together. Didn’t bother to tell me where they were meeting, didn’t check in—nothing. I don’t know if they just didn’t want me there, or if they forgot about me, and…I can’t decide which feels worse.”

Joel couldn’t help it, he chuckled.

“Don’t be an asshole,” you snapped, “Just cause she’s your kid doesn’t mean—”

“No, no, it ain’t that,” he said, a laugh tugging at his voice as you swatted his chest. “They like each other, darlin’. I think it was—”

“Yeah, I like them too. I thought they liked—”

“No, I mean… Baby, they’re datin’. I think it was a date.”

You froze mid-shove. So did he, though not for the same reason. He probably shouldn’t have told you Ellie’s business at all, but he’d wanted that look off your face. The one you’d worn when you thought they’d left you behind. But that thought barely got half formed before the other one shoved it aside—he’d called you baby. It had come too easy, too natural, like it had been waiting there for years, lodged behind his teeth. And now it was hanging in the air between you, and all he could think about was whether you’d noticed, whether you’d say something, whether he wanted you to.

“They… oh,” you breathed, stuffing your fingers in your mouth as you stared up at the ceiling.

Mmhmm Joel hummed, the corner of his mouth twitching.

He let you turn it over for a while, watching as exhaustion softened the sharp edge in your eyes. The glossy look no longer from tears but from your mind going far away again. 

Then, quietly, before he could stop himself, he said quieter than anything, “You’re my only friend too, you know that?”

Your gaze found his. He pushed past the instinct to shut up. He had to tell you. Had to.

“Only person I like bein’ around, really,” he admitted.

He watched your eyes search his, catching the way the dark light around you softened their edges and pulled out every shade. The only sound in the room came from the horse in the far corner, shifting its weight and tearing quietly at the weeds sprouting through the cracks in the foundation. Joel’s hand stilled in your hair, his palm resting warm against the back of your head as he watched your reaction. 

“You’re the only person I like being around too,” you whispered. 

Joel felt something shift in him then, small but deep, like a weight sliding into place where it didn’t belong but somehow fit too well. He didn’t know what to do with this…awareness of you that went beyond the easy camaraderie you’d built, beyond the trust earned on patrols and quiet rides. It wasn’t even sudden or new to him. More like noticing a trail he’d been walking for a while without ever looking down at his feet. He’d told himself you were his friend, his only friend, and that was true. But here you were, looking at him like you meant it when you said you liked being around him, and he felt… seen. In a way he didn’t often let himself be.

It stirred things he wasn’t sure he wanted stirred—things he thought had no place in him anymore. Affection that ran warmer than he knew how to name. A pull toward you that was as much about the way you laughed at his worst jokes as it was about the way you were looking at him now, open and unguarded.

Your hand came up suddenly, fingers brushing through his beard. You shifted, propping yourself on your palm resting on the far side of his thigh as you looked up at him. There was something in your eyes that set his pulse knocking harder against his throat.

Your hand lingered in his beard, thumb brushing slow over his jaw, and Joel fought the old, bone-deep urge to pull away the way he would have with anyone else in the world. That instinct had been carved into him over twenty years. But he wanted to stay still for you, let you explore, let you rediscover him. He was human, after all, though the act of being touched for anything beyond survival felt so foreign it left him almost dizzy, a kind of nausea born from hunger gone on too long. The feeling of someone reaching for him, wanting to map out the planes of him, wanting to know him. 

You moved again, only a fraction, leaning in just enough that he felt the change in the air between you. His breath caught, but he didn’t move—afraid to spook whatever moment was blooming here, afraid he’d shatter it by reaching back. You whispered something, your sweet breath feathering over his lips, curling under his nose until he found himself breathing it in, drawing in the warmth you exhaled.

He blinked when you pulled back the smallest inch, realizing you just asked him something. Hm? he murmured, his voice catching on the sound.

“You…only like me…” you tilted your head, tongue dipping out to moisten your bottom lip and oh, you were teasing him— “as your friend?”

His throat worked, and your hand trailed down his jaw, lingering along the scruffy line of it before sliding to the column of his throat. You let your fingers rest on the rise and fall of his adam’s apple, the shift beneath your touch as it moved down in one measured glide.

“What do you think?” he said, voice rough as if he’d been screaming.

Mmm you hummed, eyes downcast, lashes fluttering as they lowered. Your gaze settled on his mouth, fingertip rising again to trace lightly along the curve of his lips, brushing the place where they parted under your touch. His heart was hammering now, wild and unsteady, like he was sixteen again, green and made anew by you. 

Then, his mind suddenly made of cotton and clouds, you leaned in and touched your lips to his. The faintest, most careful press, warm and tentative, as though you were asking him a question without words. 

His hand lifted of its own accord, settling against the back of your head again, holding you there, keeping you. He kissed you back, just a little deeper, but he let you guide it, his heart pounding so hard he was certain you could feel it where your palm rested on his thigh.

Joel thought he might’ve been going insane. So many big, scary feelings colliding in his head, so many thoughts that made his chest feel tight, that he’d spent decades keeping at arm’s length. What this meant, what you meant, what this would all be. It was terrifying to even look straight at, because if he did, he might see the whole truth laid out and there’d be no taking it back. He’d wanted this, wanted you. Longer than he’d let himself believe. And fuck, he was so scared. Scared of reaching for it. Scared of letting himself want it. Terrified that the wrong move would spook you, the one person he felt really knew him.

Then you moved, crawling into his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs, fingers sliding into his hair as your mouth found his again and all rational thought slipped from him for the moment. This kiss was hotter, more urgent, your tongue gliding against his, and Joel couldn’t hold back the rough, needy sounds that rose from his throat. He ate at your mouth, hungrier than he’d ever been in twenty years, all tongue and teeth and need. Spit slicked your lips, the sweet salt of it clinging to his tongue as your mouths met again and again, each kiss landing with wet, messy sounds that seemed to echo in the quiet room.

He tore back, gasping, eyes locked on your shining, kiss bitten mouth, fighting the near uncontrollable urge to devour you whole. “C’mon,” he rasped, trying to find reason in the fog. “Let’s get settled in, we need to do a sweep and—”

You were already pressing kisses into his beard, catching the corner of his mouth.

“Baby,” he said, voice straining as he tried to keep his head, “we gotta make sure everything’s safe. Then we can have some dinner, make a fire.”

Mmhmm, you agreed, catching his bottom lip between yours, sucking lightly, and it sent heat rushing down his spine. Joel groaned, his hands gripping your hips in the desperation to keep his head on straight.

He gathered you up in his arms and stood, lifting you easily, his knees protesting as he carried you through the dim room beneath the house. The stairs groaned under his boots as he ascended, sunlight spilling above through the cabin’s wide windows as he made his way up into the main area, setting you down on what had once been a kitchen counter. Then he stepped back, pointing a finger at you like you were a wild thing he couldn’t trust to—

—“Stay,” he said. 

You crossed your arms, kicking your legs idly.

“I’ll be back,” he warned, turning away. Before he’d made it two steps, he spun back, cupping your face in both hands and kissing you deep, getting one last taste before facing his tasks.

“We’re gonna eat,” he murmured between quick, greedy kisses. “We’re gonna set up for the night,” another kiss, slower this time, “and then we’ll finish this.”

“Promise?” you giggled.

His mouth curved, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. “I always keep my word.”

“I know,” you said softly, biting your finger as you looked at him.

And that made his heart thump hard enough he swore you could hear it in the space between you.

Eventually, Joel made his way back after sweeping the cabin and checking the exits, finding you in the kitchen, unpacked and bent over a fresh log book. His sleeping bag was already unrolled from the saddle, backpacks open with gear and food laid out in neat piles, a small fire in the old, dusty hearth with a covered pot above the embers. He stepped in behind you, leaning just enough to glance over your shoulder at the page.

Horse lost. Infected in woods around. Cabin swept and safe.

A soft, heavy sigh slipped from his chest before he could stop it. He pressed a kiss into your hair, the scent of smoke and summer still clinging to you. “M’sorry about Jasper.”

You nodded, gripping the pen a little tighter before turning toward him. His hands came up to your arms, thumbs stroking slow, the golden-pink sunset spilling through the windows and painting the room in a warm blush.

“I, uh… got the can of pork beans cooked. Apples aren’t too bruised. Coffee’s on.”

“Music to my ears,” he grumbled, pulling you gently against him. “You okay?”

You nodded again, but still didn’t meet his eyes, and it made his heart constrict. He reached up, fingers curling under your chin, tilting your face until your gaze met his. And God, you were so damn pretty it almost knocked the thoughts from his head—the way your skin still seemed to glow even after the tears, the way your eyes caught the last of the light, bright and alive.

“People do like you,” he murmured. “They like you a lot.”

“People, or just you?” you teased, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

He grinned, “Both.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, sliding your arms up around his neck and curling your fingers into his hair. 

“You did a good job today,” he said, his eyes glued to yours so he knew for a fact you heard him. And when you tried to pull your chin away, your eyes moving across the room, he pulled you back. He leaned down and pressed a slow, tender kiss to your lips, breathing you in like he’d been holding it all day. You hummed softly at the feel of him, fingers curling into the hair at his nape and giving the slightest tug. When he drew back, your eyes stayed closed a moment longer, savoring the warmth he left behind.

“I promised we’d eat first,” he murmured.

“Then hurry up and eat, old man,” you teased, the smile in your voice tugging a matching one from him.

For the rest of the meal, he felt your eyes on him. Every bite he took, you watched, your fingertips sometimes drifting along his jaw while he chewed. He watched you back, the familiar lines of you somehow new again—reborn before him. A reflection of himself in so many ways, yet so different. Stronger. Able to keep going, to shoulder what felt impossible, and somehow still meet his gaze with that spark that made him wonder how you carried so much without breaking.

The sun eventually sank behind the ridgeline, leaving the cabin wrapped in shadow. The only glow came from the hearth, the fire low but steady, its light breathing over the walls in slow, uneven pulses. Outside, rain began to fall in a steady curtain, the sound filling the quiet between you. Every so often, lightning split the dark, a stark, silver flash that lit your face for an instant before the thunder rolled in, low and deep enough to stir the floorboards.

At some point, the meal had gone untouched, mugs cooling on the table. Whatever small tasks there had been to keep hands busy were left where they were, and you found yourselves simply… watching each other. The stillness between you felt heavy, charged.

Joel had your hand in his now, his thumb working slow circles into the back of your palm, as if feeling for something beneath the skin, and you let him. You were quiet, steady under his touch, letting him explore the rough ridges of your knuckles, the way they gave way to the delicate skin of your wrist. His fingers moved gently, almost reverently, and the longer he looked the more he realized how little of you he’d really touched before now.

It was odd. Part of him thought, yes, this was it. A natural progression of things between two people who respected each other, who knew each other better than anyone at the bottom of the mountains behind those big fences. Two people who trusted each other, who looked after each other for this long. 

And yet, the other part of him recoiled at the thought—who did he think he was, taking advantage of your trust like this? You were younger, thrown with him on a patrol by nothing more than chance long ago. You trusted him, and now he was thinking about how it would taste in his mouth. 

It was as if you could hear the clanging of it all in his head—the rusted gears grinding against one another after too many years without oil, a machine long unused and suddenly put to work again.

You took his hand in yours now, bringing it up to your mouth and kissing the pad of his thumb, your eyes steady on his. “What’s goin’ on in that big head, hm?” you asked, the words quiet, almost coaxing, before you pressed another kiss to the tip of his index finger.

He shook his head.

“You trust me?” you asked.

“With my life.”

It was the plain truth, he barely had to think on it.

“Then trust me to know what I want—who I want—regardless of anything trying to tell you otherwise.”

“How did—”

“I know you, Joel Miller,” you said, almost with a sigh. “Sometimes I think I know you better than I know myself.” You kissed his palm, your mouth warm against the worn skin, and traced along the lines carved into him, your lips following the curves as though you were reading him. He wondered, briefly, what you might find there. If the notches in the lines gave away the years he’d spent half alive, hollowed from the inside, wearing the shape of the person he’d long lost hold of. He wondered if you’d notice where the course shifted, where the tide had turned. How much of him had been remade because of you—your steadiness, your light. A friend, a truth teller. Someone who saw him as he was, and somehow, still wanted to look. 

“Yeah, I reckon you do,” he said, his voice low, almost hesitant, “I…I feel the same. About you.”

“Then you know I’d never lie to you.”

He nodded, still trying to wrestle the thought down his throat. A long pause rented the room, only the cracks of embers and the rain on the roof filling it. 

“Think it’s time for bed, don’t you?” he said at last, his voice a touch rough, like he wasn’t quite sure how to bridge the space between what had just passed and whatever came next.

Your eyes lifted to his, and for a heartbeat he was certain you saw more than he’d ever meant to let slip. More than he’d ever wanted anyone to see—but then again, you were the only person he’d want to see him like that. As he was.

“I think so.” you whispered back. 

He moved around slowly, as if cautioned by some nervous creature in his midst, to the open sleeping bag you’d laid out in the hours before. You both seemed to hesitate as he knelt onto the plush padding above the floorboards, the wood creaking in complaint, not unlike his joints. Something about it felt like a threshold—this shared bed, this shared space. It was stepping into the unknown, a closeness neither of you had crossed before. 

You followed him, equal in your nervousness but far more graceful, easing yourself down as the firelight painted your face in amber. Joel lowered himself beside you with the stiffness of a man too aware of the nearness, lying there in a strange stillness, eyes to the ceiling. Shadows fluttered in and out across the beams above, stirred by the dance of the fire. 

“Joel,” you finally said quietly. The sound of it sent his heart pouncing into his throat.

Mm? He couldn’t form words just yet, your arm much too close to his.

“What do you think happens when we die?”

His head turned toward you sharply, the swish of the sleeping bag loud in his ears as he found your profile, half outlined in pale moonlight and half blazing in the fire.

“Why you askin’ that kinda thing?”

You turned your head to look at him, his mirror, your eyes as curious and forlorn as he felt. Like the dawn after a storm.

“I don’t believe in heaven.” you began, just a whisper, “or hell.” 

Your teeth caught your bottom lip, testing the taste of a confession he knew was on the tip of your tongue. Joel wished, more than ever before, that he could read your mind now. That he could slip inside your thoughts, see the landscape of them for himself. To settle them, quiet their worrying. 

“But…” You gnawed your lip now, nerves and some quiet ache knitting themselves into your brow, and Joel turned onto his side to face you fully. His hand came up, thumb coaxing your lip free, brushing the line of your chin as though he might smooth the uncertainty from you. 

Your fingers came up to his wrist, delicately holding him in place, tying him to you, “But when I’m with you…it’s the closest thing I’ve ever come to believing in something after all of this. A quiet, some sort of… of peace. And sometimes I wonder…” You closed your eyes briefly, gathering yourself, before finding him again with a gaze soft enough to unmake him. “like maybe I died a long time ago, and no one told me. And this is where I was sent. To be beside you.”

Something in his chest pulled so hard he thought it might tear him in two. He didn’t trust his voice to survive the weight of what he wanted to say, so instead of saying anything at all, he crushed your lips to his. You responded with equal fervor, your eyes screwing shut, brows threading, the look he knew he mirrored in his own features.

You opened for him, mouth parting and tongue reaching, and he swallowed the gift of it. His hands framed your face, calloused palms spanning your cheeks as he tipped your chin higher, taking more of you, drawing you deeper into him. He was so hungry—God, he was starved— for this, his gut rolling with the ache of it, all heat and reverence a tsunami in him now. Your soft, breathless sounds filled his ears and lodged somewhere in his chest, determined to pull more from you. He shifted enough to lay over you, and you cradled him between your legs, wrapping around him.

His mouth broke from yours only to map your skin with open, wet kisses at the hinge of your jaw, the warm slope beneath your ear, his tongue tasting the quick thrum of your pulse. You dragged your fingers into his hair, pulling hard enough to make him moan. Yes, yes, mark me. Make me yours.

His hands roamed with greed of something long denied, gripping your ribs and pressing your hips to his, squeezing the flesh that shown from your shirt riding up. He tugged it higher, then stripped it away entirely, throwing it aside before bending to take your breast in his mouth. Lips latched with a hunger that only that wanton creature in him knew—not with anger now, but hunger. He wasn’t sure how much chain to give it, how much slack on the leash. It had been so long, so long since he’d let it feast like this. Years of pacing behind his ribs, gaunt and bone thin from neglect, now fed and watered in the sanctuary of you.

Your gasp sharpened into a moan when he moved across your chest, kissing and biting the soft valley between before taking your other breast, teasing the peaked bud with his teeth. Your fingers curled deeper in his hair, and his eyes, surely black with need, met yours.

“I love you,” you whispered suddenly, your jaw slack, eyes glazed in heat.

He paused, only for a moment, because yes, yes. It was all so clear. That was what it was, what it had always been, seeded quietly between you and now breaking open to bloom.

He kissed up your neck, nibbled your chin, and pressed his lips to yours gently before opening his mouth and letting the whole of him pour out as he said:

“I love you.”

You kissed him harder, the sound of lips and spit and moans filling his ears in ecstacy, your voice breaking between, “Say it again,”

He chuckled, all throaty and broken, hands smoothing down your body to grip the meat of you, pulling into him, “I love you,” he said, “‘Course I do,” 

“Again,” you chanted, breath hitching when he grinded his throbbing lap against yours. 

“I love you, baby,” he said, teeth and lips moving to your neck again, fumbling with his belt, your pants, his zipper. 

Soon, the absence of clothing made everything heightened and so fucking needy. Every place his skin met yours felt electric, like sparks leaping from one body to the other. He was determined to open you, to split you around him, his cock now aching with the mere thought of you, thick and heavy between his thighs as he pulled your legs up the expanse of his body, feet dangling over his shoulders, hugging your knees to his chest while you lay back, breathless and heated.

You breathed in, hiccuping softly, hands traveling up the length of his arms, over the thickness  of his fingers where he held you, finally reaching for his face. He leaned in, desperate for the touch, your delicate fingers tracing the slick, sweat damp skin there as if memorizing him in the dark. Every ridge of cheekbone, every rough line carved by years.

“Please,” you whispered.

He nodded, kissing your limbs. His mouth lingered at the side of your knee, lips brushing over the tense muscle before moving higher. Up to your calf, the scrape of his stubble leaving a faint burn in its wake, then to your ankle, his mouth pressed warm against the delicate bone there.

When he reached the instep of your bare foot, he kissed it as though it were as sacred as your mouth, a quiet hum leaving him as he nipped gently. His hands slid down the front of your thighs, pulling you open wider. One stayed on you, hugging the tops of your legs to his body, the other moving to wrap around himself, sliding gently against your glossy folds. You were pooling with want, the shlick of arousal a symphony to his ears with your pleas and mewling below him. He breathed you in, hot and ragged, and throbbed against you, circling the head of his cock on your bundle of nerves before moving lower. 

He looked up at you, the sharp gasp he pulled from your lungs was enough to make the beast in him strain harder against the leash. 

“Just the tip for now, baby,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing. “Just to get you ready for me.”

You shook your head quickly, words tumbling out in broken breaths. “Wan-want it all.”

“I know you do, sweet girl. Gotta take our time, don’t wanna hurt you.”

You whined and thrashed a bit, needy and pettish, the wriggle of your hips almost enough to undo him then and there.

He tsk’d softly, though the curve of his mouth betrayed him, and he pressed another kiss to the side of your leg before pushing just barely inside. Your hands gripped his forearm where it still clasped your knees to his chest, nails dragging over the coarse hair there. He eased another inch in, pulled back, then rocked forward again—gentle, testing, opening you up. He should have taken more time. Should have eaten you first, worked you open with his fingers until you were ready for him. But the want was too loud now, too deep in his marrow. He was half-man, half that chained beast in his mind, behind his ribs— crazed by your need, by the tight pull of you already wrapping around him.

“Please, Joel… I’m ready,” you whispered, a moan slipping out as his hips rolled once more.

“Yeah?”

“Yes!” you squealed, talons sinking into the meat of his arm.

“Okay, okay,” he conceded.

He wrapped his arms tighter around your legs, locking you in place as his hips surged forward. The stretch tore a strangled sound from both of you, and he swore he could feel the mouth of your womb kiss the tip of his cock. Your walls hugged him, pulling him in deeper as he rested there. He dug his teeth gently into your calf as he watched your face, your features twisted with strain and bliss.

“So fuckin’ pretty, baby,” he rasped, kissing your bitten flesh, unable to stop the words from pouring out of him, his mouth slack and brain gone to the fog of arousal. His syllables slurred past his mouth before he could catch them, “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, prettiest fuckin’ pussy too.”

“J-Jooooel,” you mewled, hands scrambling for something to hold. He dropped one of his hands to catch them, threading his fingers through yours and bringing your joined hands to his lips as he leaned forward. He pushed down, bending you in half, knees to chest, kissing your fingers where they held his broad palm between them. He set an easy pace, enough to keep him tethered to reality for a bit longer. A gentle push and pull, your walls hugging him, demanding to keep him in deeper.

“How you feelin’ sweetheart, hm? How’s that feel?”

“So—oh godddd,” you moaned, “so full, Joel,”

“I know, I know… doin’ so good for me. My good girl,” he cooed, watching your brow pinch, your teeth sink into your bottom lip as your eyes threatened to roll back.

“Focus. Right here—eyes on me, baby.”

You forced them open, only for them to widen when he pushed in harder, deeper, a deliberate thrust that made you squeal and clutch at him: one hand still trapped in his grip, the other clawing at his arm, his neck, the rough of his beard.

“Tell me how good of a girl you are," he demanded voice nothing more than a growl, “tell me,”

“I’m…I’m…”

“‘I’m a good girl’,” he practiced, "ain't you, baby? Repeat it.”

“I’m your good girl.”

How could one fucking word completely undo him?

“That’s right, honey. That’s it.” He continued a rhythm that had you keening, your legs tightening around his neck as your voice climbed. Yours, yours, yours, you breathed, eyes rolling, your heat fluttering around him. He pushed in harder, deeper, peppering kisses along your fingers and the round bones of your knuckles, his beard scratching just enough to make you shiver.

“Love you so much, sweet girl,” he murmured into your skin. “Come on, come for me now, be my good girl.”

You shook your head, a whine catching in your throat as your hips rolled to meet his, your fingers tightening in his grip.

“No?” Joel questioned, a breathless laugh pushing out of his lungs. 

“Wanna—” you swallowed another moan as he drove into you, still pushing your knees tight against your chest. His mouth hovered so close to yours that he could have stolen the breath straight from you if he leaned in just a little further.

“Wanna come with you,” you mewled, hands slipping from his to tangle in his hair, both of them dragging him down until his mouth hovered over yours. One lean, one slip of his tongue across your lower lip, and he’d have you. But then, your voice was soft, pleading, begging as your lips brushed his, moving around the words: “Let go for me, Joel… give me everything.”

And he knew, knew you saw every part of him, every piece he kept buried— and that you knew him better than anyone had ever known him. A mirror, a reflection. Like staring into still water and not just seeing himself, but the thing that he’d been missing all along. All this time, he thought he was the one with his fist around the chain of the dog that paced in his chest, but it was you. And you were unleashing him now, taking off the prong, the muzzle, setting him free. 

He drove into you hard, letting your legs fall to hook around his hips, sinking into the cradle of you. His hands found your head, the back of your skull fitting into the breadth of his palms, it belonged there, and then he took you, giving you everything he had. Skin slapping skin, mouths colliding, teeth catching, breath tangling— he fucked you as your head tipped back, eyes gone white, cresting and crashing and falling apart around him, your voice a raw cry of his name. And he followed, spilling into you with the same sweet abandon you’d pulled from him, every last shred of restraint gone.

The room was steeped in breath and sweat, the air still trembling from the rampage of Joel’s heart against his ribs. Only, this time, the feeling that followed was a quiet, reverent solace, a sort of beauty in its newness. He lifted his head from where it had fallen in the crook of your shoulder, tracing a path of soft, long, wet kisses to your chin, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, the tip of your nose. You hummed, the sound lush and frayed, your voice rasping with the aftermath of his name.

“You are everything,” he whispered, soul bared now, holding the mirror to you. Look, look, see where we are the same.

Your eyes opened, only slivers of color, the light of the moon and dying embers catching in them and returning to him. You kissed him softly, your mouth finding the bristle of his beard, the ridge of his cheek. You drew his head lower, brushing your lips over the delicate flutter of his lashes, the slash across his nose.

“And you…” your voice broke, reformed into something raw, “you’ve always been there, haven't you? Like calls to like.” You searched his face as if the truth might try to hide from you now. But he couldn’t. You saw him now, and there was nothing left for him to hide. And, as if reading his mind, you said:

“We are the same, aren’t we, Joel?”

The rain answered first, slowing against the roof, the roll of thunder climbing further away and over the mountains. Somewhere outside, a branch scraped against the siding in the wind, a faint, rhythmic sound that kept time with the pounding in his chest.

“Yes. Yes, I think so.”

listen idk what happened to me during this I feel like I was in another dimmension with all the shit I was throwing in here. hope you enjoyed :'')

The phone rang just as you were sliding your leftovers into the fridge, still dressed in the same slacks you'd been wearing since nine that morning. You didn’t even check the caller ID. Only one person still called you instead of texting—your dad.

You tucked the phone between your shoulder and ear, closing the fridge with your hip.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, voice warm with that familiar Southern rasp. “You busy this weekend?”

You paused, leaning against the counter. “I wasn’t planning on it. Why?”

“Thinkin’ of throwing a little barbecue Saturday. Nothin’ big, just the usual crew. Figured you could come by, see your old man, eat some actual food instead of that fancy city stuff.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Barbecue doesn’t sound too bad.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” he chuckled. “Joel’ll be there too. Said he might bring ribs.”

Your stomach twisted, but you kept your voice level. “Cool. Sounds good.”

“You can bring someone if you want,” he added, casual but with that hopeful tone he always used when fishing for information. “A date. Or… you know. A friend.”

You laughed, deflecting. “If I can find someone who’s not terrified of you and your smoker, I’ll let you know.”

“That’s fair,” he muttered, then cleared his throat. “Alright. Don’t be late, alright? I’m puttin’ you in charge of the potato salad.”

You groaned. “Why do I always get stuck with the most boring side?”

“Because I trust you not to screw it up.”

You snorted. “Wow. Thanks, Dad.”

“See you Saturday, kiddo.”

The call ended, and you set your phone down gently. The apartment was quiet again, the soft hum of the city filtering in through the windows. Outside, the downtown lights blinked against the early summer haze, and traffic rumbled lazily over the bridge nearby.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the produce section was packed with tired people in business casual, all moving like zombies on autopilot. You weaved through them with a half-full basket, already regretting your decision not to order delivery.

A tub of mayonnaise, a bag of red potatoes, mustard, celery. You mentally checked them off one by one, grabbing them with robotic precision. All that was left was the wine, and maybe something sweet for yourself, because you survived another week without quitting your job or snapping at a VP. Barely.

You turned down the wine aisle and reached for your usual bottle of red when your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Joel

You going tomorrow?

Your hand froze on the bottle neck.

You blinked at the screen, warmth blooming low in your stomach like it always did when his name lit up your phone. A short, simple message, and still—it hit different.

You typed back quickly, glancing around like someone might be reading over your shoulder.

You

Yeah, just grabbing stuff now. You?

A pause.

You picked up the wine and added it to your basket, chewing your lip.

Then your phone buzzed again.

Joel

Wouldn’t miss it. Even if your dad makes me haul that damn smoker across the yard again.

You smiled, thumb hovering over the screen for a second longer than necessary before responding.

You

Sounds like free labor to me.

Joel

Only for you.

Your breath hitched just a little. You glanced around the aisle again, but no one paid you any mind. Just strangers, scanning labels and tapping their credit cards against machines. The whole world, going about its business. Like this was nothing.

You

See you tomorrow ♡

You hit send before you could second-guess it.

Joel

See you ♡

Then you tucked your phone back into your coat pocket, cheeks warm, heart a little lighter than it had been all day.

Saturday afternoon in the suburbs felt like a different planet compared to downtown Austin.

You turned off the main road and into your dad’s neighborhood, windows down, letting the warm breeze roll through your car. Lawns were freshly cut, kids zipped by on bikes, and someone a few houses down was already grilling—smoke curling into the sky and mixing with the smell of charcoal and sun.

Your childhood home looked exactly the same. A little more faded around the edges, maybe, but still steady. Still lived-in. You parked behind Joel’s old pickup, the same one he’d driven since you were sixteen, and grabbed the grocery bag from your passenger seat.

Your dad was already in the backyard, you could hear the low hum of country music and the occasional pop of laughter. You let yourself in through the front door and made a beeline for the kitchen to drop off the wine and potato salad.

"About time," your dad called from the back. “Joel’s already got the grill going!”

You rolled your eyes and slipped through the sliding door, stepping into a wall of heat, smoke, and familiar voices. Your dad was by the smoker, drink in hand, and a couple of neighbors you half-recognized from years ago waved lazily from lawn chairs.

And then there was Joel.

He stood near the patio table, tongs in hand, dressed in a dark tee and jeans, boots dusty like always. His salt-and-pepper hair curled slightly from the heat. He looked up the moment you stepped out—and for a second, just a second—you saw it.

The flicker.

But it was gone just as fast.

"Hey, there she is," Joel said, smiling like it was any other Saturday.

You walked over, setting the grocery bag on the table. “You start grilling without me?”

"Would’ve waited, but someone was late.” His tone was teasing, casual. "Got your dad all riled up, thought he’d have to make the potato salad himself.”

You smirked. “Yeah, I’d pay to see that.”

He chuckled, reaching into the bag to peek at what you brought. His fingers brushed yours—just briefly—but the touch was so quick, so natural, it didn’t even register to anyone else.

You both had this down to a science.

“Wine’s a good pick,” he said, turning the bottle to glance at the label. “Still got good taste.”

Your dad called for him then, something about the coals being too hot, and Joel gave you a final glance—one you could only read because you knew him.

See you later.

Be careful.

I missed you.

All folded into one half-second look.

And then he was gone, back to tending the fire and cracking jokes like nothing in the world was different.

But you knew better.

Laughter floated through the open windows, mixed with the hiss of meat on the grill and the clink of beer bottles. You’d made the rounds, hugged neighbors, helped your dad carry out an extra chair, and politely dodged questions about your love life like a professional.

But the heat was getting to you now—not just the Texas summer kind. The kind that lingered in your chest every time you caught Joel’s eye. The kind that burned a little behind your ribs whenever his shoulder brushed yours too close in passing.

So when you slipped inside with an empty glass in hand, no one questioned it. Not even your dad, too distracted retelling some story at full volume.

Joel followed five minutes later.

You heard the back door creak, quiet, careful. The same rhythm you knew by heart. You were already upstairs, the old hardwood groaning under your step as you moved toward your childhood bedroom. The door was cracked open, like it always used to be.

You slipped inside.

The room hadn’t changed much. Your dad had left it mostly intact, save for the treadmill shoved in the corner and the stack of old mail on your desk. Posters from your high school days still hung on the walls, and your twin bed creaked the same way it always had when you sat down on the edge.

Joel entered without knocking.

His eyes swept over you, and the way the tension dropped from his shoulders—it did something to you. Like you were the relief he didn’t even know he needed.

“You’ve got five minutes,” he murmured, shutting the door softly behind him.

You didn’t say anything. Just stepped toward him.

He met you halfway, one hand finding your waist with practiced ease, the other cupping your jaw as your mouths found each other. You kissed him slow, greedy, like trying to make up for all the words you hadn’t said earlier. He tasted like smoke and mint, like Texas heat and memory.

His hand slipped under the hem of your shirt, fingers brushing lightly against your skin. You tilted your head back, breath hitching as he pressed you gently against the door.

“You’re gonna get us caught,” you whispered between kisses, lips swollen, eyes half-lidded.

Joel smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching against your skin. “You say that every time.”

“And every time, I mean it.”

“But you still let me.”

You kissed him again briefly before letting your forehead rest against his chest, heart racing as he wrapped his arms around you, holding you like it was the only time he’d get to.

“I missed you,” you said softly, the words muffled against his shirt.

“Been missin’ you all week,” he replied, his voice low and rough. “Thought I was gonna lose it seein’ you out there and not bein’ able to touch you.”

“You’re touching me now.”

“Not nearly enough.”

A moment passed. Then another.

And then you both sighed—because you knew the clock was ticking.

He kissed your temple, a gentle press of lips that made your chest ache. “Come on,” he murmured. “Before your dad starts wonderin’ why we both disappeared.”

You nodded, fixing your shirt, smoothing your hair in the mirror as Joel opened the door like he hadn’t just backed you up against it five minutes ago.

He walked out first. You followed a minute later, empty glass in hand again like nothing had happened.

Just another summer evening.

Just another barbecue.

Just another secret, tucked between the walls of the house you used to call home.

The backyard had settled into that perfect golden-hour rhythm—half-eaten plates on paper napkins, someone’s Bluetooth speaker playing Tom Petty, and a few neighborhood kids trying to catch fireflies under the trees. Your dad was deep in conversation with Joel by the grill, both of them gesturing with tongs like they were debating something deeply important. You smiled to yourself, sipping your wine and letting the humid air cling to your skin.

You hadn’t seen Sarah in a while. She’d grown so much since the last time you babysat her—taller now, more confident, with that same mischief in her eyes Joel always carried in his smirk.

She flopped into the chair beside you, a can of sparkling water in hand.

"Hey, stranger," she said, nudging your knee with hers. “You still too cool for the suburbs?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Always. But you’re making a strong case for coming back.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile was genuine. “You missed some good stuff. I won the school art show last month. You would’ve been proud. It was this chaotic collage thing—I called it ‘burnout but pretty.’”

“That sounds amazing. You gotta show me later.”

“I will.” She leaned back in the chair, legs stretched out in front of her. “Dad wouldn’t shut up about you coming today, by the way. Acted like you were the main attraction.”

Your stomach twisted—just a little. You hid it with a smile.

“Yeah, he still treats me like I’m the mayor of Austin or something.”

“He’s always liked you,” she said, casually. “Like, even when I was a kid, he always said you were the only babysitter who didn’t just put me in front of the TV and text boys.”

You laughed, but the guilt pressed just a bit heavier now.

Because you’d kissed her dad. Not just kissed. You knew every line of his hands. You knew the exact sound he made when you touched the side of his neck. And here Sarah was, still seeing you the way she always had—someone safe. Someone good.

You glanced toward the grill, where Joel was laughing at something your dad said, his whole face lit up in the kind of smile you rarely got to see in public. Your heart ached.

Sarah leaned forward, elbow on her knee. “You good?”

“Huh?”

“You spaced out for a sec.”

You shook your head quickly. “Yeah, yeah. Just... tired. Long week.”

She gave you a look. “Corporate life killing your soul again?”

“Every damn day,” you said, grateful for the shift. “If you ever sell that ‘burnout but pretty’ collage, I’ll hang it in my office to remind me to quit.”

“I’ll send you a print,” she said, nudging you again.

You smiled, and this time, it wasn’t so forced.

The guilt hadn’t gone away. But maybe for now, you could pretend things were still simple. That you weren’t balancing between who you used to be to this family, and who you were now—when no one was looking.

It was just past six when your phone buzzed.

Joel

Almost there. You leave the door unlocked?

You smiled to yourself, already padding barefoot across your apartment floor to make sure the deadbolt was undone. The evening light poured in through your living room windows, casting long amber stripes across the couch, the throw blanket, the half-finished glass of wine on the coffee table.

You

Door’s open. Hurry up, old man.

You set your phone down and smoothed your palms over your top, suddenly a little more aware of how you looked. Not that you were dressed up—just cotton shorts and a loose t-shirt—but with Joel, comfort was kind of the point.

He hadn’t been to your place since the barbecue a week ago. Things had been busy—life, work, the usual distractions. But the quiet ache in your chest hadn’t let up since you last saw him.

A few minutes later, the door clicked open. His footsteps were familiar, slow and steady across your hardwood floor.

“Hey,” you said, leaning against the kitchen island.

Joel shut the door behind him, that slow smile pulling at his lips the second he saw you. “Hey, yourself.”

He looked good—black t-shirt, jeans slung low on his hips, his hair a little messy like he’d run his hand through it too many times on the drive over. The kind of casually disheveled that made your stomach flutter.

You walked over, meaning to hug him, maybe kiss his cheek—but Joel didn’t stop at polite. His arms wrapped around you with something deeper, something full of relief and want. He held you close, lips brushing the side of your neck.

“Missed you,” he murmured.

You melted a little. “I missed you, too.”

He pulled back just enough to kiss you, slow and lingering, his thumb resting at your jaw like he didn’t want to let go. And god, you’d forgotten how grounded you felt with him—how quiet the world became when he was close.

“Barbecue wasn’t enough time,” he said quietly, brushing his nose against yours.

“Nope,” you replied, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt. “Didn’t even get to finish a conversation with you without someone yelling about grill tools.”

He laughed against your mouth, and you felt it all the way down your spine.

“Good thing I’m here now.”

You nodded. “You staying a while?”

His eyes met yours—deep, unreadable, but warm. “That depend on if I’m wanted.”

You didn’t answer. Just leaned in and kissed him again—slow, unhurried, letting it build.

Because you had the night.

And maybe the conversation would last this time.

Or maybe it wouldn’t.

Because when Joel’s hands slid under the back of your thighs and lifted you onto the counter with practiced ease, conversation was the last thing on your mind.

Joel didn’t rush.

His hands were steady, warm against your skin as he guided you back onto the kitchen counter, lips never straying far from your neck. The loose hem of your t-shirt rose higher with each soft press of his fingers along your thighs.

“You always greet me like this?” he murmured against your jaw. “Or am I just lucky?”

You smiled, breath hitching as his hands gripped behind your knees and pulled you forward, hips flush with the edge of the counter. “You’re not lucky,” you whispered, curling your fingers into his hair. “You’re mine.”

That did something to him—you could feel it in the way his hands tightened slightly, the way he breathed in deep, like he was trying not to unravel all at once.

He kissed you again, deeper now, slow and searching. One hand held the small of your back while the other slid beneath your shirt, fingers grazing your side until they reached the curve of your breast. He circled your nipple softly, until you arched into him with a quiet gasp.

“Always so responsive,” he said lowly, watching your face. “Drives me crazy.”

And then, without warning, he dropped to his knees.

Right there in the middle of your kitchen, his shoulders pressing between your legs as he gently hooked his fingers into the waistband of your sleep shorts. You lifted your hips automatically, your heart thudding as he slid them down with a kiss to your inner thigh.

The moment was quiet, thick with anticipation—until he looked up at you with that dark, focused stare, and then lowered his mouth to your pussy.

His tongue was patient, slow as he explored you, dragging deliberately between your folds until your hands gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white. He moaned against you softly—like you were something to be savored, worshipped.

You whimpered, tilting your hips toward his mouth, chasing the warmth of his tongue as he flicked it over your sensitive clit.

“Joel—”

He glanced up again, lips shining, eyes heavy-lidded. “Right here, baby. I got you.”

He returned his mouth to you, hands tightening on your hips to keep you steady. His tongue moved with more purpose now—circling, stroking, coaxing. You could feel your breath stuttering, heat coiling low in your belly with every pass of his tongue through your entrance, every soft press of his lips.

Your thighs trembled around his shoulders.

“Let go,” he murmured against your rose, voice rough. “Let me take care of you.”

And you did.

You came with a quiet cry, hips bucking against his mouth as he held you firm, licking you through it with unrelenting devotion. He stayed there even as your breathing slowed, as your muscles relaxed, until your hand finally found his hair and tugged gently.

He rose slowly, face flushed and damp, looking more undone than you’d ever seen him. And the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in the room that mattered—made your heart stutter all over again.

Joel carried you to the bedroom like he always did—steady, careful, as if you were something delicate he couldn’t risk breaking. Your legs wrapped around his waist, your face tucked into the curve of his neck, still warm from everything he’d just done to you.

The bedroom light was off, but the city glow leaked in through the window blinds, casting faint lines of gold and shadow across the sheets. He laid you down with a soft exhale, his eyes drinking you in as he hovered above you, bracing himself with one hand beside your head.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough, but tender.

You nodded, one hand slipping under the hem of his shirt to press against his stomach. “More than okay.”

Joel leaned down and kissed you again—slow, lingering, and full of quiet hunger. His shirt joined yours on the floor a moment later, and your hands were all over him. You knew this body. The slope of his shoulders, the map of old scars and sun-warmed skin. But tonight he felt different—more intent. Like he missed you in a way that wasn’t just physical.

You ran your fingers down his chest, pausing to brush lightly over his buttons. He groaned softly at the contact, duck already twitching in his jeans, straining against the fabric.

“Take these off,” you whispered, tugging at the waistband.

He smiled against your mouth. “Bossy tonight.”

You only gave him a look, and he gave in with a laugh, pushing his jeans and boxers down with a practiced ease. His cock sprang free, already thick and hard, and your thighs instinctively parted beneath him.

Joel kissed a path down your neck, across your collarbone, pausing to take one of your nipples into his mouth. His tongue circled it slowly, teasing, until your back arched and your fingers tangled in his hair.

“Need you,” you breathed.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. “You got me.”

You reached between your bodies and guided him to your entrance, his cock nudging against your folds, slick with anticipation. The stretch was slow and steady, and you both let out breathless sounds as he sank into you.

“Jesus,” he muttered, forehead dropping to yours. “Still so damn tight.”

You clung to him, gasping softly as he filled you, inch by inch, until he was fully seated. The way he moved—it wasn’t rushed. It was measured, almost reverent. Like he needed to feel every inch of you around him. Like he needed to remind himself you were real.

His thrusts started slow, deep, rocking into you with the kind of patience only he had. You met each one with soft moans, your body rising to meet his rhythm, your pussy aching around him as he hit all the right angles.

“Look at me,” he whispered, brushing your hair from your face. “Wanna see you.”

You obeyed, eyes locking with his. And what you saw there—affection, want, something dangerously close to love—it made your chest ache in the best way.

He kissed you through it. Again and again. Your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, heels digging into his lower back to keep him closer, deeper.

Joel’s pace quickened just slightly, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the quiet room. His name left your lips over and over, a soft, breathy chant that only made him move harder, rougher, until the tension began to coil in your belly again.

“I’m close,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, his voice ragged. “Come on, baby. Come for me.”

You fell apart with him still buried deep inside you, your whole body shaking as he followed soon after—grunting your name as he spilled into you, hips stuttering, head buried in the crook of your neck.

He didn’t pull away immediately.

Just held you there, chest heaving, lips pressed against your skin.

You lay tangled in the sheets, skin still humming, Joel’s weight half on top of you, his head resting just below your collarbone. His hand was splayed low on your stomach, thumb stroking mindless patterns into your skin like he didn’t want to stop touching you.

Outside, the city buzzed faintly. Inside, all you could hear was his breathing—slowing, settling—and the ticking of your wall clock.

You ran your fingers through his hair, combing gently at the roots. “You gonna fall asleep on me?”

He grunted, not moving. “Think I earned a nap.”

You smiled. “You gotta be home by ten, old man.”

“Mmm. Don’t remind me.”

But he shifted, pressing a kiss just above your breast before rolling onto his side. He pulled you with him, wrapping his arms around you until your cheek was tucked against his chest, the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear.

You stayed there for a while. No words. Just warmth. Safety. Familiarity.

Eventually, he sighed. “Sarah’s got school in the morning. I told her I was runnin’ errands tonight.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t get cold or weird. You just nodded against him. “She still sleeping over at Kayla’s this weekend?”

“Yeah. Friday night.”

You traced a little line over the faint scar near his shoulder. “Then I’ll keep Friday open.”

He kissed your hair in response.

This was how it always was—quiet goodbyes, softened by shared warmth and trust. You never made him feel guilty. You never needed more than what he could give. And he never treated you like a secret to be ashamed of—just a quiet part of his world no one else knew about.

“I’ll clean up in the kitchen before I head out,” he murmured.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

You leaned back enough to look at him, still smiling. “You’re really domestic after sex, you know that?”

He smirked, brushing your bottom lip with his thumb. “I like takin’ care of you.”

That made your heart squeeze a little.

You leaned up and kissed him—slow and sweet. “Then go be a dad, Joel. I’ll be here.”

He nodded, reluctantly untangling himself from your arms. He always moved slower when it was time to leave, like he wanted to drag it out just a few more seconds.

And you let him.

Because time with Joel wasn’t just stolen.

It was sacred.

He hadn’t expected to see you there.

It was some bar downtown, nothing special—brick walls, decent live music, too many guys in jeans trying to look like cowboys. Joel had just come in for a drink and maybe some quiet. Then he caught a flash of you out of the corner of his eye—walking past with that confident sway in your step, a soft smile tucked into your lips, like you knew exactly who you were.

It knocked the wind out of him a little.

You hadn’t seen him yet, but he watched you talk to someone at the bar, then laugh—head tilted back, eyes bright. You looked older. More sure of yourself. Not the kid who used to babysit Sarah, who sat on the back porch eating popsicles and trying not to look too bored when the grown-ups talked.

You spotted him a few minutes later. Gave him a wave and made your way over.

“Joel,” you’d said, sliding into the booth across from him. “I didn’t expect meeting you here?”

He huffed. “Just tryin’ somethin’ new.”

It started casual. Friendly. A few drinks. Jokes. Updates on life and work. You told him about your new job downtown. He told you about Sarah’s soccer team and how bad he was at parallel parking. It felt easy. Familiar. But something was different. There was something in your eyes tonight—something bold.

And when your knee brushed his under the table, you didn’t pull away.

Joel ignored it. He had to.

You leaned in a little more when you laughed. You licked the rim of your glass slow. You twirled a strand of hair around your finger like it was nothing.

And then your foot slid up his calf.

He blinked at you. “What do you think you’re doin’?”

You tilted your head, that grin getting just a little more dangerous. “Just talking.”

“That ain’t just talkin’.”

You shrugged, playing innocent. “Maybe I like you, Miller.”

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand across his mouth. “You’ve been drinkin’.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“I’m old enough to be your—”

“Don’t.” Your voice cut clean through the booth. “Don’t say dad. You’re not. You’re my dad’s friend. That’s not the same.”

He stared at you, shaking his head. “Still ain’t right.”

“Why?” you challenged, voice lower now. “Because it makes you feel something? Because I’m not a kid anymore, and you can’t look away?”

Joel looked down at the table, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. He shouldn’t want this. He shouldn’t let this happen. But damn it, you weren’t wrong. You weren’t a kid. And you looked at him like he was wanted—like he was more than some aging contractor with baggage and a quiet house.

“You keep pushin’,” he muttered. “I’m gonna give in.”

You smiled. “Good.”

That did it.

He threw down a few bills for the drinks and grabbed your hand without another word. You followed without hesitation, matching his pace through the back door and out into the quiet alley where his truck was parked. The second the door closed behind you both, the tension snapped.

Joel backed you against the side of his truck, mouth crashing into yours like he’d been holding back for years. Your fingers fisted in his shirt. His hands were already sliding under yours. You moaned into his mouth, and he drank it in like he’d been starving.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped against your lips. “One word and I will.”

But you didn’t.

You pulled him closer.

And just like that, the boundary shattered.

Right there in the dark, behind that downtown bar, he stopped being your dad’s best friend.

And you stopped being off-limits.

It was one of those rare slow days—no meetings, no client calls, no deadline breathing down your neck. The sun was high, Austin heat thick but bearable, and your fridge was nearly empty. So you figured you’d kill two birds with one stone: stop by the grocery store and then pay your dad a visit in the suburbs.

You pulled into the familiar driveway just past noon, a paper bag of croissants and fresh strawberries in your arms. His truck was in the garage, the front door already swinging open before you even rang the bell.

“Well, look who decided to grace me with her presence,” your dad called, stepping back to let you in.

“Be grateful,” you said, lifting the bag. “I brought baked goods.”

He smirked. “Then I take it all back. Come in.”

The house still smelled the same. A mix of old wood, coffee, and that citrus cleaner he swore by. You dropped your keys and bag on the kitchen counter before plopping onto the couch.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out and your thumb instinctively danced over the screen.

Joel

How’s your day off, sweetheart?

You bit back a smile and typed quickly.

You

Relaxing. At my dad’s. You?

Joel

Just finished a job. Might swing by if you’re home later.

You

Please do. I’ll keep the couch warm.

“Alright, who’s got you grinnin’ like a teenager?”

You startled, looking up to find your dad standing with two mugs of coffee—one already halfway to you.

“What?” you said, probably too fast.

“That smile. That,” he gestured vaguely at your face, “stupid grin you get when someone texts you something sweet.”

You laughed, taking the coffee, hoping it masked the heat rushing to your cheeks. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, settling beside you. “You dating someone?”

You hesitated, forcing your face to neutral. “Sort of.”

He looked over at you, eyebrows raised. “Sort of?”

“It’s… something.”

“Anyone I know?”

Your stomach twisted just slightly. You sipped your coffee slowly and gave a small, measured shrug. “Doubt it.”

He didn’t press. Just nodded, eyes returning to the TV he’d left on. “Well, as long as they treat you right.”

Your phone buzzed again.

Joel

Missed you this week.

You smiled again, but this time you kept your face hidden behind your mug.

“Yeah,” you said softly, mostly to yourself. “He does.”

Friday came. It was raining lightly outside, the kind of soft Austin drizzle that made the city glow just a little more in the evening. From your kitchen window, the skyline blurred behind the droplets, streetlights flickering on one by one. You had your apartment lights dimmed low, a candle burning on the counter, and your favorite oversized tee on — the one Joel always teased you for but secretly liked seeing you in.

Joel was sitting at the small kitchen table, a glass of red wine in one hand, watching you move around like it was his favorite show on TV.

“You don’t have to just sit there, you know,” you called over your shoulder as you stirred the creamy garlic sauce on the stove.

“I offered to help,” he drawled, stretching out in the chair, legs wide, completely relaxed. “You told me to sit down and stay outta the way.”

“You offered after I already chopped the onions and started the sauce.”

Joel grinned. “Timing is everything, baby.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled, the sound of him calling you that — casual, warm, like it belonged — sending that stupid flutter straight to your chest. You checked the pan again and moved to grab the grated parmesan from the fridge. Behind you, Joel’s chair scraped softly against the floor.

He came up behind you, hands resting gently on your hips as he looked over your shoulder.

“Mmm,” he said, voice low and close, “smells good.”

You tried to ignore how your body leaned into his automatically, how your muscles just... let go when he touched you. “You say that every time I cook.”

“’Cause it’s true every time.”

You turned your head slightly, catching the side of his face. “You're not just saying that to get lucky later, are you?”

Joel chuckled, lips brushing your temple. “I don’t need to sweet-talk you for that, do I?”

You gasped, swatted at him with the wooden spoon, and he dodged it with a laugh.

“I’m trying to make dinner here!”

“You’re doin’ a damn fine job,” he said, backing off with hands raised, still smirking. “I’ll just go sit down and sip my wine like the good house guest I am.”

“You’re not a guest,” you murmured, mostly to yourself, as you turned back to the stove. Not anymore. Not when his toothbrush was in your bathroom. Not when he knew where the tea towels went. Not when he fell asleep on your couch more often than not.

Joel heard you anyway.

“I’m not?” he asked, soft now.

You looked over your shoulder again, met his eyes.

You shook your head. “No. You’re... here. That’s different.”

Joel didn’t say anything at first. Just walked back to his chair, sat down slowly, and let out a quiet breath.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I guess I am.”

You plated the pasta in two bowls and brought them over to the table, the air between you buzzing gently with everything unspoken.

You were brushing your teeth when Joel stepped into the bathroom, already in the faded gray T-shirt and boxers he always brought when he stayed over. His hair was damp from a quick shower, curls still clinging to his forehead a little. He caught your eye in the mirror, then leaned down to kiss the top of your shoulder before reaching for his toothbrush.

The small bathroom was quiet except for the soft buzz of your electric toothbrushes and the occasional sound of water running. It should’ve felt cramped, but it didn’t. It felt normal. Like this was just another night, and this was just what you did — shared a sink, bumped elbows, rinsed side by side.

You finished first and stepped aside, wiping your face with a towel and watching him in the mirror. Joel caught you staring and smirked, foam still in his mouth.

“What?” he mumbled around his toothbrush.

You shrugged, smiling. “Nothing. You’re just…cute.”

He raised an eyebrow, spit, then rinsed. “Cute, huh?”

“You know what I mean.”

Eventually, you turned off the bathroom light and padded back into the bedroom. Joel pulled back the sheets while you turned off the lamp, and when you climbed into bed, he followed right after, the mattress dipping under his weight.

He laid on his side, arm draped across your waist like it belonged there. And maybe it did.

“Got any plans tomorrow?” he asked, voice low in the dark.

“Just errands. Grocery run. Might clean out the closet.”

“Need help?”

You smiled, eyes already heavy. “You offering?”

“If it means I get to stick around another night? Yeah.”

You rolled over to face him, your leg hooking lightly around his. “I want you to stay.”

Joel reached up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, thumb brushing your cheek. “Then I’ll stay.”

With that, you leaned forward and kissed him softly, then settled back into his chest, the warmth of his body already lulling you toward sleep. Outside, the rain still fell against the windows, steady and soft. Inside, everything was still.

And for the first time all week, you felt completely at peace.

Joel squinted down at his phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard as dust from the job site clung to his jeans. The mid-day sun beat down on the back of his neck, and the air smelled like hot concrete and sweat. Still, the small smile tugging at his mouth made the heat more tolerable.

You

You better actually eat and not just coffee and beef jerky again

He chuckled.

Joel

Real food. I swear. Miss you.

He hit send, then slipped the phone into his pocket just as Tommy called out from a few feet away.

“Joel! Lunch or what? Before Carl eats everything again.?”

Joel rolled his eyes. “Comin’, smartass.”

Joel grabbed his thermos and fell in step with his brother, heading toward the shaded area where the rest of the crew had gathered around a folding table someone had dragged out. A few of the guys were already halfway through their sandwiches, talking and laughing over the hum of a portable fan.

“…and I swear to God, she couldn’t have been more than twenty-two,” Mark said, shaking his head at Miguel, who was mid-bite into a burrito.

Miguel shrugged, unbothered. “She came up to me. What was I supposed to do, say no?”

Tommy snorted. “Yeah, maybe when you realized she looked like she just aged outta college orientation.”

Joel chuckled, biting into his sandwich, trying to stay out of it. But the topic lingered.

“You serious though?” Mark asked. “She wasn’t too young for you?”

“She could legally drink. That’s good enough for me,” Miguel said, grinning wide. “Age is just a number, man.”

Joel kept chewing, slower now.

That phrase — age is just a number — bounced around in his head, souring a little.

He wasn’t like Miguel. Wasn’t at bars chasing women who looked like they might card him for fun. But still, the words got under his skin, poking at that quiet part of him that knew if any of them found out about you — your age, your history with Sarah, with him — they’d talk. They’d laugh. Maybe worse.

You were in your mid-twenties, college degree, a good job downtown, a whole future unspooling in front of you like a straight road. Meanwhile, Joel was here, knees sore from years of construction, grease still under his nails, soon turning 50, pretending that waking up in your bed didn’t feel like the best and worst decision he made every week.

He took another bite of his sandwich and kept his eyes on the wrapper.

Tommy elbowed him. “You good?”

Joel blinked. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“Old man like you? Must be tough,” Tommy teased, but his voice was easy, familiar.

Joel smirked. “Watch it. I still bench more than you.”

The others laughed and kept going, arguing over who bought lunch last week, the moment passing.

But Joel stayed a little quiet, his mind somewhere else — somewhere warmer.

And if none of them knew about it — if this stayed his little secret — maybe that was the only way it could work.

You knocked harder than you meant to.

Joel’s porch light flickered on as you stepped back, arms crossed tightly over your chest. It had been days — days — of distant texts, half-hearted responses, and Joel always finding some excuse not to come over. "Long day," "Tommy needed help," "Gonna crash early." You tried to give him space. But tonight? You couldn’t take the quiet anymore.

The door opened.

Joel stood there in a worn flannel and jeans, his hair a little messy, like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. His eyes widened when he saw you.

“Hey,” he said, quiet. Like he hadn’t been avoiding you for nearly a week.

“Can I come in?”

He hesitated, then stepped aside, letting you pass into the familiar warmth of his living room. The TV was on, muted, casting soft blue light over the furniture. You turned to face him, arms still crossed.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on, or should I guess?”

Joel sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, already avoiding your eyes. “Ain’t nothin’ goin’ on.”

“Bullshit.” Your voice was sharper than usual, but you didn’t care. “You’ve been distant. You’ve barely looked me in the eye since last weekend. I’m not stupid, Joel.”

He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “I’ve just been... thinkin’. That’s all.”

You turned to face him fully, heart pounding. “About what?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He moved past you and into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cupboard like he could hide in the mundane routine of pouring himself some water.

You followed. “Joel.”

He glanced up. And there it was — the thing he hadn’t said. Sitting right behind his eyes.

“I’m startin’ to wonder if this is fair,” he muttered.

You blinked. “Fair? What does that mean?”

He looked at you, jaw tight. “You’re in your twenties, sweetheart. You’ve got a whole life ahead of you. People to meet. Shit to figure out. And I’m... me. I’ve got a grown kid, a busted back, and more regrets than I can count. Your dad—he’s my best friend. If he knew... if Sarah knew—”

“You think I haven’t thought about all that?” you said sharply, stepping closer. “You think I don’t know how it looks from the outside?”

“I just don’t wanna be somethin’ you regret later,” he said quietly.

That stopped you. You stared at him, heart clenched tight.

“Joel... I don’t regret you. Not for a second. And I’m not gonna wake up one day and pretend this never happened, because it means something to me.”

He looked down, hands braced on the counter, fingers curled white-knuckled over the edge. You moved to stand in front of him, placing your hands gently over his.

“You don’t get to decide what’s good for me. That’s not your job. You’re not protecting me by shutting me out — you’re just hurting both of us.”

Joel’s shoulders dropped a little. “I know.”

“Then stop pulling away,” you said, softer now. “If you need to talk, talk. But don’t make me wonder if I did something wrong just because you’re scared.”

He finally met your eyes, something broken and relieved swimming behind them. His hand turned, fingers weaving through yours.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Didn’t mean to make you feel like I didn’t want you. God knows that ain’t the truth.”

You stepped in closer, resting your forehead against his chest. “Then let me stay. Let’s just be together. No overthinking. No self-sabotage.”

He exhaled, arms wrapping around you, grounding you both.

“Alright,” he whispered into your hair. “Alright, darlin’. I’ll try.”

You and Joel were still holding each other when footsteps padded in across the hardwood stairs, light and casual.

Both your heads turned at the same time, and Joel froze.

“Hey, Dad? Have you seen my charger—”

Sarah’s voice cut off the second she stepped around the corner and saw the two of you.

Joel stiffened, arms still around your waist. You stepped back quickly, heart stopping somewhere between your chest and your throat.

Sarah blinked. Then blinked again.

You could see the calculation happening in real time — eyes darting between you, Joel, the way your hands had just been touching.

“Oh.”

Her voice was flat. A beat passed.

Then, with a slow raise of her eyebrows: “Okay. Um. Did not expect that.”

“Sarah,” Joel started, voice strained, already reaching for some version of damage control.

“No, no, I mean—it’s fine,” she said, raising both hands like she needed to physically push back the tension in the room. “I just—wow, okay. Needed a second to… process.”

You felt your cheeks burning. “Sarah, I’m so sorry—”

“Were you—have you guys been…?” she motioned vaguely between the two of you, face scrunched in disbelief. “This has been happening? For how long?”

Joel cleared his throat. “A while.”

Sarah stared at him. Then you. Then looked vaguely toward the ceiling like she was trying to recalibrate her entire worldview.

“Well… that explains why you’ve been suspiciously unavailable on the weekends,” she muttered. “I just thought you were dating someone lowkey. Not, like, your dad’s best friend.”

Joel winced. “You okay?”

“I mean, I’m not traumatized or anything, if that’s what you’re asking,” Sarah said dryly. “But yeah. Bit of a jump scare, not gonna lie.”

You tried to smile, a little sheepish. “We weren’t hiding it from you. We just… weren’t ready.”

“No, I get it. If I were you, I’d be terrified of telling me too,” Sarah deadpanned, then gave you a teasing smirk. “But hey. At least it’s not, like, Mr. Carter from next door. That guy smells like cat food.”

You laughed — a little shocked, a little relieved — and Joel let out a quiet breath.

“Look,” Sarah continued, dropping her backpack onto the couch, “I love you both. And you’re grown adults, so… do what makes you happy. Just, y’know, please keep the PDA to a minimum when I’m in the house.”

Joel nodded slowly. “Deal.”

Sarah turned toward the kitchen like nothing happened. “Now, where the hell is that charger…”

Joel looked at you as the tension finally eased from his shoulders, eyes wide with disbelief.

“That went… better than expected,” you whispered.

“She’s too smart for her own good,” he murmured back, dazed.

You smiled and nudged his arm. “Wonder where she gets it from.”

You were just slipping your shoes back on near the door when Sarah appeared in the hallway, arms crossed over her chest, a charger cable now slung around her wrist.

“Hey,” she said casually, but her tone held something heavier beneath it. “Can I talk to you for a sec? Without, uh… my dad hovering?”

You straightened, already nervous but nodding. “Yeah, of course.”

Joel, who was watching from the living room with a brow raised, started to get up, but Sarah waved him off. “Relax, it’s not an interrogation.”

He grunted and sank back into the couch, though his eyes lingered as the two of you stepped out onto the porch.

The evening air was cool, humming with the sound of crickets and faraway tires against pavement. You leaned against the porch railing, arms folded. Sarah stood across from you, looking thoughtful.

“So,” she started, glancing at you, “you and my dad.”

You offered a small smile. “Yeah.”

“How long has this been going on?”

You hesitated. “About 10 months.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? You’ve been together that long?”

You nodded. “It wasn’t supposed to happen, Sarah. I didn’t plan it. He didn’t either. We just… found each other again, I guess.”

Sarah was quiet for a moment, chewing on that. Then, to your surprise, she sighed and sat on the porch step.

“I mean… I always thought something was up,” she admitted. “The way he smiled if you’re mentioned, or how he got all weirdly cleaned up on weekends. I just didn’t think this was it.”

You laughed softly, sinking down beside her.

She looked at you, more serious now. “I’m not mad. It’s weird, yeah. But I’m not mad. I’ve known you forever. You used to make me mac and cheese and help me sneak extra popsicles when Dad said no.”

You smiled, a little nostalgic. “Yeah, I remember that.”

“But this,” she said, motioning between you, “it’s real, right? You’re not… messing with him?”

The question wasn’t cruel — it was protective. Earnest. And entirely fair.

“I’m not,” you said softly. “I love him. I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t.”

Sarah stared at you for a beat, then nodded slowly. “Okay.”

You exhaled. “Okay?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’ll probably still have an existential crisis about it later,” she teased, “but if it makes him happy—and you’re being real about it—I can deal.”

You bumped her shoulder lightly. “You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”

“Obviously.” She stood and gave you a smirk. “But if I ever hear anything through that paper-thin wall when I come home unexpectedly—”

“Sarah.”

“Just saying,” she called over her shoulder, heading back inside, “my tuition includes the right to emotional peace.”

You grinned, watching her go, your chest lighter than it had been in days. Joel met your eyes through the window from where he sat inside, and you gave him a small, reassuring nod.

Somehow, the secret didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

In the months that followed, their lives moved forward — quietly, carefully — just like before. But now, it carried a different weight. A steady, unspoken hum beneath the surface.

You and Joel didn’t announce anything. There was no dramatic reveal, no sudden shift in how the world saw you. That wasn’t your pace — and it definitely wasn’t his. Instead, you built your relationship in the spaces between, tucked away in the kind of moments no one else paid attention to.

If you visited him in the suburbs, you’d still park a few blocks down like you always had, strolling up the sidewalk as if you were just dropping by to say hello to Sarah, or to return a borrowed dish. You’d knock twice out of habit, even though you knew he was waiting just beyond the door. And Joel would answer with that half-smile, already stepping aside to let you in, hand brushing against your back in the brief moment of privacy the hallway offered.

Sometimes he’d cook for you, just something simple — eggs, grilled cheese, leftovers he claimed were “better the second time anyway.” And sometimes you’d just sit together on the couch, your legs tossed over his lap, the TV low and mostly ignored. Sarah wouldn’t be home those nights — maybe at a sleepover, a football game, a late movie with friends — and the house would feel quieter. Yours.

When the roles reversed, and Joel made the trip to your downtown apartment, it was always late. He’d wait until Sarah was staying over at her best friend’s house, send you a text like you still up? and show up twenty minutes later with a bag of takeout or a six-pack from that little gas station he liked.

He never stayed over unless he was sure Sarah wouldn’t be home the next morning. If she would, he'd never stay the night, and you were okay with that.

When the world was watching — when your dad invited Joel over for Sunday barbecue, or when the three of you found yourselves at the same neighborhood party — it was all easy smiles and normal chatter. The same Joel. The same you. Just two familiar faces in a crowd that never looked twice.

Your dad remained entirely unsuspecting. Maybe he just trusted you both too much to imagine it. Maybe the idea was so out of left field it never even crossed his mind. Either way, it gave you a strange kind of comfort… and a lingering guilt.

That conversation — telling him — still sat somewhere in the distance, a thing you circled around quietly. Joel would mention it sometimes, in the quietest part of the night. “We’ll have to tell him eventually.” he’d murmur into your hair, thumb brushing your side. You’d nod, half-asleep, neither of you pushing further.

And Sarah — well, she was still the only one who knew. Her knowing looks hadn’t faded. Sometimes she’d shoot Joel a sideways glance when he casually mentioned you in conversation, or nudge your foot under the table. But she kept it to herself. Always respectful. Always steady. She hadn’t made it weird — if anything, she’d helped it feel more real. Like you weren’t just imagining this little world you’d built together.

Your relationship with Joel was something quiet. Sacred. Protected not out of shame, but out of a shared knowing — a trust that it was too precious to rush, too personal to hand over to the noise of everyone else’s opinions.

It wasn’t traditional. It wasn’t easy.

But it was yours.

And in every hidden smile, every late night drive, every look across the room when no one else was watching — you knew, without question, that it was worth it.

Your mother should be crowned queen of awkward, bad ideas. And this one surely takes the cake.

"I’m going alone, Mom, it’s not the nineteen-thirties."

"It’s a wedding, darling, who will you dance with?"

You scoff – if you know one thing, it’s that you certainly will not be dancing in front of people, not without the sufficient amount of alcohol.

"Are you gonna ask aunt Ruth the same thing just cause she divorced uncle–."

"You don’t have to be such a smart-ass," she interrupted,  "Joel would be going alone otherwise, and this way you both get to have someone there with you! I think he’s been lonely ever since Sarah moved out."

And what’s that got to do with me?, you want to ask, but your mother is right. Your next door neighbor has been sulking all summer, drinking beer on the porch and staring at the driveway as if that will make his daughter magically reappear. Sometimes when you get home in the evening you chat with him for a few minutes. You like Joel – he has the same aversion to smalltalk as you do, so the conversation isn’t superficial. Still, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s pushing his late 50s.

"It wouldn’t be a real date, honey, I’d never set you up with him," you mother starts again, and you sigh. "I just think it’d cheer him up to spend time with someone who isn’t your father."

You almost ask your mother to go with him if it’s so important to her, but of all the guests there he’s probably the easiest to talk to. Not one to make a fuss, Joel Miller. You could just sit quietly next to each other, and if he’s your partner you doubt there’ll be much dancing. Maybe you could convince him to tell any other man who asks you to dance to fuck off. It would make your evening much more enjoyable than pressing your sweating body against the friend of a distant cousin and awkwardly swaying to some romantic pop song from 2009 with your parents watching. It’s a mystery to you why Joel is going at all – it’s not like it’s someone in his family who’s getting married. Your mother mentioned something about the groom and Joel having worked together on a job, but you weren’t paying attention much, as it was before she was trying to pimp you out to a guy basically triple your age.

"I’ll talk to him about it," you concede, and she smiles, clearly taking your answer as success already. You’re not as sure Joel will be thrilled about this idea, can almost hear his grumpy response: you even old enough to stay up past 9 pm? Still, maybe it will get your mother off your back if you at least try to convince him.

***

So you knock on Joel’s door, a tray of cookies your mother made for him in your slightly sweaty hands. You know he’ll find the idea absurd, and you’re not looking forward to being teased for proposing it.

"Hey, kid," Joel drawls when he opens the door, an easy smile tugging on his lips.

"Hi," you answer, pushing the tray towards him, "Mom made these and wanted you to have some."

"Geez, she thinks I don’t eat now that Sarah’s in Boston."

You get the inkling your mother isn’t entirely wrong about that, you haven’t seen Joel do his usual run for groceries in weeks. He probably eats steak every day, no vegetables. The thought almost makes you grin. Joel takes the tray from you and raises an eyebrow.

"You wanna come in?"

"Yeah, I’m definitely eating those," you say, nodding towards his cookies. He scoffs good-naturedly and kicks the door open further with his foot.

"No way, I’m not givin’ these away. Your mother’s bakin’ is sublime."

"Think of it as payment."

He snorts.

"What for?"

"Bringing them over."

Joel shoots you a look that clearly says stop whinin’, you live across the street, but doesn’t answer, just leads you to his kitchen and gets out milk and two glasses. He pushes one over to you, and you dunk one of your mother’s chocolate chip cookies in the milk, watching Joel do the same thing. You eat quietly for a moment, just enjoying the sugar melting into your tongues.

"Mom wants you to take me to my cousin’s wedding," you say once you’ve swallowed your first bite. Joel looks like he has dough stuck in his throat, and when he starts coughing you briefly wonder if you’d be able to perform the Heimlich maneuver on a man of Joel’s size, but he recovers quickly, and gulps down some milk.

"Why?" he asks, voice hoarse. You could lie, but Joel would know – you’ve never been able to hide stuff from him. He knew you were smoking behind his garage when you were seventeen, recognized the boys you snuck in and out of your bedroom window. He never told on you, though.

"She thinks we’re both loners."

Joel scoffs, and takes another bite of his cookie. You shrug.

"I told her it’s a bad idea. She said we needed a dance partner."

You’re grinning, the idea of Joel in a suit and dancing more than absurd. The most you’ve seen him do is tap his foot while listening to his classic rock radio station in his garage.

"I don’t dance," he answers, his brows furrowing.

"Neither do I."

He looks at you inquiringly, and you raise your eyebrows.

"What?"

"You’re what, twenty-one and you don’t dance? Aren’t you supposed to be spendin’ your weekends in clubs, makin’ all sorts of bad choices?"

"Okay, then, let me rephrase that: I don’t dance without at least four shots of tequila in my bloodstream and I doubt my parents would approve of me getting wasted at a family wedding."

Joel hums, as if to say fair point, and looks thoughtful for a second.

"You wanna go with someone else?"

The question is unexpected, you can’t help but answer it honestly.

"No."

Joel holds your eye contact, and you sigh.

"I’m not seeing anyone at the moment and my family is fucking insane, so I’m definitely not taking any of my friends."

That makes Joel chuckle, and for a brief moment you wonder what he thinks of your family.

"So let me take you, then. Wouldn’t have to waltz or nothin’."

No comment about your age, no teasing remarks about the boys Joel knows you see without your parents being aware of it.

"Why?"

Even to your own ears, your voice sounds suspicious. You lean on Joel’s kitchen island and stare up at him inquiringly. He doesn’t look away, not intimidated in the slightest.

"Your Dad’s been tryin’ to get me to ask out Loretta Henderson."

"What, and you’re not interested?"

You know Loretta, a nosy woman who knows all the gossip in the neighborhood. The thought of Joel going out with her makes you frown, he’s so much nicer than her.

"No," Joel just answers, but doesn’t offer much more. You sigh, and he cocks an eyebrow. "What, are you Loretta Henderson’s personal cupid now?"

"It’s not that," you say a little grumbly.

"What, then?"

His voice is uncharacteristically gentle, and you find yourself giving into his question before you can change your mind.

"I don’t wanna go to that stupid fucking wedding at all."

There, it’s out in the open, all your childish and petulant disdain for family events. Now he’ll demand explanations, say you’re silly, to grow up and make your parents happy.

"So don’t go."

You stare at him. He stares back, and after a couple of seconds the corners of his mouth lift in a brief, tentative smile.

"You don’t gotta go, kid, with me or with anyone. You’re an adult."

Sure, but it’s your cousin’s wedding. Who bails on something like that? Joel Miller, maybe. He’s not exactly known to be the life of every party, although you know he can stomach quite a few beers. The thought of him building a tolerance on his own makes your frown reappear.

"It’s not that simple," you answer, staring at the crumbs of cookie in what’s left of your milk. "My parents would kill me. Like, genuinely, they’d put an axe to my neck."

Joel chuckles and the sound feels warm in your ears.

"I highly doubt that. You wanna talk about why you’re skippin’ a free three course meal and unlimited drinks?"

"I’m not skipping anything," you argue, then sigh, and look at your hands. "I’m the second oldest after my cousin, and she’s got this great guy, and a degree, and probably twin babies who won’t ever cry on the way, and I…I just don’t think I can handle every single one of my aunts asking me why I’m still single."

Joel is watching you, and hums as if to say he understands, and before you change your mind, you keep rambling.

"I always gotta justify every decision I make to them, you know? Like when I started my first degree, and when I quit it, and when I cut my hair, and got a tattoo. It’s exhausting. I’m awful at decision-making on the best of days, but my whole extended family scrutinizing me makes it hell."

You know you’re being dramatic, that there’s people with worse problems than a distant family member’s snide comments about a tattoo. But still. Still, you don’t want to spend your precious free day defending the choices you struggled with making in the first place, choices you question yourself, day after day.

Joel looks thoughtful, and he contemplates your words for so long, you think he might not answer at all, but then he pushes the cookies over to you, as if to say you need these more than me.

"I was so young when I had Sarah," Joel says to your surprise, "and everybody had somethin’ to say about it. Kept askin’ me if I was sure about havin’ a kid at that age, while I was holdin’ her in my arms, as if I could’ve just gotten her receipt and returned her like a pair of jeans."

You’re not entirely certain, but you think this might not be the kind of thing Joel tells people easily. He sighs.

"Look, I know it’s exhaustin’ to always have to stand your ground, ’specially when it’s shaky even without people voicing their unwarranted opinions. If peace of mind is what ya want, I’d say definitely avoid them. But if you wanna stand up for yourself and tell them to mind their business, I’ll drive your getaway car."

It’s so very much like Joel to offer something like that – taking you to a wedding just so that you can leave it. You can’t help it, you smile. He smiles back, and it makes the crinkles around his eyes more prominent. It’s a good look on him.

"Alright," you say after a second, thinking that if all else fails, you’ll be able to explain all the family gossip to Joel – maybe the day doesn’t have to be all bad.

"Alright," Joel agrees, "what color dress are you wearin’? So I can match my tie."

You groan – partly because the image of Joel Miller in a suit and tie is, for some reason, devastating, and partly because the idea of picking a dress makes you want to scream.

"Fuck, Joel, they’re gonna hate whatever I wear anyway," you mutter, aware you’re making something big out of something small, that any girl would be happy to get to pick out a pretty dress for a wedding – you can see the judgmental looks already, though: too overdressed, too underdressed, too colorful, too conservative, too this and that.

When you look up, Joel is watching you, brows furrowed while he’s thinking. You kind of wish he’d just tell you to suck it up and stop whining.

"Want me to pick it?"

You stare at him. It’s an odd proposition, and the absurdity of the situation is catching up to you – Joel Miller asking to pick your dress for the wedding he’s taking you to, so that the decision won’t fall onto your shoulders. Flannel-wearing, denim-loving Joel, picking a dress he thinks is best suited for you and for the occasion, perhaps even one he would like to see you in. It makes your head spin. It’s strange, absurd, weird, but the idea is oddly soothing. Would you feel self-conscious under your family’s stares if you knew Joel liked the dress? If the choice wasn’t yours in the first place, would you still find a way to feel guilty about it?

"I do," you answer quietly. You know you’re treading in dangerous waters now. Something feels blurry about this conversation, and although you trust Joel not to have ulterior motives, you’re also aware you both know there’s something happening here beyond a choice of dress.

"Alright," Joel says again, just like that.

"Alright," you say. Just like that.

***

Joel takes you shopping, because in his own words he’s never had to buy a fancy dress for Sarah, so you hop onto the passenger seat of his Bronco and try to find a radio station with songs that aren’t several decades older than you, but Joel doesn’t seem to enjoy anything past the 80s, so you opt for a 60s station – Dusty Springfield coos into your ear as you watch Joel turn on the engine.

"My parents somehow don’t think this is strange," you say, and Joel shoots you a glance – you’re clearly implying they should.

"Do you?"

You hum, then shrug.

"I’ve never met a straight man who went shopping for dresses voluntarily. Is there a specific reason you’re not interested in Mrs. Henderson?"

Joel looks over at you with a raised eyebrow.

"Sarah says it’s not politically correct to joke about bein’ gay," he answers seriously, and you grin.

"Yeah, but it’s funny in this case. Poor Loretta, she’s so blissfully unaware of just how small her shot at going out with you is."

Joel shakes his head, but you can see his mouth twitching under his beard.

"Your teasin’ don’t affect me, sweetheart."

"Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, Miller."

"I have."

You gape at him, and an involuntary giggle leaves your mouth.

"You’re kidding."

Joel laughs, and runs a broad palm over his beard.

"I’m not. Had a friend called Bill who kissed me once. Hell, I must’ve been your age."

"What happened?" you ask impatiently, a broad smile on your face. Joel shrugs.

"Nothin’. Was a good kiss, but the beard sorta bothered me, so I told him I wasn’t interested like that and that he should ask out Frank. He was another friend of ours, ’n I knew he liked Bill. They’re married now, as far as I know."

It’s oddly sweet instead of funny, and you watch the scenery pass with a smile on your face.

"So why are you spending your Saturday at the mall with me instead of…I don’t know, tinkering with your car? Missing Sarah already?"

Joel looks over and smiles, and in that brief second something in your stomach flutters.

"I’m practically forcin’ you to go to that wedding, the least I can do is spare you the stress and get you your dress myself."

"Technically, you’re not sparing me much if you make me come with you because you don’t know shit about dresses."

Joel scowls and you grin.

"Technically, I could turn this car around right now and make you go in a jeans and t-shirt."

"Can’t make me do anything, Miller."

He doesn’t answer.

***

Turns out Joel’s idea of shopping is getting every single dress in the shop in your size, and making you try them all on. Although his intention was to relieve you of the decision, he’s sort of unhelpful – he tells you it looks real pretty every time you come out of the changing room, and when you can’t stifle a laugh after the fifth time, he clumsily tries to explain why – he likes the purply sort of color.

After around ten dresses, each a different color and style, you feel exhausted – you do like a few, but some have more cleavage than you usually wear, others might be too casual for a wedding, and you sit down on the little bench in the changing room while Joel puts the last dress back on the hanger.

"I changed my mind, Miller, I’m not going to the wedding," you groan. Joel leans against the wall of the changing room, the red dress you tried on last still in his hands.

"I’m no good at this," he says apologetically, "told you I’d help ya pick one and it’s still stressful, sweetheart, I’m sorry."

The nickname makes that flutter in your stomach reappear.

"No, it’s not your fault," you answer and play with the hem of the dark blue dress you’re currently wearing, "I just…I don’t wanna buy a dress cause they’ll like it."

Joel considers you for a couple of seconds.

"Which one would you get if your family wasn’t there?"

You sigh.

"But they are there, Joel–"

"Which one?"

His tone doesn’t allow any arguing, so you look at the dresses, chewing on the inside of your cheek. You liked a baby blue one, a black one, and a light pink one. You lift them up to show Joel, and he smiles.

"So get one of these," he says, as if it’s that easy.

"The blue one has too much cleavage–"

"You’re twenty-one, sweetheart, and you ain’t a nun."

It makes you chuckle, despite yourself.

"I think the baby pink one might be too close to white, you’re not supposed to wear white to somebody else’s wedding."

Joel snorts.

"’S your cousin colorblind?"

You groan, looking between the three dresses.

"Which one would you most like to wear in your own apartment, when you get dressed up just for yourself?"

You stare at Joel, heat rising in your cheeks, as if he caught you doing something you weren’t supposed to be doing.

"I’m a girl-Dad," he reminds you softly, and you have a sudden image of Sarah playing dress-up in front of Joel’s bedroom mirror in your mind. Again, that flutter in your stomach.

"This one," you say quietly, and lift the hanger of the light blue dress. Joel nods, takes the dresses from your hands, drapes the blue one over his forearm, and clutches the curtain of the changing room in his massive fist.

"I’m returnin’ these, you’re changin’ into your jeans again and then we’re gettin’ the blue one."

It’s more expensive than the black one, you want to say, but Joel closes the curtain without giving you the time to argue, and you hear his heavy footsteps as he makes his way out of the changing rooms. All of a sudden you have to smile – relief washes over you now that a decision is made.

When you walk out of the changing rooms in your jeans and t-shirt again, the dress you changed out of long forgotten on its hanger, you can see Joel at the checkout, handing the cashier something, and you practically run over to him.

"Absolutely not, Joel, you’re not payi–"

"Thank you," Joel says to the cashier, putting his card back into his worn leather wallet and looking at you, "It’s done. Quit whinin’ and take your new dress."

He hands you the bag with a smile, and although you feel guilty, there’s also a strange sort of comfort in knowing Joel payed for it. Sure, it’s yours, but in a way you’re giving the weight of your family’s reactions, good or bad, over to him.

"Thank you," you say softly, "you didn’t have to do that."

"I know," Joel just answers, "you got matchin’ shoes?"

***

The wedding is still a week away, when you get a message from Joel.

Are you driving to the wedding with your family, or with your date?

You smile, and consider his question for a second. You’re all spending the weekend in a hotel, arriving a day early, and knowing your parents, the packing and driving won’t be exactly peaceful. You don’t know what they will think if you tell them you’re going with Joel, but then you remember your mom asked you to spend time with him so he isn’t lonely. It’s the perfect excuse, and the idea of spending the hours with Joel in his Bronco rather than in the backseat of your parents’ car, trying hard to keep the peace between them while they’re stressed, makes you feel almost giddy.

With my date, you don’t know him tho ;)

You can practically hear Joel’s huff.

Smartass. I’ll pick you up at nine on Friday, don’t oversleep.

From then on you text Joel from time to time. You’re not sure why, but you like the way he responds to you. It never takes him long, even when he surely must be working, and the idea of him checking his phone at a construction site makes that flutter in your stomach reappear. You know it’s stupid, and although it’s not technically flirting, it’s also not innocent, but you tell yourself you’re only going to the wedding because your mother asked you to, so you might as well have a little fun while doing it. And anyway, Joel sure doesn’t seem to mind.

Picked a suit yet? Or r u going in a flannel?

Funny. Picked one that goes well with your dress.

Pic pls??

I’m working. Sorry, sweetheart.

The nickname feels somehow more solid in text than it does in conversation. It’s not a slip of the tongue, he took his time to type it out on his phone, probably with his forefinger, using his other hand to hold the phone.

When the wedding is a week away, your mother starts stress-baking, and asks you to bring Joel one half of the carrot cake she made. You think about asking her how one person is supposed to eat half a cake, but consider your chances of Joel sharing it with you higher if you keep your mouth shut.

When you knock on his door once again, it takes him a second to open the door. He’s drenched in sweat, his old shirt damp and his curls unruly.

"Oh, hey kid," he says with a surprised smile, his eyes flickering towards the cake. "What’s it this time, an uncle’s funeral?"

You snort, and he opens the door wider.

"Are you working out?"

"No," Joel say in a tone that suggests the idea is absurd, "I’m gardenin’."

You watch him lead the way to his kitchen, his broad back and thick arms making you feel a little squirmy. His answer suggests he doesn’t work out, and you wonder if he got so fit just from his job. You always figured contractors just managed the construction sites, but maybe Joel does the construction himself. You think you enjoy entertaining that thought a little too much.

"Can I see your suit?"

Joel glances at you, and you place the cake on his kitchen isle as he gets out two plates.

"No," he answers, a little gruff.

"It’s a common misconception, but it’s actually just the bride who shouldn’t show her outfit to her date," you tease, "the guests are allowed."

Joel scowls, and shakes his head.

"I don’t know anybody who talks back as much as you do."

"You might not know many smart people. I’m quick."

Despite himself, the corners of Joel’s mouth twitch into an amused smile, and he hands you a piece of cake.

"Come on, Joel, you got to see my dress, too," you try again, almost begging now.

"You’ll see it on Saturday."

"Why?"

Joel clears his throat, but you don’t let him off the hook, just chew your piece of cake in silence while you wait for him to answer.

"Cause it’s…it’s ridiculous. I’m not a suit guy."

He’s shy, you realize, maybe even insecure about it. You wonder if he fished out the last suit he wore from the back of his closet, probably still with 80s shoulder pads.

"Now I’ve got to see it," you decide, and when Joel sighs, you know you’ve won. He glares at you for multiple seconds, not breaking the eye contact. Then he shakes his head again, and leaves to get it.

When he returns, he hasn’t put the suit on like you hoped, but you’re relieved to find a classic black suit jacket and pants draped over his arm. You take it from him, holding the jacket up and nodding appreciatively.

"This is nice," you tell him honestly, "no flared pants or fringes."

Joel laughs, the sound traveling up your spine and settling in your chest.

"I’m not that old."

You grin, and hand him the suit back.

"You’ll look really handsome in it," you say softly, because you can tell the idea of wearing it makes him uncomfortable, and because it’s true. You like the way he looks even in his sweaty old t-shirt, but in a suit he’ll surely turn heads. He looks slightly embarrassed at your comment, and smoothes over a wrinkle in the fabric.

He mutters something under his breath and gently drapes the suit over the back of a dining chair. "Wish I could go in a pair of jeans."

It’s endearing, and you wonder if Joel is unaware of how attractive he is. He’s certainly not one to make a fuss about his looks.

"Well, you’d just embarrass me, cause some crazy guy picked and bought a real fancy dress for me. We have to match, sorry."

Your words have the desired effect, and Joel chuckles.

"It’s not too late to bail, though," you offer, "if you’re just coming cause of me."

Joel’s eyes don’t leave yours.

"Gettin’ cold feet?"

You shrug.

"Mine were never really warm. Yours?"

"Toasty," he says softly, eyes still on yours. All of a sudden is a little harder to swallow you mother’s carrot cake.

"You’re still nervous about goin’," Joel says, and it’s more an assessment than a question. You shrug again.

"Why?" he asks, " ’S not about the dress, I saw how happy you were when I made the decision for you."

Something about that sentences makes your stomach flutter again. Make them all for me, you want to say, and instead shove more cake into your mouth. You chew slowly to give yourself more time to sort out the words in your head.

"I just find these sorts of things exhausting," you explain, "I hate figuring out what’s socially appropriate, you know, how much to drink, what jokes to make, when to laugh, what to say and not say."

"I hope ya don’t take this the wrong way, sweetheart, but your family sounds like a piece of work."

You laugh, and watch Joel’s eyes get all crinkly with amusement at your reaction.

"They’re alright," you say honestly, "they’re normal. I’m just sensitive."

"They put that idea in your head?"

That shuts you up. It’s just a quick remark from Joel, but it hits home, and the smile freezes on your face.

"Sorry," Joel says quietly, "I’m sorry, that wasn’t my place–"

"No, don’t worry," you say quickly, "you’re right. They’re still normal, though. Usual amount of uptight and judgmental, I guess."

Joel watches you, and it seems like he’s thinking about something. When he speaks, his words are almost tentative.

"You can stick to me, if you want to. You can…ask me if you want a second opinion on what’s socially appropriate."

Your stomach swirls. You swallow and nod.

"I think that might be a relief," you say honestly, and try hard to ignore the pull of want in your stomach.

"Alright," Joel says, and as if it’s an inside joke by now, you answer.

"Alright."

***

He does pick you up at nine on Friday. You parents seemed slightly surprised Joel is taking you to the hotel in his car, but when you asked your mother what the point of going with him was if he still spent most of his time alone, she seemed convinced. You aren’t sure why you felt the need to convince her of anything in the first place, but you try not to think about it, when your doorbell rings. You spent the night at your parents’ place for convenience instead of in your apartment, so that Joel doesn’t have to drive the extra couple of miles. Your father opens the door before you can, and pats Joel’s shoulder.

"So, you’re taking my little girl to the wedding," he says, holding up one finger in a mock-scolding. Joel laughs, but you wonder if it sounds slightly strained. He meets your eye and nods in greeting. You nod back.

"Do you have your suitcase?" your father asks.

"Yeah, it’s right here."

You go to grab it, but Joel is quicker.

"I got it," he mutters, and you try hard not to stare at his arms bulging under the weight, not in front of your father.

"Careful, Miller, don’t be too much of a gentleman, or none of her collage boys will stand a chance," your Dad jokes.

"Oh, I won’t be," Joel drawls. You turn towards the door to hide your blush – you’re sure Joel didn’t mean anything by that comment, but that flutter in your stomach is stronger than ever, and you almost clench your thighs together. Joel doesn’t seem to notice anything, just carries your suitcase to the door.

"See you there, Dad," you say, "where’s Mom?"

"Rearranging the snack box," your Dad answers, "I’ll tell her you said bye. See you there kid, don’t let Joel drive like a lunatic."

Joel is about to quip something back, but you practically shove him out the door, your fingers digging into his biceps. He can barely tell your father goodbye before you close the door behind the two of you.

"Rearranging the snack box," you groan, "they’re so…so…so not chill."

Joel chuckles.

"I ain’t got a snack box, I thought we could make a stop at Burger King or somethin’."

"Finally," you answer, and open the trunk of his car so he can put your suitcase inside, "a man with sense."

***

"So, what do I gotta know about your family? Anyone I should avoid?"

You grin and turn up the radio a little.

"Don’t bring up vaccines with aunt Ingrid, in fact, just don’t bring them up at all. Steer clear of politics, unless you’re pro-life and think gay people shouldn’t get too close to kids, but if that is the case, steer clear of me."

Joel laughs.

"Got nothin’ to worry about, sweetheart. No politics or human rights, got it."

"Don’t ask uncle Jules if he has children. He does, but it’s…complicated."

"Who’s uncle Jules again?"

"My Dad’s brother. Bald guy with a beard. Don’t call him uncle, though."

"No callin’ people uncle, no questions about family, or politics. Geez, I’ll have to think of some conversation starter."

You chuckle and suddenly feel ridiculous for making such a fuss about attending a family wedding, when Joel is going to have to navigate dozens of people he’s never met before.

"I think showing up there with me as your date might be the starter for most conversations you’ll have," you say, not quite managing to keep the amusement out of your voice.

Joel clears his throat.

"Right, well, I’m sorta hopin’ they won’t dwell on that too much so as to not make things awkward."

"Oh, they’ll make things awkward," you answer, amusement evident in your voice, "but honestly, I think that’ll be the fun part. I wonder if aunt Susie will hit on you, she hits on everybody’s spouses."

Joel shoots you a glance.

"You were worried enough about a dress to consider not goin’ at all, but showin’ up with your Dad’s friend is the fun part?"

You admit, when he puts it like that, it sounds illogical.

"Those are two different things, though. They’ll judge my dress regardless of what I wear, I guarantee you someone will make a comment about it. If you hadn’t helped me, I’dve spent the night wondering if I should’ve gone with a different one."

"You don’t don’t think you should have gone with a different…date?"

You glance over at him.

"No," you say earnestly, "it was never a question of who to go with. I wasn’t gonna go with anyone else, had you said no."

"Right," Joel says, and changes lanes.

You’re quiet for a while, watching the scenery outside your window, but Joel seems to keep thinking about what you said.

"Why does it bother you so much? Whether they like your dress or not?"

You sigh, and he looks over at you briefly.

"You don’t gotta tell me, sweetheart, I was just wonderin’."

You pick at your fingernail.

"No, it’s alright. I guess I just…dislike not living up to expectations. I can deal with it if things are out of my hands, you know, but if my family is questioning my choices, I start to question them myself. It’s the difference between…being late because my flight was cancelled, and being late because I overslept. If it’s out of my control, it’s fine."

Joel hums, and it’s quiet again in his car. The radio is playing Mother’s Little Helper softly in the background.

"I think you’ve made solid choices," Joel says after a moment, "You don’t gotta…doubt yourself so much. I always got the feelin’ you knew what’s right for you, except for those boys I watched climb up and down your drainpipe at night."

You blush at the mention of your teenage hookups, but Joel chuckles. His words mean something to you, though you’re not sure how to tell him.

"Yeah, well, I’m good at overthinking," you say quietly, and Joel hums.

"Cause you’re smart. Dumb people don’t question themselves."

You smile.

"Thanks, Miller."

Joel switches lanes again, and nods.

"I mean it, kid, you’re doin’ just fine. ’N if you need help at the wedding, you come to me and ask for it."

"Alright," you say softly.

***

When you arrive, there is a blur of hugs and kisses and half-shouted greetings between aunts and nephews, cousins and grandmothers, fathers and sisters. Your family isn’t necessarily big, but they’re loud and restless, so you feel relieved when your parents pull you and Joel to the side right after you step out of the car.

"What took you so long?", you Dad asks, but keeps talking before you can tell him about the Burger King break due to a lack of a snack boxes in Joel’s car. "Anyway, we’ve got a problem. They didn’t know you guys aren’t really dating, so they gave you a double room instead of two single ones. We shouldn’t have put your names down together on the attendance list for the wedding, but I was thinking Joel and I can take one room, and you and your mom the other one!"

He’s clearly pleased with how he solved this dilemma, and it takes everything in you not to grit your teeth. You love your mother very much, but living in a single room with her is sure to drive you completely mad.

"Oh no," Joel says, "I don’t wanna cause any trouble. There’s a motel down the street, I’ll just get a room–"

"No way," you answer immediately, momentarily forgetting your parents, "you’re my support at this thing. You’re like my therapy dog. If anyone sleeps at that crappy motel, it’s me."

Joel actually snorts.

"Right, like I’d let ya. Place looked way too sleazy. You’re sleeping in the hotel your cousin booked, end of discussion."

"Fine," you answer, narrowing your eyes, "but so are you. You’re a guest, and I’m a good fucking host."

You hold his gaze, even when he shakes his head in something close to annoyance.

"You’re not the host, you’re a guest yourself. And anyway, it isn’t socially appropriate to decline someone who’s offerin’."

He’s telling you to give in, let him make the decision for you. In any other situation, that thought would get you all tingly.

"Well, I’m offering to share with you, so don’t decline," you say, crossing your arms in front of your body. It feels a little childish.

"Alright," Joel grumbles, sounding defeated, and looks at your father. "Your kid’s a piece of work."

Your parents watched your discussion quietly, and you can see mild distaste on their faces at how you talked to their friend, but for some reason it makes you want to grin. Usually it stresses you out when your parents aren’t satisfied with your behavior, but in this case it fills you with a strangely giddy feeling – if only they knew the sort of things you tell Joel about your family. It would turn those frowns into shouts.

"I’m sure we’ll find a solu–"

Joel’s quicker than your father, and waves him off with an easy hand.

"Ah it’s alright. Piece of work, but good company."

There’s an amused glint in his eyes and you frown at him, half contemplating kicking his shin.

"I’m a piece of work? You’re the one who–"

Your mother’s eyebrows furrow and you fall quiet. For some reason you don’t want to let on just how close you and Joel are these days. You don’t want your parents to see Joel doesn’t mind your bickering, that he does it, too, that it’s not harshness, but barely disguised tenderness underneath the irony. Joel’s eyes are on your face, but you don’t look at him.

"It’s only two nights anyway," you grumble, and Joel nods.

"That’s settled, then. I’ll get the suitcases."

***

You’re rooming with Joel Miller. For some reason you didn’t fully consider what that entailed while you were arguing about it with him – you’ll share a bathroom, possibly a bed. A blanket. You understand your mother’s frown now, it’s certainly strange for you and Joel to be so fine with this situation. You make a mental note to mention only doing this so Joel isn’t lonely to your mother.

"You sure you don’t mind?" Joel asks you when you step into the elevator – your room is on the third floor.

"Depends. Do you snore?"

Joel doesn’t answer, but after a second he shakes his head, though more to himself than as an answer to your question.

"If you’re uncomfortable with this, I really don’t mind staying at that motel," he continues, and you watch him play with the little button on the handle of his suitcase.

"I’m not uncomfortable," you answer, "are you?"

"No."

You don’t know what else to say, so you fall quiet again. Joel seems oddly conflicted, but you don’t blame him, he surely noticed your mother’s expression when you decided to share the room.

When you get there, Joel opens the door, lets you step in first, and you hoist your suitcase inside. It’s a light room, airy curtains, a big double bed that looks cozy. You’re relieved to see it’s big enough for things not to get awkward between Joel and you, and thankfully, there’s two blankets and pillows.

"Which side do you want?"

Joel’s voice is kind, like he really wants you to pick, and you smile.

"Window," you say, the decision coming easily for once. You didn’t consider which side Joel would prefer and picked the other one, you just chose the one you wanted because you were able to hear in Joel’s voice it’s what he wanted you to do.

"I’m gonna change and then I’ll have to say hi to my family," you say, and don’t manage to keep the annoyed tone out of your voice completely. Joel plops down on his side of the bed with a quiet grunt, and watches you.

"You’re not looking forward to the smalltalk," he says in that way of his that is less question and more statement. It spares you from having to answer, but you still sigh.

"No, not really. They’ll ask a million questions about my degree, it’s like nothing else interests them."

Joel’s eyes are still on you, as you open your suitcase and pull out different shirts and pairs of jeans, suddenly realizing you brought too many options.

"Wear that one," Joel says when you hold up and consider a shortsleeved blouse with a flowery pattern, "looks real pretty."

You take the blouse and grab your favorite jeans to change into, glad to finally change out of your sweatpants after the long drive.

"I’ll deflect the conversation when they start talking about your degree," Joel says, crossing his arms, "I’ll mention my age or somethin’."

It makes you laugh, because the idea is so absurd – that talking about your fifty-something year old date would be more comfortable than talking about university.

"Thanks," you say genuinely, "you’ll be the topic of conversation, by the way. Hope you don’t mind gossip."

Joel smiles an easy smile and shrugs.

"Ah, you heard your mother, I’m a loner. Gossip don’t affect me."

You know he’s not being honest – with his connection to the groom, any gossip about his controversially young date is sure to reach his colleagues’ ears, but you’re grateful for his support in this. He’s risking his own reputation just to make this event less dreadful for you. You smile at him, and slip into the bathroom to change.

***

You can see your family from a distance, sitting on some sort of terrace, and you can tell some of them are looking over at you, assessing yours and Joel’s form already. You groan, and tuck your blouse into your waistband.

"Don’t worry," Joel says quietly, "you look great. ’N I picked the blouse anyway, so it’s on me."

You nod, and Joel nudges your shoulder with his softly.

"Cheer up, kid. Won’t be awkward, I got you."

You believe him. You trust Joel to handle the smalltalk with your own family, which should make you feel pathetic and childish and weak, but it’s so easy to let him take the reins. He leads you over to them with a gentle hand on the small of your back and a polite smile on his lips.

"Hey guys," you say, waving awkwardly when you’ve reached the terrace, "this is Joel."

You’ve got to hand it to your family, they’re being polite. You can see their eyes move over Joel’s crowsfeet, his hand on your waist, his flannel shirt, and for a second you feel nervous, but Joel seems so at ease, the judgement pearling off of him like drops of water. 

You hug people, Joel shakes hands, says hello in that gruffly charming manner of his, there’s names being exchanged, and during all of it he doesn’t leave your side. He keeps his left hand on your back, lets you know he’s there for you. It feels like a secret somehow, even though it’s not – but you’re tricking your family, and they have no idea what your relationship to Joel is really rooted in. They look at the two of you and see something intimate, sure, but they’ve got it all wrong. It’s intimate in a different way.

"So what do you do, Joel?" one of your aunts asks him, when you’ve sat down – Joel pulling out your chair for you.

"I’m a contractor," he says, and throws his arm around your shoulders. You want to grin when you watch a dozen pairs of eyes follow the movement. Under the table, you nudge Joel’s foot with your own and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches.

They ask him more questions, the sort of superficial things most people think will conjure up an accurate image of the person they’re asking, and you’re more than amused by how Joel deflects them easily with that southern charm, but without backing down. The entire time, his thumb draws circles on your shoulder. You welcome the touch – you know it’s partly to keep up the show of dating you, but nevertheless it’s soothing, real or not. You wonder what Joel gets out of this charade – you get to fool the people who regularly make you feel inferior, you get to have some sort of entertainment at an otherwise boring event, but Joel doesn’t. He seems at ease, though, talking to your uncle about his business, fingers toying with the collar of your blouse at the nape of your neck.

"And how did you two meet?"

Your aunt’s question is sickly sweet, her judgment barely disguised. Her outrage makes you want to laugh and yell at the same time, because it’s not your well-being she’s concerned with, it’s etiquette.

"Oh, I’m friends with her parents," Joel says easily, "known each other ages."

It takes everything in you not to snort at the way your aunts eyes widen, and you’re sure Joel’s cough is really a well disguised laugh.

"Yeah," you say once you’re sure you’ll be able to control your voice, "he taught me how to drive when I was sixteen."

After that, someone hastily changes the topic, and when no one is looking, you throw Joel a grin. He winks at you, and doesn’t take his arm off your shoulder when you lean a little closer to him.

***

"You guys going to the beach, or the city?"

Your father smiles at you, squinting against the sun, backpack already slung over his shoulder – your parents are clearly doing the latter. There’s still time before dinner, and your family decided to split into two groups – you’re not sure which one to join. You look up at Joel, and your eyes meet. He holds your gaze for two seconds, and you don’t need to say anything.

"The beach," Joel decides, looking at your father again. "Could both use a bit of nature after that drive."

You say goodbye to your parents and are grateful for the few moments alone with Joel before joining the others for a walk down the beach. It’s what you would have picked, if you had to, but Joel didn’t need you to pick. Just like with your blouse and dress, he made the decision for you, and even though they’re completely mundane choices, it seems to lift a weight off your shoulders. You can just exist around Joel.

"That okay with you?" he asks you now, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

"Yeah," you answer, "anything you pick’s okay with me."

It’s more honest than you necessarily wanted it to be, but you find it hard to care when Joel seems so tuned into you. He watches you, and nods.

"Do you think that’s strange?" you ask, all of a sudden worried he finds your need for a lack of autonomy revolting, or pitiful. Joel’s eyes are glued to yours, when you look up at him.

"No," he says softly, "I think you’ve been made to question yourself way too much. Creates stress and pressure I’ll gladly take away if I can."

There’s no judgement in his voice, just acknowledgement. You look at your shoes, then back at him again. You aren’t sure what to answer – you know it’s a strange conversation to be having with your parents’ friend. Before you can answer, Joel does it for you.

"Look, don’t overthink it. This weekend you don’t gotta worry about anythin’, alright? I’m takin’ the reins."

You probably shouldn’t find it as easy to accept this as you do, but then again you probably shouldn’t have brought a man more than twice your age to a family wedding, so you might as well go all in. Joel’s taking the strain. You can just nod and go along with it. For the first time in a long time, you feel oddly silent. Steady.

***

The beach is beautiful and you and Joel take off your shoes and socks to walk barefoot along the water. The steady sound of the waves and the salt in the air makes you feel calm. Your family is close by, walking in little groups, chatting and laughing. You’re enjoying just walking quietly with Joel, but after your conversation with him, you really wouldn’t mind talking to your family either – Joel understood what you were trying to tell him, and offered to take your worries and doubts away from you. There’s no responsibility weighing heavily on your shoulders, and suddenly it seems easy to show your religious aunts your tattoos, and even defend the degree you chose. Joel’s got your back. He’s got your choices, your decisions.

"You’re quiet," Joel tells you over the sound of the wind. You watch it mess up his hair.

"I feel quiet," you say, "in a good way."

Joel hums, and you’re reminded he’s a man of few words, too.

"What you said," you start, voice uncertain, "about them making me question myself. It’s not…they don’t mean any harm."

You watch your toes dig into the wet sand as you walk, soft, cold waves rolling over them in a steady rhythm.

"Yeah, no-one ever does."

You glance at Joel and back at your feet again.

"It’s just…I know I’ve been talking shit about them a lot, but I don’t want you to think they’re bad people or something."

Joel’s eyes are trained on a seagull landing on the sand close by when he answers.

"I don’t think that, I don’t even know ’em. Your parents are good people, and from what I’ve seen, they’re good parents, too."

You nod.

"Still, even if something is well-intentioned, doesn’t mean it can’t have negative repercussions."

You frown, thinking about his words, and Joel sighs.

"I don’t wanna criticize your folks, God knows I’ve made mistakes with Sarah. But I see you constantly tryin’, you know, always workin’ to please them. Even if it comes from a place of wantin’ the best for their kid, I don’t think it should be like that. Parents should be workin’ to make their kids proud, not the other way around."

His words punch the air from your lungs – his assessment of your relationship to your parents so perplexingly correct, you don’t know what to say. And then his immediate acknowledgment of what you feel in your heart, and don’t have the nerve or guts to voice. You feel your eyes begin to prick, and it’s not the sand or the salt. You swallow hard, feel Joel’s eyes on you.

"Hey now," he mutters, noticing your tears, "I didn’t mean to make that happen, darlin’."

The pet name seems to rip something open inside of you, and your tears start to spill silently, your face unmoving. Joel reaches out for your tentatively – the lines between what’s acceptable have blurred. It’s okay for him to put his arm around you to make fools of your family, but this feels different. You decide you don’t care anymore – you want to feel his warm body against your side, you want him to wipe the tears from your cheeks with his huge palms, you want to hear his voice whisper in your ear. Something about Joel Miller soothes an ache inside of you you didn’t even realize needed soothing at all, but now that you’re aware of it, you can’t help but give in completely. 

His gentle palm on your arm is all you need, a clumsy but warm gesture of comfort, and you lean against him, your face against his collarbone. You know your family can see you, they’re close by, walking ahead or behind the two of you. You find you don’t mind – if anything, this will fuel the hoax of the two of you being together even more.

Joel is hesitant at first, but your tears seep into his pullover, and when you inhale shakily, he starts to stroke your back. You hear the sea, Joel’s heartbeat, someone laughing and screaming, possibly your cousins.

"I’m sorry kid," Joel says and rests his chin on the top of your head, "it’s alright. You’re alright."

"S-sorry," you mutter, wiping your eyes with your sleeve.

"Don’t gotta apologize. Did I hit a nerve?"

"Yeah," you answer quietly, not stepping back from Joel, just resting your face against his chest. You’ll take what he’s willing to give you, for as long as he is.

"I like it when you choose for me," you whisper after a minute. Although you’ve talked about it before, it feels different to admit this pressed against Joel’s big, warm body. "I really like it."

You feel Joel inhale and sigh, his hand still patting your back softly.

"I know, darlin’. I know."

"It’s weird."

"It’s unusual."

"You’re not, like…grossed out by me?"

Joel holds you a little more tightly.

"No, of course I’m not. Jesus, no. Why would you think that?"

You shrug, and Joel brushes the back of your head with his hand.

"You want me to make your decisions for you this weekend?"

He has been hinting towards that, inching closer to the realization, but he hadn’t put it quite that way before, and you feel something in your belly stir at the directness of his words.

"Yes," you whisper, "please."

You feel him nod, but he doesn’t say anything for a couple of seconds.

"I gotta know what that entails, kid. We gotta…have a conversation about this."

You don’t want to do that – you haven’t had to explain yourself to Joel this plainly before, he always seemed to just get it, even the things you don’t say.

"Tell me what that means to you," Joel asks you gently. It’s not phrased as a question – already he’s doing it so perfectly, not giving you the choice to decline answering, but deciding you will. It’s easy, this way. You inhale again, and close your eyes for your confession.

"I…I just…I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat, what to like, what to hate, what to rage about. What to listen to, what band to like. What to buy tickets for. What to joke about, what to not joke about. I want someone to tell me what to believe in. Who to vote for and…and who to love and how to tell them. I think I just want someone to tell me how to live my life, Joel, because so far…I think I've been getting it wrong."

He’s quiet, and you think you’ve said too much, made it too weird, and for a split second you feel like running, but then Joel looks down at you, and brushes one stray tear away with his thumb.

"I want you to put on your socks and shoes, again," he says softly, and you feel relief wash over you in synch with the waves. "Can you do that for me?"

You nod, and bend down to get your socks, all the while feeling Joel’s eyes on you.

"Good," he says when you’re done, and gives you a small smile. Your head feels blissfully empty.

***

You catch up with your parents and the rest of your family before dinner, where they hover awkwardly just outside of the doors to the dining room in an old, renovated stable.

Joel keeps his steady hand on your waist, a sign of belonging to your distant family, inconspicuous to your parents, and a clear gesture of comfort to you. He looks handsome in his dark jeans and dark green knit pullover. You’re used to him wearing flip-flops and a grease-stained black tee, gardenhose in hand, but he cleans up nice. You feel your family’s eyes on the two of you as you approach and lean into Joel’s touch a little more.

"Heya," your Dad says with a smile, and immediately shows Joel a book he got in the city, something about cars you can’t be bothered to look at for longer than two seconds. Joel seems interested, though, and when you move to talk to one of your aunts, the hand on your waist tightens. You could easily go anyway, but his touch makes it clear he doesn’t want you to, so you stay, letting the car-talk wash over you, oddly at peace with everything. Joel throws you one look and his thumb starts tracing circles on your waist. It feels like a reward for doing as he said, and the thought makes you feel light-headed.

Eventually you all make your way to the dinner table, and Joel pulls out your chair for you, not sitting down until you’re seated. It makes your stomach flutter, and you can see your aunt watching him, apparently having noticed his good manners, too.

You flip open a menu, trying to decide on a drink – you’re not sure if it might not be too risky to start drinking alcohol this early in the evening, your tongue might become a little too lose, especially among this group. You look over at Joel, and when he notices, he subtly points to Cherry Coke on his own menu, tapping the word once, and you think he must remember you drinking the sticky-sweet stuff all summer as a teen. You give a small nod, to show him you understand, and flip the pages of your menu to look at the food.

"The salmon is supposed to be delicious," your mother is telling your father. She turns to Joel and you, and smiles.

"What are you two having?"

Before you can open your mouth, Joel closes his menu.

"The lamb chops," he answers simply, and when your eyes meet, it punches the air from your lungs. He looks proud, satisfied, like nothing pleases him more than to see you do as he says.

"Yeah," you say quietly, "lamb chops."

***

Dinner is perfectly nice, the lamb chops and your cherry coke are delicious, though you switch to wine after Joel asks you if you prefer red or white and then orders a glass for each of you. From time to time, he brushes your back with his hand when your parents aren’t looking, and even though you don’t get a minute to talk just between the two of you, you can tell he’s making an effort to be present and attentive.

Your younger cousins leave the table to play outside after a while, and you wish you had a few your own age to raid the bar with, as Joel seems to be stuck in a conversation about contracting with your uncle. You drain the last of your wine, your foot tapping rhythmically against the table leg, and you suddenly feel a hand just above your knee, effectively stopping your movement. Joel’s palm is huge as it burns a warm imprint into your skin, squeezing your leg slightly. It’s like a quiet acknowledgment of your restlessness, and enough for you to feel an odd calm wash over you. Joel seems to have realized you want to go to bed, or at least to leave the table and these boring, useless conversations. He also holds the power to decide whether you will or not, so you don’t have to worry about being rude at all. The ball is entirely in his court. You sigh in strange contentment and Joel’s thumb starts moving as a response, his eyes glued to your uncle’s face, nodding and answering whenever it’s appropriate.

After around a quarter of an hour, their conversation seems to fizzle out, and Joel glances down the table. Half the people have left, either to put the kids to bed, or to rest themselves after a long day of traveling. Joel’s eyes meet yours, warm and piercing, and he gets up from his chair, hand slipping from your thigh. Your uncle is talking to your parents now, and Joel waits a beat so as not to interrupt them.

"We’re goin’ to bed," he says when there’s a pause in their conversation, and you nod, getting up, too.

"Already?"

Your Dad sounds surprised.

"It’s eleven," you say, stifling a yawn, "and God knows Joel could use a bit of beauty sleep."

He scoffs and you grin, which makes your father chuckle and shake his head.

"Don’t let her give you hell, Miller. We can still switch rooms if this little union has turned sour."

It’s clearly a joke, but the idea of sleeping in a different room than Joel is distinctly unpleasant all of a sudden, so you chuckle.

"Don’t worry, Dad, still sickly sweet."

You hug your parents goodnight, and Joel promises your uncle to continue their talk the day after, and then, finally, he’s leading you back outside and towards the actual hotel building. His hand is a ghost on the small of your back, not quite touching, but guiding. You breathe in the cool evening air as you step outside and sigh. The change in temperature is more than welcome after the noise and buzz in your head.

"Alright?" Joel asks, voice quiet.

"Yes," you say, and suddenly feel shy about the decisions he made for you throughout the evening. "Sorry about…you don’t have to…I mean, I can just pick my own drinks and food tomorrow."

Joel is quiet for a second, but his hand doesn’t leave your back.

"Was it too much?"

You don’t answer, don’t know how to tell him it was perfect and not enough at the same time, that his hand seems to be burning a whole into the fabric of your blouse, that you want him to decide to take it off of you.

"Jesus," Joel says, interpreting your silence as confirmation, "I’m sorry, kid, I thought it’s what you asked me to do back at the beach, but if I got that wrong, I’m rea-"

"You didn’t," you say quietly, voice cracking on the last word a little. "Don’t apologize, please. Don’t make this into something…weird or, I don’t know, something to feel guilty about."

Joel falls quiet.

"I hate feeling guilty," you add after a stretch of silence. You can feel Joel looking at you.

"You don’t gotta," he says, shaking his head when you shrug, "no, sweetheart, I mean it. I’m tellin’ ya not to feel guilty."

You shudder, you can’t help it – Joel’s tone has an air of finality you can’t resist. As if Joel pressed a button, you feel the emotion seep out of you. He’s still watching you, and you feel your cheeks burn up. You know it’s a little sick, a little depraved and twisted to want Joel to act like this.

"You know," Joel says suddenly, "when Sarah was ten, you two begged your Dad and me to take you to buy you these headbands you wouldn’t shut up about. They had them in purple and green. Sarah chose the green one, but you just couldn’t decide, you stood in front of that damn shelf for half an hour, until your Dad said he wouldn’t get either if you didn’t pick one."

You don’t remember the shop, but you do remember crying on the way home, Sarah petting your arm and lending you her headband the next day.

"Your Dad didn’t mean bad," Joel continues, "probably thought it was a valuable lesson, but you just needed someone to tell you purple suits you, or green goes with your shoes, or whatever."

You’re still quiet, walking beside Joel in the dark, not quite believing he noticed and cared enough to remember such an innocent incident years later. After a while, you swallow.

"I don’t remember buying that headband," you say softly, "or…not buying it, I guess."

"Why was it so hard for you?" Joel asks, voice sincere "to pick one, I mean."

"I…I’m not sure," you answer, not looking at him, but at your feet moving over the cobblestones. "I think I…I think I learned pretty early on a wrong decision could make people angry or disappointed. By not making one at all I just…disappointed myself, you know? Turning the reaction inward, or something."

Joel hums, and contemplates your words for a while.

"Your Dad, does he…did he…if you’d picked the wrong color, would he have gotten angry?"

You glance up at him, see a slight frown on his face, his muscles pulled tight, and you understand what he’s asking.

"No," you say softly, "no, it’s not like that."

Joel visibly relaxes and nods.

"Sorry," he says with an exhale, "didn’t think it was, but geez, that’d you’d be worried about his reaction to the goddamn color of a headband…"

You sigh.

"I don’t know why I’m like this," you say so quietly, you’re not sure Joel hears, but his hand on your back squeezes slightly, an unconscious gesture of comfort. "I wanna please everyone all of the fucking time. It’s pathetic."

"It’s not pathetic, it’s empathetic," Joel argues, and you frown.

"I got no backbone," you say softly, saying out loud the worst you think about yourself to another person for the first time. "I’m a pushover and a narcissist who can’t handle anyone not liking them, as if I’m the centre of the fucking universe."

Joel stops walking, you sigh almost petulantly, and before you can keep walking, Joel’s hand catches your arm.

"Stop," he says, and without thinking about it, you do. He’s frowning, dark eyebrows pulled tight and casting a harsh shadow over his face.

"I don’t want ya sayin’ shit like that," he tells you, "don’t want ya thinkin’ it either, for that matter."

You don’t know what to answer, except that you do, so you just stare at him.

"Were you a pushover when you argued with me until your parents were pissed, just so I wouldn’t sleep in that shithole motel down the road?"

You look at your hands, and pick at your cuticle.

"Answer me, sweetheart," Joel says, and you can hear the order in his voice.

"That was different, it didn’t have anything to do with me," you say, and Joel shakes his head, as if in exasperation.

"Course it didn’t, it was completely selfless. Just like you don’t want to upset your grandma when she sees that little tattoo of yours, or your parents when you pick a career they don’t like. You’re too goddamn nice for your own good. Too empathetic."

 You can feel his gaze glued to your face, but you keep staring at your thumbnail, until Joel sighs again.

"You think a narcissist would have worried about your dress stealin’ your cousin’s show?"

You shrug, aware what Joel wants you to say, but unable to do it.

"You think a narcissist would have sprinted across that shop to stop me buyin’ it for ya?"

"I’m still mad at you because of that," you say softly, and despite himself, Joel’s mouth softens into a smile.

"A narcissist," he repeats, voice dripping with irony, "and I’m the fuckin’ tooth fairy."

"Even if you’re right," you say finally, "I don’t think you can separate concepts like that, you know, egoism and altruism. It’s like, if you donate money, do you ever truly do it to help, or do you do it because you like thinking of yourself as someone who helps?"

"You’re overthinkin’ this, sweetheart. It ain’t philosophy. You had an occasion to buy a pretty dress, and considered your cousins’s feelings – that’s kind. You’re…you’re good."

For some reason that makes you swallow, your throat thick. Good. You don’t think of yourself as a bad person per se, but sometimes being kind does feel like making amends. Joel thinks you’re good. He called you empathetic, nice, got angry when you disagreed. Your chest feels a little warm.

"You can’t see inside my head, Miller," you say, finally meeting his eyes, as he’s towering over you. "You don’t know my intentions."

"You’re not as mysterious as you think, kid," Joel answers gruffly, "why are you so adamant about makin’ yourself into some kind of super villain?"

"I’m not," you answer, cheeks flushing, "I just…"

"Just what?"

You shrug, don’t know yourself what you were going to say, and Joel raises his eyebrows.

"You’re a good girl, a really good person, you always were. So kind to Sarah when you were kids, and now that she’s in Boston, you’re kind to me, just so I’m not lonely."

"Ah," you answer, face heating up, "that. Well, to tell you the truth, Joel, this is one of those times where altruism and egotism are…congruent."

Joel stares at you, and your stomach flutters.

"That so?" he asks quietly, unmoving and still staring at your face. Your neck grows hot, and images of him telling your father what you said rush through your head, of him being uncomfortable, of him seeing you as a substitute daughter and being freaked out by your attachment to him. You swallow, don’t answer, look at your hand again. Suddenly there’s a finger on your chin, and Joel’s lifting your face back up to meet his eyes.

"I’m not makin’ that decision for you, sweetheart," he says, face serious, but a with hint of something in his voice that wasn’t there before. "You ask for it yourself, or you don’t."

His warm hand lingers on your chin for just a second longer, and then he crosses his arms in front of his body. You two continue walking, as if you’re not headed to sleep in the same bed, as if Joel didn’t put his skin to yours in a way that felt new.

***

You’re slightly embarrassed when you’ve changed into your pajamas, which consist of an old pair of pink shorts, and a Micky mouse shirt much too big for you. When you leave the bathroom, Joel is lying on his side of the bed, arms crossed behind his head, a grin spreading across his face when he sees your outfit.

"Nice," he says, and you feel your cheeks heat up.

"Well, I didn’t know I’d be sharing my bed, did I?"

Your voice is close to irritated, but for some reason it makes Joel’s smile widen, and you scoff.

"Unless you’ve got silk pajamas packed, your humor is misplaced."

You walk over to your suitcase and get out your face cream. Joel keeps watching you and seems to have no intention of brushing his teeth any time soon.

"I like it," he says after a beat, and your eyes shoot up to meet his, your knees still pressed into the carpet next to your suitcase. "Suits ya. That blouse is real pretty, but you were tuggin’ on it all evening."

"Yeah, well," you mutter, rubbing the cream into your skin, "I got it for occasions like this one, cause it’s modest."

"Your Micky Mouse shirt is pretty modest," Joel answers, mouth still twitching, "should wear that tomorrow in case you have second thoughts about your dress."

You snort and look down. Micky’s face is all wrinkled, the print faded from how often you’ve washed it.

"I want you to wear something you like tomorrow," Joel says quietly, and you look up. He’s still watching you, voice steady. "Before the ceremony, I mean. Wear somethin’ that feels like you."

It’s a decision he’s making for you, and you swallow.

"Okay," you answer, voice cracking on the last letter. Joel nods.

"Good."

Joel gets up to brush his teeth and change, and you get comfortable with your book while you’re waiting. You know it should feel awkward, being with him like this, but even though your stomach gives a pleasant leap whenever you think about the man in the bathroom, you’re not nervous. Yes, you’re sleeping in the same bed as Joel, but the conversions you’ve had ever since you asked him to take you to this wedding feel much more intimate than this physical closeness.

When he slides under the covers next to you, smelling of three-in-one shower gel and toothpaste, you turn around to face him, one cheek smushed against your pillow, something in your stomach tugging.

 Joel turns his head to look at you, and smiles.

"Comfy?"

"Yeah."

"This ain’t too weird for ya?"

"No," you say, "not too weird."

Joel nods, and takes a gulp from the glass of water on his nightstand. You watch him slide his reading glasses away from the edge, so that they won’t fall to the ground during the night, and think of how he got you the dress you wanted, how each nudge and decision he made for you was always in your favor, always meant to give you pleasure or make things easier for you.

"Joel?"

"Hm?"

"Why do you enjoy…I mean why aren’t you you freaked out by…making my decisions for me and, you know, picking my clothes and food and all that?"

Joel is quiet for a moment, and you wonder if you shouldn’t have asked him that, but then he sighs, and looks at you again.

"When I took you dress shoppin’, you looked at those dresses the way you looked at the headbands when you were a kid," he begins to explain, "I don’t care about the dress, sweetheart. But I could tell you’dve gone with one you thought everyone else was gonna like, and it wouldn’t have been the one you wanted. So I helped you pick it, just like I should’ve helped you pick a headband."

Joel’s eyes are warm and understanding when you swallow, and for a second, he lifts his arm as if to reach out to you, but then he drops it onto the covers. You want him to pull you towards him the way he did at the beach, but you know it would mean something else here, alone in a bed.

"I don’t tell people what I told you," you say quietly, "about my family, and my indecisiveness."

Joel watches you with an unreadable expression.

"Whatever you wanna tell me," he says gently, "is safe with me."

You take Joel Miller by his word, when you lean towards him, shuffling close to him, until you can feel the heat of his body through both your blankets, and you can see the hesitation in his warm eyes. You trust he’s telling the truth about keeping your secrets, when you arch your back so your lips reach his, and you brush your mouth against his, his beard tickling your skin. It’s soft, and a little clumsy, until your lips part, the fire in your stomach catching, and Joel lets out a groan right into your mouth. 

Finally, he kisses you back, warm lips coaxing yours, his big hands coming to rest on your upper arms, and tugging your body towards his. It’s exhilarating to feel how strong he is, to hear his gruff voice not in words but in little sounds of desire for you. Before you can press your hips to his in a reckless moment of need, Joel breaks the kiss, and your eyes open. His pupils are dilated, his mouth is red and shiny with a mixture of both your saliva.

"Jesus," he says quietly, hands still on your arms, "Jesus, kiddo."

You feel nervous, but as so often, the decision lies with Joel, and that makes everything easier. You were honest with him, stripped yourself bare, right down to the skeleton of your want for him and all of the depraved thoughts you have, and now Joel can do with that what he wants – you’ve offered him all you have to offer and feel your limbs relax at that thought. Joel’s thumb starts drawing its familiar circles, his eyes glued to your face.

"I think we should sleep on this," he says after what feels like a long time, "but, God, I wish I didn’t."

The corners of your lips pull up into a smile.

"It’s your choice," you say, and watch Joel swallow – you think this might be affecting him just as much as you.

"You shouldn’t give me that much power, sweetheart," he breathes, and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. "Gonna make me go mad with it."

You lean into his palm, which is now cupping your face, and Joel sighs.

"Go to sleep now," he mutters, and the disappointment is dulled by the pleasure of doing as he says. Instead of moving over to your own side of the bed, you rest your head on Joel’s chest, and after a sharp inhale, he drapes his arms over you, pulling you against him and holding you securely.

"Good," he whispers into your ear, making you shudder, and you're almost certain you hear Joel chuckle softly above you.

***

You wake at night, Joel’s arms still wrapped around you, though limp with sleep now. He’s breathing deeply, his chest rising and falling under you as if you weigh nothing, as if you haven’t been lying on top of him for hours. You feel a little bad for crushing him like this, and move away slightly to lay down right next to him, but his arms tighten around you as soon as you pull away, and he keeps you locked in his iron grip, still unconscious, his eyes closed. You can smell his aftershave with your face resting high on his chest, can hear his heartbeat and the air rushing in and out of his lungs. His arms are like a cage around your body, and instead of waking him up, you give in, closing your eyes again, one of your legs sliding between Joel’s. You feel something in your stomach ache pleasantly, but you’re too tired to examine the feeling, just let Joel’s steady breathing and scent lull you into darkness again.

***

The sun pours into the room like honey when you open your eyes again, this time alone in the big bed. You can hear water running in the bathroom, then a quiet cough. Joel Miller is getting ready after holding you all night, even through his deep sleep. It’s a little hard to wrap your head around, so you just press your face into the pillow and inhale, smell his sweat and shower gel, his laundry detergent.

"Mornin’," Joel says quietly, and you turn around to face him. His hair is wet, and he’s wearing a simple black t-shirt and a pair of clean, black jeans. He looks excruciatingly attractive, all solid and masculine and warm.

"Morning."

"Sleep well?"

You nod, unsure of how to address the shift in dynamic between the two of you in the daylight.

"Did…you?"

Joel hums, still leaning against the bathroom door and watching you. Your eyes flicker towards his chest, and you think of the way it felt pressed against your face at night, how his arms wrapped around you so securely. You swallow, and Joel’s eyes track the movement.

"Do you…want to go have breakfast?" you ask timidly, your voice cracking.

Joel shakes his head, and you start picking at your thumb again. You’re not generally awkward around him, but nobody told you how to deal with a situation like this, with you father’s best friend after you kissed him.

"No, I wanna talk about last night," Joel says, and you can’t stop a little groan escaping your mouth.

"Joel, look, I don’t…I didn’t mean to…I was caught up because you understand me so well, and you smell so good, and I just…I acted on instinct, I didn’t think, and if I made you uncomfortable, I’m really really sorry."

Joel is so quiet, you’re afraid he’s going to yell at you, or walk out of the room and tell your father, but the feeling of his arms tightening around you keeps reappearing in your mind, so you push your worries aside. Joel didn’t have to hold you the way he did.

"Instinct, huh?"

You flush, and look at your hand.

"I…yeah."

"’S a hell of an instinct, sweetheart."

You sigh, and nod.

"I know."

"Your father’s goin’ to behead me with a dull axe if he finds out about this."

Despite yourself, a chuckle escapes you, and your stomach flips pleasantly. Joel runs a hand over his beard and walks over towards you, his hair still wet from his shower.

"He’s never been the dull axe type," you argue, "he’ll try to outsmart you with words, though."

Joel snorts, and for a second you feel bad about making fun of your father when Joel so clearly would have the upper hand in a fight, but then Joel cups your face in his massive palm and you stop thinking all together.

He hums thoughtfully, as if contemplating his options, his eyes drifting over your face, and you don’t dare say anything, scared of spooking him when he’s so close to finally giving into this weird tension.

"I’m not doin’ anything while we’re here," he finally says, and you sigh. The disappointment must show on your face, because Joel’s mouth twitches under his beard.

"Not while I’m a guest," he adds, "wouldn’t be right."

"You’re not a guest, you’re my date," you argue, Joel’s hand still cradling your face.

"Yes, the date your mother picked to distract me from the fact that my daughter moved across the country. Who is your age, by the way."

You know he’s saying it to stress the absurdity of the situation, the reason why he can’t kiss you again, but his words make your stomach flutter instead of deterring you.

"I’m not a kid," you mutter, realizing it’s the most childish thing you could have said.

"Jesus," Joel answers quietly, shaking his head. "We’re goin’ to have breakfast now, before I…"

And he lets go of you, steps back, runs his hand over his beard again in that nervous habit of his, and even though it feels like you somehow turned liquid in his hands, you manage to get up.

"You know, we could just skip breakfast," you suggest, "order room service. Nobody would miss us if we –"

"Get dressed," Joel interrupts, watching you with his jaw clenched tight.

***

It feels different, walking with Joel to meet your family for breakfast. He still puts that calming hand on the small of your back, you still tease him the same way you did before, but there is a new tension between you now, as if you’re each holding on to one end of a rubber band. You wonder if it’s going to snap.

"Mornin’," Joel says, smiling at your parents, and you try hard not to let it show on your face that you kissed their 50-something neighbor just last night. When your mother smiles at you, you’re sure it must be visible in your eyes, that any second now she will start yelling. But she just asks you how you slept, tells you how comfortable she finds the beds and that the water pressure of the showers is just perfect. You agree, indulge her in her good mood.

After a couple of minutes, you look towards your father, and find that Joel is staring at you, face carefully neutral in a way nobody else would notice. You give him a tentative smile, and his jaw clenches again, but his expression softens.

During breakfast, he doesn’t put his hand on your thigh like he did the night before, no matter how much you pathetically bounce it just to get his attention. He keeps talking to your uncle again, and you would feel hurt by how clearly he’s trying to maintain distance between the two of you, if you didn’t catch him looking at you whenever there’s a break in the conversation. You wish you were able to read his thoughts, then wonder if he thinks you’re pitiful, and are glad you can’t.

When you’re almost done with your coffee, a waiter comes over and asks everyone to pick something for dinner – meat, fish or a vegetarian option. Your parents start telling a story of the best fresh fish they ate last time they went on a holiday, as you open the little folded menu and read the options.

You can feel Joel’s eyes practically burning a hole in the side of your head, even thought his hands are carefully kept to himself. Then he lifts up his hand just slightly and points to the fish on his own menu, clearing his throat. Your stomach flips again – whatever it is you’re doing, he’s still willing to do it after you kissed him. You close the menu, and smile.

***

The day passes in a blur of playing with your little cousins, talking to various family members, helping with your cousin’s bridal makeup (mostly, you just hold the mirror, which you’re grateful for – too much pressure to actually apply anything on her big day). Joel keeps his distance, charms your family with that twinkle in his eyes, and keeps looking at you wherever you are.

When you’re pushing your little cousin on a set of swings, there he is, sitting on a hotel garden chair with one of your aunts and looking at pictures she’s showing him on her phone. He nods and smiles, seems to answer when appropriate, but you just know it’s boring him to death. Whenever your aunt looks down, his eyes find you, and you grin at him, giving him a thumbs up. He shakes his head just slightly to himself, but you can see his smile even from this distance. It makes you feel warm inside.

In the afternoon, everyone retreats to their rooms to get changed for the ceremony, and you feel your stomach jolt at the thought of finally seeing Joel in the suit he refused to put on for you before. You meet him at the front of the hotel, where he and several of the younger children are kicking a ball back and forth. They laugh when he cleverly dodges their little feet, and then kicks it through their legs. He laughs, too, ruffles their hair, lets them beat their little fists against his legs when he tricks them again.

"You like him."

It’s your aunt, and she caught you watching Joel, a subconscious smile on your face. You glance at her and look at your feet, then shrug.

"I thought it was some rebellious streak to drive your parents up the wall," she admits, and you snort at that, "but I guess you’ve never been the type to do that."

"No," you say softly.

"They don’t mind?"

You don’t want to lie to her directly – a conversation like this, one on one, feels way different than some vague excuses and stories when fifteen people ask where you met.

"I don’t think they know…how close we are."

Your aunt smiles and nods.

"Well, looks like they’ll have to get used to it. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you."

Her last words make your stomach flutter, but it’s the beginning of her sentence that makes you think. Your parents, having to arrange themselves with a choice you made for yourself, one they deem foolish or wrong or even immoral. The idea is almost preposterous – and thrilling. All these years, you were the clay holding your family together, molding yourself until you fit into all the little cracks and rotten cavities. Now it might be their time to soften and adjust, regardless of whether it’s because of Joel or not. You’re tired of being so shapeless.

When Joel spots you, he lets the kids score one more goal, one he could have easily saved, high fives them, and makes his way over to you with a smile on his face.

"Hello, coach," you say, as your aunt makes her way over to the children. "You’d better take a shower before you put on that suit."

He scoffs at you, but there’s that irresistible twinkle in his eyes again.

"You know, my aunt recons my parents could get used to…this."

"Jesus," Joel says and frowns. "I think they’d sooner tell you to join a biker gang."

"Maybe I should," you say, and Joel chuckles. "I’ll save that idea for the next family event. Funeral, maybe. Would be a talking point, wouldn’t it?"

"That what I am? A talking point?"

His voice is teasing, but you immediately regret your words – because he’s not. He got you the dress and he lets you talk about your family, and he doesn’t look at you any different for it.

"No," you say softly, looking up at him, "you’re not."

He doesn’t answer, but you think there is something like relief or satisfaction on his face, though he hides it well.

***

Getting ready with Joel feels weirdly domestic, but comfortable, as if you always share a space like that. He showers, puts on his slacks and a white shirt to wear under his dress shirt, then runs his hand through his hair and leaves it be. You’re glad, you like him best like this anyway.

While you apply your makeup, Joel watches you from the bed, the door to the bathroom wide open to let out the steam. For a moment you let yourself imagine a life in which you always share a bedroom, in which Joel Miller watches you get ready in the mornings, but you ban the thought from your mind, because it’s stupid and reckless and you can’t afford to fall for him.

"Y’look real pretty," he says after you come out of the bathroom in your light blue dress, your hair soft and tamed for once. Your stomach flips, both at the compliment and at how handsome Joel looks in his simple white shirt and black pants. He’s not wearing a tie, but he added light blue cufflinks to his sleeves – a detail that undeniably binds you to him, if only for one evening. He watches your eyes flicker over his form, and crosses his arms in front of his chest, and you remember how self conscious he was about the suit.

"You look…hot", you say honestly, before you can change your mind, and watch Joel’s cheeks flush a bright red.

"Don’t say shit like that," he says, hiding behind his frown, but he uncrosses his arms, and shakes his head. "Hot…"

The first button of his shirt is undone, and you have to force yourself to tear your eyes away from  the skin that peeks out, can’t look at his hands either or you’ll see his silver watch on his wrist, and definitely won’t let yourself look at those dress pants, held up by a simple black leather belt.

"Let’s go," Joel mumbles, when you’re done trying and failing not to ogle him, and you grab your purse, slip into your shoes, and find Joel staring at you, when you turn around. He’s waiting by the door, but doesn’t open it when you walk over to him. Instead, he lifts his hand up, strokes the back of his hand once over your cheek, eyes trained on your face, and your skin burns.

"We picked a good dress, sweetheart," he says, you’re pleased that he’s pleased, but more than that, you like how he said we. Not a choice he made for you, but one you made together.

***

The ceremony is beautiful, and although you complained about your family to Joel a lot, you cry as soon as you see your cousin in her dress. Joel puts his arm around your shoulder, stroking your arm in a subconscious, comforting way. You lean into him, let yourself revel in the closeness without wondering what anyone will think – every eye in the room is glued to the bride and groom.

"You want a drink?" Joel asks you when people start to get up, talking in little groups. You hope your makeup isn’t all runny from your tears, but before you get a mirror from your purse, Joel cradles your face and wipes his thumb under your eye gently, just once.

"There," he mutters. The movement was quick and caught you off guard, your stomach fluttering uncontrollably. You’re usually better at keeping the butterflies in check.

"Yeah," you say, a second too late, "I gotta get drunk."

Joel chuckles and together you leave the venue, his hand on your waist, holding you tighter than he did during the day. There are tables set up outside in the sun, decorated with flowers and white tablecloths. People are catching up and laughing, basking in the joy of your cousin and her new husband. Joel leads you to the bar, and before you can look at the different drinks, he orders two Gin Tonics.

"There ya go," he says, handing you a cold glass, and you clink them together, before taking a sip. It’s refreshing, the sun burning your skin just slightly, and you enjoy the bitterness of the drink. It tastes like Joel ordered it, it tastes like him.

"There you are," a voice behind you calls, and Joel steps half a step back from you. "Weren’t those the most beautiful vows you’ve ever heard? I still remember when she was just a baby, and now she’s married."

You mother smiles at you and Joel, then at your father.

"Found the booze already, did you, Miller? Bad influence on my little girl," he just says, laughing and looking younger in the sun. Joel clears his throat, and smiles, but it’s forced.

"Well, anyway, we’d better find grandma," your mother tells you, and off they go. Joel exhales and looks at you. You know the comment about being a bad influence on you threw him off, but you smile at him.

"Get me drunk, then," you say softly, and despite it all, Joel smiles back.

***

In the heat, it doesn’t take long for you to become tipsy at the very least, you really shouldn’t drink gin to get rid of your thirst, but it tastes so good, and Joel watches you so intently. You’re sitting at one of the tables, listening to the music blaring from the speakers, your foot conveniently brushing Joel’s leg every time you move it to the beat of the song.

"We’re gonna dance," Joel says when you’re done with your first drink, and you snort.

"Right," you answer, "we’re gonna dance."

Joel doesn’t break the eye contact, just raises one eyebrow.

"Wasn’t the whole point of going to this thing together not having to dance?"

"It was before you enjoyed the music so much," Joel answers, and you stop moving your foot.

"I don’t dance," you say, frowning now, "and neither do you."

Joel takes a long sip from his own drink, emptying the glass. You watch his throat as he swallows, then sighs and looks at you thoughtfully for a few moments.

"I want you to dance," he says quietly, his gravely voice soft all of a sudden, "with me."

Something in your stomach comes alive – it’s one thing, sitting next to him when he points to a dish on his menu, but his eyes on yours as he practically orders you to dance make you feel all fluttery and hot.

"Okay."

"Good," Joel says softly, and you swallow, try hard not to let it show on your face how much your stomach jolts at his words.

The song is some romantic ballad you remember listening to as a teenager, and you can’t imagine Joel dancing at all, least of all to a song like this, but he gets up and holds out one hand. There are more people on the dance floor, swaying to the music, laughing, some kissing. The idea that Joel and you would join them is so absurd, you almost giggle, but Joel wants you to dance – so you’ll dance. You’re dimly aware he isn’t doing this for himself, but because he noticed your foot, but you pretend not to have made that connection.

His hands find your waist and you wrap yours around his neck a little awkwardly, and he sways you to the music. You’re surprised to find he moves with a certain grace you never would have thought possible, but you give a little sigh of relief when the song changes into something faster and upbeat. Joel notices, and chuckles.

"Havin’ fun?"

You suddenly are, and you didn’t expect that at all. There’s more people joining you now, as you sway your hips and grin up at Joel.

"Yeah," you say over the music and laughter, "think you should get me drunk more often, Miller."

Joel laughs, and gently guides you to your right to let a couple you have never seen before pass. You move easily under Joel’s hands, the insecurity about being seen dancing wiped from your mind by the fact that Joel told you to.

Joel’s forehead is slightly damp by the time the fourth song ends and your feet are starting to hurt in the shoes you’re wearing, so you wrap your arms around his neck again, and pull him towards you.

"I want another drink," you tell him, your mouth close to his ear, and he flinches slightly.

"No need to yell, sweetheart," he says, but turns towards the bar anyway. He takes your hand to pull you through the crowd, and your stomach does a sort of somersault. Joel Miller, holding your hand. Before you can think better of it, before you can worry about your parents seeing you, or Joel becoming angry or distant, you intertwine your fingers with his, and hold on tight. Joel turns his head to look back at you, but he doesn’t let go of your hand. He doesn’t say anything either, not while there’s so many people so close, but he squeezes, just once. Your knees become slightly weak, and your cheeks start to heat up, but the gin was strong enough for you to stop caring about your nervousness.

When you’re at the bar, you grin at the barkeeper, hand still in Joel’s, slightly dizzy from the drink and the heat and all the spinning and swaying.

"One sex on the beach, please," you say, then look directly at Joel with a mischievous smile.

"Jesus," he mutters, then turns to the barkeeper. "She’ll have a beer. Bud. One for me too, please."

"No, she’ll have sex on the beach."

You giggle at your obvious innuendo, and the barkeeper smiles. Joel shakes his head.

"Look, I don’t want her throwin’ up all over her dress, she’ll murder me in the mornin’ if I let that happen."

"Beer it is, then," the bar keeper says with a good natured wink at you. You frown at him.

"I’m an adult and I ordered a–"

Joel squeezes your hand again, and you look at him with a slight pout – his eyes are slightly amused, but there’s a stern expression on his face.

"Okay," you say, "okay okay okay, Miller. Whatever you want."

His eyes stay on yours a second too long, then he lets go of your hand and hands you one of the sweating, ice-cold bottles. You take it, put it to your lips and take a swig, all while looking directly into Joel’s eyes. The way you press your lips against the rim of the bottle is a little too calculated, a little too sensual, and Joel watches your movement with a tense expression on his face.

"Christ, kid, I’m gettin’ you water next," he mumbles, watches you swallow, then smile up sweetly at him.

"Whatever you want," you say again. Joel doesn’t answer.

***

The two of you drink your beers at the end of row of tables, and you’re glad for the moment of quiet – the music isn’t as loud here, and the beer is so cold, you get goosebumps. Neither of you is talking much, but it’s a comfortable sort of silence – as always when you’re with Joel, you’re at ease.

"– why they let her bring him, I really don’t."

Two of your great aunts are sitting at a table close by, completely oblivious to your presence.

"Yes, he’s old enough to be her Daddy."

"And so gruff looking!"

Joel looks away, but you’re sure he must have heard – there is nobody else at this wedding they could be talking about. His expression is unreadable, but his knuckles are white around his beer bottle, and you’re half afraid he’s going to shatter it.

"I don’t understand why she’s interested in him," you aunt continues, "but I was just waiting for her to do something like this, you know. She always was so sensitive, no wonder she has to compensate somehow."

You swallow, your cheeks heating up with embarrassment.

"Come on," Joel suddenly says, a deep frown on his face, and he gets up. You follow him, you don’t want to hear the rest of what your family has to say about you behind your back.

"Excuse me," Joel asks politely, when you pass the two elderly ladies. They scooch, so you can squeeze past them, neither of them saying anything. You don’t look at them, but take Joel’s hand in yours again.

"I’m sorry," you say, when you’re at a safe distance from them, no risk of being overheard, "I’m sorry for what they said about you, Joel–"

"No," he shakes his head. "They ain’t wrong about me. Are about you, though."

His face looks so kind, so sorry for you, you feel like crying. You won’t though, not when you’re on what is practically a date with Joel Miller. You won’t let them ruin this night.

"I wanna dance," you say instead, and finish the last of your beer, before putting it on a table close by. "I wanna dance with you, Joel Miller."

He doesn’t argue, lets you drag him onto the dance floor again, and this time you stand close to him, closer than you should, this time you bury your fingers at the back of his neck in his hair. Joel looks hesitant, his hands on your waist tentative.

"Sweetheart," he starts in an apologetic tone, and you know what’s coming – they were right, your parents are here, you’re drunk, this is reckless. You squeeze closer, until you’re all pressed up against him, your heart hammering right against Joel’s chest. You really are tipsy now, but you don’t care. You lean up, trying to reach Joel’s mouth with yours, but he holds you steady at your waist.

"No," he says softly, "you’re doin’ it to piss of your family."

He’s not entirely wrong, so you let up, but you stay close to him, and after a couple of minutes, his thumb starts drawing circles on your skin, the way he did all throughout the weekend to soothe you, even before you kissed him and turned this into…whatever it is now.

"Let’s do shots after this," you say with a smile, "lets vomit all over their ugly fucking clothes. They want me to fuck up this party so bad, I’ll fuck it up. Gotta compensate somehow."

"I think you’ve had enough, kid," Joel says, his voice just slightly concerned. "You’ll have a headache tomorrow."

"Oh, you’ll pace me," you answer, "given that you’re old enough to be my Daddy."

Joel’s thumb stops moving on your hip, and you smile up at him, which only makes his frown deepen. There’s something else there, too, something you recognize from when you kissed him, from when he saw you in your dress, from when you told him about your family for the first time. 

"I wanna kiss you," you admit, "again."

The word tastes delicious in your mouth, your reminder that you have before, that Joel didn’t stop you, that he kissed you back.

"You won’t," Joel answers sternly, and you don’t even think about arguing with him, not when he’s using that tone. The same tone he used to tell you which dress to get.

"Okay," you say softly.

***

Joel does pace you – he doesn’t let you do shots, instead he gets you water, tells you to drink it all, and once again you chug it while looking directly at him, then smile sweetly and watch him shake his head in a mix of exasperation and amusement. After a while you tell Joel you need the bathroom, and when he leads you there you wonder briefly if he thinks you’re too drunk to find it on your own, or if he hates the idea of being alone at this party as much as you do. You’ve sobered up throughout the night, all that water Joel practically poured down your throat seems to have worked.

There is a line in front of the bathroom, and you wait with your grandmother and Joel – an awkward constellation, the silence is thick enough to cut.

"Your dress is awfully low cut, honey," she says after a while, and your eyes meet Joel’s just briefly – told you so. "You’re such a pretty girl, but that just gives the wrong impression."

"And what impression would that be?" you ask, but you don’t want to fight. Their age allows your family to say whatever they want to say, even if it’s not candor, but unprovoked opinions you tell yourself don’t matter anymore.

"I picked that dress," Joel says after a moment, and your grandmother nods.

"Of course men would like it," she says wisely, "but as a woman you have to be above that sort of thing."

You sigh, and Joel puts a gentle hand on your shoulder.

"I like this dress, grandma. It’s not 1850, Joel won’t fall into fits of lust if he sees my ankle."

"He can see a bit more than that, honey."

You make a gesture between a shrug and throwing up your hands, as if to say, well, I tried.

"He’s gonna have to take it off, then, if it’s that awful," you mumble so quietly your grandmother can’t hear, but Joel does. He looks at you with an unreadable expression on his face, and your cheeks go slightly red – you didn’t mean for it to come out the way it did, didn’t mean for it to sound so straightforward.

"Stop harassing her, Mom, this is how kids dress these days," a voice behind you says, and suddenly your mother is right next to you, your father not far behind. Although her words are intended to help you, they sting – that’s all your choices are to them, a product of your youth and the times you live in. God forbid you, an adult, wear a dress because you think you look pretty, it must be because it’s what everyone your age would wear.

Joel’s hand leaves your shoulder, and for a second you’re afraid your parents heard what you said about Joel taking off your dress, but they proceed to talk about the wedding, laughing and joking. You clench your fists, digging the sharp edges of your nails into your palms as hard as you can. It feels like being 12 all over again, their comments that aren’t necessarily ill-intended or mean, so you can’t really be mad about them, the way they don’t even notice they upset you.

You feel a very soft touch on your arm, barely there, just a brush of a finger from just above your elbow, down to your fist. Then it’s gone again, and although you don’t dare look at Joel after he touched your bare skin in front of your parents, you will your muscles to relax, knowing it’s what Joel meant to tell you with his touch. Your fingers unclench, and you feel distantly relieved at the absence of pain in your palms.

You know how reckless it is to be so into Joel, you know nothing good can come of it, but you don’t remember the last time you spent this much time with your whole family and felt so seen by someone at the event. For a second you envision kissing him here, on the dance floor, in front of your parents, and you know for once it would be a choice you wouldn’t question or be made to feel ashamed of.

You tried to, just hours before, and Joel stopped you, because you did it to piss of your family. He was right, in that moment you wanted to give them something worth criticizing, if they must criticize all of the time. But this time it’s different – you want to kiss Joel because he doesn’t think you’re a narcissist, because he sees your anger disguised by politeness and doesn’t think it’s ugly.

You turn to him, steadfast in your decision.

"I’m really tired," you say quietly, "we could just go upstairs, I can use the bathroom there."

Joel studies your face for a second, then nods.

"Alright," he agrees, and you turn around to your parents with a newfound confidence.

"I’m gonna use our bathroom upstairs," you tell them, "we’re going to bed anyways."

"Of course, honey, you go to bed," your mother answers and gives you a quick hug, "but Joel, why don’t you stay? You’re not her chaperone."

It’s a joke, you know it is, but it almost makes your blood boil. After your mother asked you to spend some time with Joel as a favor, after you’ve had to deal with judgmental stares and comments all night, after both you and Joel were insulted by your own family behind your backs, they still have the nerve to talk over you, disregard what you said, pretend you’re a child in need of supervision. You open your mouth, surprised by how ready you are to give them a piece of your mind, but Joel’s fingers brush your waist, squeezing gently, and he smiles at your mother.

"I ain’t the kinda man to stay at a party if my date’s leavin’," he says, and although it’s not particularly rude, there is an edge to his voice, a certain tone that suggests he’s sticking to you out of a kind of loyalty they weren’t aware of, and that he is unhappy with what your mother said. You watch your parents, see your father’s eyes flicker down to Joel’s hand on your waist, and although his expression is unreadable, and he doesn’t say anything, you feel triumphant. There you go, you want to say, someone here is willing to take me seriously.

"Good night, Dad," you say, give him a hug, too, and suppress a smile, when Joel’s hand returns to your side as soon as you step over to him. He smiles down at you, and shrugs out of his suit jacket.

"’S probably cold out, put this on."

You do, all too aware of your parents looking at you, all too aware that for some reason Joel doesn’t seem afraid of them noticing your closeness anymore. You thank him, and he says good night to your parents, ever friendly, but decidedly choosing you. His scent envelops you when you walk away together, the warmth of his body still stored in the fabric of his jacket now warming you.

***

You inhale deeply, push the air from your lungs into your mouth to puff up your cheeks, and sit down on the bed. Your feet hurt from spending all night in your fancy shoes, and your mind won’t stop running circles around the comments your family made. You wiggle your toes, watch them move under the fabric of your tights, then look up at Joel again.

"You look worried," he comments, reaching up to his throat to pop open the first two buttons of his shirt. You can’t help but stare at the skin that it reveals, slightly shiny with sweat.

"That was…a lot."

Joel hums, and slips out of his shoes, too.

"I think you did well."

A glowing feeling builds in your chest, and you can’t help but smile, looking at your fingernails.

"Didn’t throw any drinks into anyone’s faces, so I guess it’s a successful night."

Joel chuckles, the sound a deep rumble in his chest. He sits down on the foot of the bed, still watching you, looking excruciatingly handsome in his button down and slacks.

"That, too, but more so…you didn’t let them talk down to you. Didn’t just agree with your granny, you know? Stood your ground. ’M real prouda you."

There it is again, the pull in your stomach whenever Joel seems to really see you, and before you can think about it, you move over to Joel, until you’re sitting right in front of him, his broad body turned towards you, you kneeling on the white sheets. Joel’s eyes move over your face, down to your dress, your legs in those itchy tights you can’t wait to get out of.

"Did it help?" His voice is soft. "Me tellin’ you what to do?"

You nod, unsure of where this is going, nervous and so content at the same time. This is Joel, the same Joel who held you at the beach and ordered for you, who picked out your dress. He’ll know what to do, he’ll know what’s best.

"I don’t want you to stop," you admit, eyes wide and staring into Joel’s, "when we get back home. I wish we could just…"

You don’t know how to finish that sentence, aware that what you truly wish for isn’t in the cards for you and him, not while he’s your parents’ friend first. Joel sighs, but doesn’t answer. No me too, no we can’t, not even a nod or head shake. A man of few words, Joel Miller.

"You got my number," he says after a few beats, "can…ask for my help, y’know, when you’re pickin’ out headbands."

Without you being aware of it, your face splits into a smile, and you feel tears prick at your eyes. The kindness Joel offers even the sickest parts of you is unmatched, and you’re unsure what to do with it.

"Hey now," he says and puts a soothing hand on your shoulder, "don’t cry, sweetheart. Don’t cry."

You stop, because Joel told you to, your body by now accustomed to answering his command. With a shaky inhale, you calm yourself, and swallow.

"Sorry," you mutter, but Joel shakes his head.

"What’s got you hurtin’?"

The question is so blunt, so heartfelt.

"Nobody else…gets this," you explain, "it’s lonely."

Joel hums, and his fingers start moving on your shoulder, stroking your skin gently, soothingly.

"Don’t have to be anymore, kid. My door’s always open."

He’s close to you, and when you meet his eyes, there is static in the air between you. Something changed, between telling him about your family and him lending you his jacket, something shifted. It’s palpable, real electricity.

"Tell me what you need," Joel says quietly into the silence, because he can feel those unspoken things, because he knows there is something you need in the first place. It’s easy to tell him this time, without embarrassment or shame.

"I need you to tell me what to do," you whisper, scooching closer to him, his hand still lingering on your shoulder. You watch him swallow, aware that with any other man seeing how your words affect him would gross you out, but with Joel it just makes that pull in your stomach stronger. Joel doesn’t answer for a long while as he’s staring into your open, waiting eyes.

"Lie back," he orders quietly, voice gravelly and low. You feel a pang of want in your stomach so intense it’s almost painful, and your mouth goes dry. Joel watches you move, shuffle out of his suit jacket until you’re just in your dress and stockings, then lie back on the pillow, eyes still on him. You’re quiet, waiting for his next instruction, your mind blissfully empty.

"Good," Joel praises you, and your eyes flutter just briefly, giving away how much this is affecting you. Joel chuckles, and gets up from the bed, turning to face you fully, looking broad and handsome and very safe.

"You enjoy that, huh?"

There’s no condescension in his voice, just acknowledgement and warmth. You nod, and Joel smiles.

"Take off your tights."

You do, letting them drop onto the floor next to the bed, Joel still standing in front of you with his hands on his hips. He looks casual, relaxed, not at all like he’s watching his friend’s daughter undress herself because he asked her to. He moves over to you, and puts one broad palm on your bare leg, his fingers slipping under the hem just slightly.

"This will have consequences," he tells you seriously, "you aware of that?"

It’s the adult, responsible thing to have a conversation about what’s happening between you too, but you wish he would just get on with it.

"I am," you answer a little breathlessly, as Joel’s thumb is drawing circles on your skin and driving you crazy.

"You ready to face them?"

The question is laden with all you shared with him before: are you ready to do the thing your family would disapprove of the most, head high and without giving into their judgement? Two months ago, you wouldn’t have been. The idea of their disappointment would have swallowed you, the look on your father’s face as he noticed Joel’s hand on your waist paralyzed you. But it’s almost like a flip switched inside of you through Joel’s consistent understanding, and suddenly your grandmother’s outrage seems almost funny to you. You want this. And you’re ready to stand in for what you want, without shame.

"Yes," you breathe, "I really am, Joel."

You can see on his face he believes you, the way his crowfeet grow more pronounced with something like pride, and pleasure flushes your whole body, seeing how much your answer pleases Joel.

"Come a long way, sweetheart," he says, his hand moving upwards just slightly, pushing the hem of your dress up. You keep yourself from trembling under his touch, hanging onto the last bit of dignity and restraint you have left.

"’M real prouda you," he says again, the muscles in your stomach flexing at his words. "Now why don’t you tell me what you want me to do to ya?"

You’re no good at that. What you want is to take whatever Joel gives you, to follow his every command and let your mind go quiet in the process. But he’s commanding you to think about what you want yourself, so you dig your front teeth into your bottom lip and furrow your eyebrows just slightly.

"I…um…"

Joel waits, his hand patient and gentle on your leg.

"Remember I told you not to feel guilty?"

It’s not guilt, per se, but something distinctly feminine, something taught and learned over years. Just lie back and take it, the first time always hurts, women don’t finish as often as men do. You haven’t thought of sex as something meant to firstly fulfill your desire, as irrational as it sounds. It was a means to satisfying a partner, your own pleasure a nice side effect. Joel is telling you to leave that in the past, to really think about what you want and tell him without shame.

"I want you inside," you whisper, eyes wide and heart hammering against your ribcage with anticipation and the thrill of giving into your need. "And I…I like it when you talk to me."

At those words, Joel’s eyes seem to grow dark, you watch his pupils dilate in real time, and his fingers dig into the meat of your calf.

"Attagirl," he mumbles, and the heat in your stomach peaks. Joel stares at you for a moment. "Turn onto your belly, sweetheart."

You do so without hesitation, without wondering what he’s going to do, and let your cheek sink into the pillow that smells so much like Joel, your calf still enveloped by his massive palm. Joel hums, and then his touch is gone, only to reappear on your back, his hands teasing the satiny, light blue fabric he picked for you to wear. He runs his fingers from the small of your back up to the nape of your neck, and you can’t help but shudder when he grazes your bare skin.

"Let’s get this pretty dress off of ya, hm?"

He pops open the two tiny buttons at the very top, smoothes down the zipper to reveal your bare back. You’re about to be naked in front of a very much dressed Joel Miller, and the thought is exhilarating more than frightening.

"Looked so goddamn beautiful all night," Joel mutters, "wearin’ the clothes I picked. Jesus, you’ve no idea what that does to a man."

You can’t help the whine that escapes your mouth, when Joel’s hands dig into your muscles, kneading them softly and turning your body into liquid.

"So tense, baby, gotta relax f’me."

 "I’m trying," you answer softly, and Joel chuckles.

"Know you are, know you are. Doin’ so good."

You close your eyes and let Joel touch you how he pleases, your brain quieter than you can remember it being with a man before him. There’s no fear of what he’ll do if your attention slips, no worry about putting on the right act for him either. Just Joel, his warm hands on your back, and your sore and needy body.

Joel helps you turn around and out of the dress since it doesn’t unzip entirely, moves your arms and legs how he wants so it’s off within a few moments, and you’re lying there on your back in front of him, wearing nothing but your nicest pair of panties and a soft bra to match them.

"Fuckin’ hell," Joel mutters more to himself than to you, eyes raking over your body. You remember the instinct to feel ashamed at his scrutiny, vaguely register you should cover yourself up, but the pride and pleasure triumph. He sees you, and he likes what he sees, in more ways than one. So you shimmy your hips into a sexier position, trail your fingers up your stomach and watch Joel’s eyes follow them. You squirm with need when you notice a very visible tent in Joel’s slacks.

"Alright?" he asks, voice kind and patient, like it would be okay if you weren’t.

You nod, slightly overwhelmed and Joel’s brows furrow just slightly.

"Use your words," he says softly, making your stomach flip.

"I’m alright," you answer softly, your eyes on his. Joel drags his fingertips over your stomach, following your own hand and building the tension and anticipation. You try hard not to visibly clench your thighs together.

"You gonna do as I say?"

He knows the answer. You know he does.

"Yes," you breathe, the feeling of his fingertips trailing over your ribcage bordering on overwhelming. He hums.

"I want you to tell me if it’s too much," he says, voice thoughtful, "will you do that for me?"

"Yes," you say again, your own hand absentmindedly coming up to wrap around his tan forearm, eyes glued to his rolled up sleeve, that silver watch Sarah gave him catching the light with every movement. Joel’s eyes follow yours, and you wonder if he registers how big his palm looks on your skin. If he wanted to, he could touch your bra with his thumb and your panties with his pinkie. The thought makes you squirm.

"I want you to touch yourself," Joel says softly, fingers dipping only just under the waistband of your panties, and you will your hips to stay put, even though you’re one command away from humping his hand like a dog in heat. You flush at his words, the idea of it so lewd and obscene, so intimate. It’s one thing to let him fuck you, to offer him some sort of utility, but to have him watch you get off yourself – it’s everything sex isn’t, not with the people you were with before.

"I…I don’t…"

Your voice trails off, and Joel watches you for a few moments, your pink cheeks, heavy eyelids, the goosebumps on your skin.

"You don’t gotta do anythin’ you don’t want to," he says, voice soft, "but if you do want to, and it’s just your pretty little head tellin’ you not to, I want you to think twice about sayin’ no."

You listen to him, and think about the feeling in your gut. You’re nervous about letting him see something so private, but not because you don’t want him to see, but because he does. He wants to see your pleasure, and so far it’s something you pushed down for other people, not just during sex. It’s easy to give into him when you realize this, and you feel something crack open inside of you, something primal and unashamed.

"Okay," you answer, voice still a little timid, but with a newfound conviction. "Anything you want."

Joel smiles at your words, but you’re aware he’s telling you to do this for your sake more than his. He wants you to feel good about feeling good.

Before you can move your hand to obey, Joel moves closer, leans down and presses his hand right next to your face, his face close to yours. You can feel the heat of his breath on your lips and shudder.

"Good girl," he says softly and presses his lips to yours. You kiss back willingly, eagerly, but he breaks the kiss all too soon, and finally sits down on the bed next to you, facing your half naked body.

"Go ahead, pretty girl," he mutters, "show me what you do when I ain’t around."

You flush, but do as he says, dragging your fingers down to your panties and slipping them in.

"You leave those on when you touch yourself?" Joel asks with a nod towards your underwear, and you shrug and shake your head at the same time. He chuckles.

"Take ’em off, then."

You swallow, and slowly drag them down. A string of your wetness connects the fabric and your pulsing core, and you flush a deeper red, the sight obscene.

"Christ," Joel mumbles, "all that from some pettin’ and a kiss."

"It’s from what you...from hearing you talk," you admit timidly, sitting up slightly to slip off your panties completely. You look at Joel and his dark eyes are glued to your wetness, but when he notices how nervous you are, he strokes your cheek with his knuckle just once.

"Look so pretty," he tells you, "just how I imagined."

That makes your brain short circuit and your eyes flutter closed at the image of Joel imagining you naked, of him wanting you as badly as you want him.

"Keep those eyes on me, sweetheart," Joel orders, and you open them again, the tension somehow doubling as soon as your eyes meet.

"I’ve never done this in front of someone," you admit, your hand awkwardly hovering over your stomach.

"Tell you what, you touch yourself for just three minutes, and then I’ll take over."

It’s absurd. It should not be sexy to have him time you touching yourself as if you’re running a race, but something about it makes you squirm and clench around nothing. When Joel looks at his watch, you almost moan, and tentatively press your middle finger against your aching clit.

"There we go," Joel mumbles, watching your hand move, "doin’ good, sweetheart."

You want to close your eyes, but Joel told you to look at him, so you watch him watch you touch yourself, his gaze flickering to his watch every once in a while. You don’t slip any fingers inside, just tease your clit, but Joel doesn’t seem to mind, and after exactly three minutes, he leans down to reward you with a kiss.

"All done, baby."

You’re lightheaded with want, the embarrassment not quite gone, but distant. When Joel props himself up onto one elbow, his other hand finding your stomach again, you sigh. He’s looking right into your eyes, when he drags his hand lower and lower, until his fingers find the place you just touched yourself, so much bigger than yours. He presses down lightly, teasingly, watching you bite your bottom lip and arch into his touch.

"Hips stay on the bed," he says softly, just to watch you obey, pressing a kiss to your temple. He starts rubbing slow circles, unhurried and practiced, and already you feel the pleasure building and building inside of you. You whine softly, craning your neck for a kiss, and he obliges, his beard scratching your skin and mouth swallowing your sounds. You try hard not to twitch under his touch, which is both so intense and torturously slow.

When the muscles in your stomach start clenching with your impending release, you can’t help yourself and press into his hand, chasing the pleasure, but Joel presses your hips into the mattress with the heel of his palm, never stopping the movement of his fingers. You’re close, so close you feel your jaw slacken against Joel, sigh into his mouth – and suddenly his touch is gone. Instead, his hand starts rubbing your side soothingly, your promise of release fading again.

"Joel," you whine, "what the fuck."

"Language," Joel scolds with a chuckle and kisses the corner of your mouth. "Patience is a virtue."

You nip at his lower lip, not harsh enough to hurt him, just so he registers your discontent, and Joel laughs a quiet laugh right into your mouth. Despite his amusement, his fingers return to your core, gathering wetness and rubbing once again. A whimper escapes your mouth when he finally prods your entrance teasingly, without real pressure, just to make you want it.

"You gonna lie still?"

"Y-yes," you sigh, "yes, I promise."

Joel hums, and pushes in just slightly, just so that his fingernail is barely inside of you.

"Gonna bite me again?"

"No," you answer, "no, Joel."

He pushes his finger inside of you, curling it upwards instantly, and you mewl.

"That’s alright, sweetheart," he mumbles, "I can handle your bitin’. Know it’s frustratin’."

But he makes no attempt to stop his teasing, sliding his finger in and out of you slowly, and curling it just enough to make the pressure inside of you keep building without intending to let it snap. Absentmindedly you move with him, and Joel stills his fingers. You whine, but stop moving, and he presses down on that spot inside of you again.

"Attagirl," he mutters, pressing a kiss to your jaw.

You’re close again embarrassingly soon, and even though you try not to let it show to trick Joel into letting you finish, he notices the way you flutter around him, and stills his hand once again, letting your orgasm drift away.

"Fuck," you whine, frustrated and so turned on you think you might get there if he so much as blew on your swollen clit.

"Shhh," Joel soothes you, adding another finger, the stretch delicious. He gazes into your open eyes, watches you as he makes you feel so good you could cry.

"Easy," he says, when he feels your stomach tense up with effort – whether to come or not to come, you aren’t sure anymore. "Easy, baby. Relax for me."

You close your eyes and this time Joel doesn’t object, as your whole body goes limp and accepts Joel’s power over it.

"Good," Joel mutters, "that’s real good. You come when I tell you to."

And suddenly you don’t fight it anymore, don’t try to race him there, just lie there with Joel’s thick fingers pumping in and out of you almost lazily, pleasure coming and going as Joel chooses, making your brain go all fuzzy.

"Sweet girl," Joel mutters, "just had to give in, huh?"

You don’t bother to answer, just open your mouth for him when he kisses you.

"Think you’re ready for my cock?"

You almost, almost come. He slips his fingers out of you completely when he notices, and your hips chase his hand, but the feeling is gone again, although it was close enough to taste. Joel chuckles, and it’s just a tiny bit mean, but it makes you even wetter.

"Think you are, huh?"

"Yes," you say, and run your hand up his massive arm, "please."

"So polite," Joel mumbles with a smile, but he finally moves to unbutton his shirt and you watch him through heavy eyes. He smiles down at you, no trace of embarrassment as he’s revealing more and more of his skin dusted in age spots and brown hair. He’s strong, soft in all the right places, and you want to worship his belly with your mouth.

"You look…so sexy."

Joel laughs, and shakes his head, deflecting the compliment but looking a little smug, a little proud, as he lets his shirt drop onto the floor and moves to open his pants. You sit up, and reach for his hands, looking up at him questioningly.

"Go right ahead, sweetheart," Joel says, and you pop open the button and slide down the zipper, eyes glued to his bulge. He gets up to slip out of his slacks, the outline of his cock even more pronounced in his boxer shorts. He looks big. You swallow.

"Don’t you worry," Joel mumbles when he notices, and slides down his boxers, too. "We’ll make it fit."

His cock is hard and an angry red, long and thick and slightly curved, and he hasn’t shaved. With anyone else, you would have preferred it if he had, but the graying hair at the base of his cock makes you lightheaded with lust. He looks so manly, in the primal, safe sense of the word.

His fist wraps around himself as he’s climbing on top of you, pumping once, twice, a little groan of pleasure escaping his lips and you reach down to bat his hand away, to return some of the pleasure he has been giving you. He lets you, even though your hand covers much less of his length, and pushes into your hand as you drag it over him.

"Hips stay on the mattress," you tease softly, and Joel laughs, his eyes all crinkly and warm.

"One more comment like that ’n I’ll force you to the edge five more times, sweetheart," he threatens, but the amusement is evident in his voice. Still, it makes you clench and flutter to know he could, to know you’d let him. Joel takes your wrist in his hand gently, and pulls your hand away from his cock, then aligns it with your entrance.

"Breathe in," he says softly, looking right into your eyes, and you do, staring at him unblinkingly and holding the air in your lungs.

"And breathe out."

As the air rushes out of you and you relax, he starts pushing into you. The stretch is painful in the very beginning, but you sigh in relief when the head of his cock is inside and Joel gives you a moment to breathe.

"Look at you," he mutters, nudging your nose with his, "takin’ it like a champ."

You wiggle your hips and Joel keeps pushing into you, the stretch making your eyes fall closed again. It feels like your body is making room for him in a way you didn’t think possible, like your insides are parting for Joel Miller’s cock. He groans, and with a snap of his hips he’s inside of you entirely, his wiry hairs pressing into your mound. The head of his cock is nudging that spot inside of you, pressing against it insistently even though Joel isn’t moving. You mouth at his neck, tongue darting out to taste his sweat and suck on his skin in an almost soothing manner, as your body adjusts and relaxes.

Joel starts moving in and out of you after a few moments, changing angles with every thrust, until a whine escapes your throat. He keeps fucking into you like that, pressing against your spot with every thrust, eyes staring down into yours.

"That it?"

You mewl, when he gives a particularly sharp thrust and Joel chuckles.

"Yeah, that’s it," he coos.

His hands start moving over your skin as you claw at his back and biceps, teasing your sides and ghosting over your nipples still covered by the fabric of your bra. He forces his hands under your body and unclasps it with ease, then pulls it away from your body and drops it. His eyes flicker down and he puts a large palm over your tits, groping and squeezing, then pinching the nipple just short of painful. 

"Perfect fuckin’ tits," he mumbles, rolling the pebbled nub between his thumb and forefinger, making you arch your chest and moan freely. Again, the pleasure starts building, and you think Joel might be distracted by his own this time. More than anything you want to please him, though, so instead of chasing your release, you clench around him and focus on not letting go yet.

"Close," you groan, your body rocking with Joel’s deep thrusts, and he stills inside of you, letting you breathe into his mouth.

"Good girl," he mumbles and kisses your lower lip, "so good for me."

Just those few words would be worth not coming at all, you think, though Joel starts moving again when he’s sure it won’t make you come. His hand moves from your tit up to your throat, wrapping around it loosely. You feel so small under his massive palm, your windpipe and major arteries and spine all fitting into his hand like you’re a blade of grass. He squeezes softly, just enough to cut off the blood flow for a second or two, then relaxes his hand again. Your eyes roll upwards, and you bite your lip.

"Yeah?" he asks, waiting for your permission, and you nod.

"Yeah," you sigh, and your eyes widen when he squeezes again, all the while thrusting in and out of you. This time he squeezes for a couple of seconds more, and although it takes a little more effort, air still rushes into your lungs. When he releases your throat and the blood floods your brain, you moan, and feel Joel’s thrusts go slightly more erratic in response.

"Look at you," he mumbles, pressing his hips into yours, his whole weight on top of you. You whine and feel his hand close around your throat once more. This time his grip is unrelenting and stronger, and there is no oxygen rushing into your lungs, just stillness and quiet. You feel yourself go slightly dizzy, watch Joel’s warm eyes glued to your face, and feel your mind go entirely quiet.

"That’s it," Joel praises, "you breathe when I say you breathe."

You’ve never been closer than now, hearing those words, and when Joel releases you to let you suck in air desperately, you almost, almost come. But once again, he stops moving, lets you teeter on the edge and pull back, your brain fuzzy and overwhelmed with the sudden rush of blood and oxygen.

"What do we say?"

You groan into his mouth.

"Thank you."

"Good girl."

Joel’s thrusts start getting sharper, even deeper, and you know it can’t be long now. He keeps squeezing and releasing your throat, keeping you deprived of oxygen and letting it flood your brain again with the smallest movement of his hand.

"Need me to decide that, too?" he asks breathily, his voice rough and slightly broken, "need me to pick out that dress ’n tell you what to eat? Even when to breathe?"

You nod under his hand because he’s once again tightening his grip around you, rendering you incapable of speaking, and you clench around him. He feels it, thrusts harder.

"Yeah," he mutters, "don’t gotta worry about anythin’. I got you, babygirl. I’ll decide."

Your stomach cramps up with the effort of holding off your orgasm until Joel gives you permission, and when he finally lets you breathe again, he brushes the shell of your ear with his lips.

"Come for me, sweetheart."

It feels like your earth shatters, your vision going white, or maybe your brain just can’t register what it’s seeing, as you pulse around Joel, and shake under his broad body, your stomach exploding with pleasure. He fucks you through it, his thrusts so unwaveringly deep he presses into your clit every time. You shudder and whine, suck in air, come completely apart in Joel’s capable hands, and vaguely register him forcing his cock as deep as it will go, and then pumping you full of his hot spend, holding it there as he fills you up.

His thrusts slow after a while, then he slips out of you, and kisses you gently, softly, his fingers stroking your neck soothingly. You’re pliant and fucked out, entirely boneless.

"My sweet girl," Joel mumbles against your lips, "that what you needed?"

You nod, your eyes and limbs heavy as he brushes your cheeks and nose with his lips. He lies down next to you, muscles completely relaxed, and pulls you close against him. You can feel the mess you both made between you legs and distantly think you should clean yourself up, but you’re too tired, too satisfied, too blissfully happy. Your limbs are heavy, and your mind still when you kiss Joel’s chest, his hair tickling your face softly. He hums contentedly, a deep rumble in his chest.

"’M gonna fall asleep," you mumble against Joel, and he strokes your back in response, his arm draped over your side.

"That’s okay, sweetheart," he mutters, and you feel him kiss the top of your head. "Okay if I clean you up?"

You hum in agreement, yawn, and try to scooch even closer to his sweaty body, press yourself against him as if you will fuse with him if you just try hard enough. Joel’s arms around you tighten and you give into your blissful exhaustion.

Behind you, another car pulls in. Sporty and sleek. You turn off the Bentley and double check the interior. Your father will give you hell if you leave one hair inside. Even letting you take one of his three cars was enough to bristle him.

You get out and go around the passenger's side to get the large container of gourmet salad. It's from the overprice steakhouse where your dad goes to drink with his work buddies. He insisted on it but made no effort to do it. You volunteered, hoping he might offer a crumb of approval. He only told you not to spill it.

You balance the container as your satchel dangles awkwardly against your hip. You use your shoulder to close the door. As you door, a figure startles you, nearly knocking the salad from your hands. A large pair cover yours as you dip to save the prized side.

"Huh, Toree's? Must be for Chuck." The man comments. You don't recognise him though he doesn't act as stranger. He keeps his hands on yours. And Chuck? No. Everyone calls your dad Charles. Except you. You call him sir. "Told him, they got better steak at Chop."

"Um..." your eyes round.

You never know what to say to your father's friends. They're all older and more important and more responsible. He doesn't look as old as the rest but you can tell he's got some years on you. Everyone does.

"Here, I'll get it. Looks like you got enough going on."

"Oh, that's...." your voice trails off as he wiggles the container free. "Thanks."

He leans in, angling his ear to you. "What's that, sweetheart?"

"Um," you murmur then clear your throat. You speak louder, enunciating carefully. "Thank you."

He smirks, "you seem like you know the way around. Wanna show me where I'm going?"

You bite your lip then stop as his bright blue eyes follow the nervous gesture. You nod and point down the drive. He doesn't move. You turn and walk along the row of cars. You hook around the hedges and toward the iron gate. It's open, the archway marked with your father's initials.

"Nice place, huh?" The man clucks. "Chuck always goes all out."

You don't have a response so you just shrug. No one notices you as you enter. They do, however, notice your unexpected escort.

"Fowler? That really you?" Jethro, your father's especially liquor-happy friend greets the man with a shoulder slap. You stay back, happy not to be seen by him. He's still trying to get you to call him Uncle.

"Well, you know, I think they're running out of things for me to do," the man, Fowler snickers.

He keeps on and you trail after him. You shrink down as several others call out to him and he stops to exchange niceties. He makes it seem so easy but it must be when they don't talk down to you.

"There you are," your dad's timbre makes you trip. You look at him in a panic.

Fowler turns and struts toward the deck where you dad stands next to the grill, your brother, Austin, clapping the tongs as he lifts the lid next to him. You stay on the man's heels, readying yourself for a chew out.

"Nick," your dad extends his hand.

The man in front of you puts the container on the table across from the grill and shakes your dad's hand. "Chuck."

"You brought the salad."

"Ah, no, actually, I forgot the scotch I brought in my car," the man chuckles. "Actually, this kind woman brought that slop."

Your dad glances over and his jaw ticks in recognition. "Huh."

"Gonna be bored around here, isn't she? Bit young for this crowd."

"My daughter," you dad derisively pronounces your name, "she's got nowhere else to be."

You lower your eyes. He's not wrong but it's not something he needs to say.

"Ha, well, I'm sure she can figure something else," Nick turns to you. "Bit of advice, run."

He laughs again but you just feel stupid. You're always the joke.

"Stand up straight," your dad reproaches. "Why don't you offer him a drink? I taught you manners."

"Really? You? Manners?" Nick chides. "Don't you worry about me," he frightens you as he squeezes your shoulder gently, "I'm a big boy. I can get my own drink." His thumb rubs you briefly and he retracts his grip, "point me to the trough, Chuck."

Your dad directs him to the cooler and follows him over. You back up, content to fade back into oblivion, and skirt back down to the lawn. You look around at the smattering of guests. All those older men who work with your dad at the agency or play at his golf club, a few neighbours too.

You keep to the edge of the yard and find the flat stone behind the rose bushes. It's just big enough for you to sit. You'll happily hide there until you're quickly forgotten again.

💜

The smell of the barbecue builds with the tenor of the guests. You listen to the shuffle on the other side of the bushes and watch through the thorns as dinner is served up. Methodical as always, you wait until the rush has dispelled before you go to get your own share. Or rather, the leftovers.

It's funny. Your dad says you never think ahead but it feels like you have to analyse every second of every minute. He'll be sure to find something to pick apart.

You go up onto the deck. There's a chicken burger but no buns left. You take it and scrape up what's left of the romaine salad. There's no macaroni. It sure smelled good but oh well. You glance around. Hm. Maybe you can scrounge up a bun, or at the very least, some bread inside. Besides, you wouldn't mind the excuse to get away.

You let yourself in the back door and stop short. You're met with an unexpected sight. That man you met on the way in, the one some call Fowler but your father called Nick, stands at the sink... exposed. He has his shirt off and in his hands as he scrubs it under the running faucet.

You're so stunned you can't move or think. His arms are muscular and bulging with his effort. His chest too. You can see tension in his sides. There's that little cautious voice in the back of your head. You shouldn't be staring and you certainly shouldn't be feeling all tingly about it.

"Oh, it's just you, sweetheart," he glances over and grins. His eyes sparkle as his hair falls forward. "You wouldn't know how to get barbecue sauce out, would ya?"

You blink and cough. You can't speak. You near and put your plate on the counter. You look at the stain on his shirt as he holds it up to show you.

"Dish soap?" You find your voice. "Or..." it feels like he's getting closer. Leaning in, or something. Why is it so hot? You can hear the AC going.

"Sorry," he reaches to shut off the faucet. "You're so quiet, dish soap?"

"Yep, or... baking soda."

"Baking soda, sure... think I heard that one before," he clucks. "Right, let's give it a go."

He reaches for the bottle of soap. He squirts it on to the stain and put it back. Then he flips the faucet on again. He huffs and lets out a disappointed groan.

"If this even comes out, I'm going to be walking around with a wet shirt." He clicks his tongue and shakes his head.

You peek up at his profile as it sets in concentration. Straight nose, thick brows, high cheekbones. There's a shadow of stubble around his sharp jaw and a sliver of silver woven in at his temples.

"Oh, I..." you begin and back up.

You turn and quickly flee as the unfinished thought spurs you to action. It's a good reason to get away and stop gawking. You don't usually do that but your eyes just don't want to stay away.

You hurry upstairs to the bathroom and open the drawer. You take out your small purple blow dryer. You spin and rush back down.

As you enter, he holds up the shirt and faces you. He lowers it just enough to see you over the top. "What do you think? Noticeable?"

You look at the blue pattern. You know where to look so you can see it. You tilt your head.

"Not that bad."

"Oh, don't spare my feelings," he scoffs.

You look down as his eyes blaze at you. You raise the blow dryer. He crosses the kitchen and you nearly wilt.

"Good thinking, sweetheart."

Sweetheart... he keeps calling you that. Your dad doesn't even do that. You're just the kid or whatever. You're twenty-one. You're an adult. Or trying to be.

"Clever," he holds out his hand. 

You look around. "Uh, one sec."

You go to the counter and reach across to plug in the blow dryer. He follows. Closely. He raises the shirt and you take the front of it. You spread the fabric with your fingers and turn on the dryer. You aim the air at the wet patch.

You don't know if it's the heat of the dryer or if it's him staring, but sweat coats your scalp. You feel the spot with your thumb and shut it off. You unplug it and wrap up the cord as he turns the shirt.

"Hm, not bad. You're right." He says.

"Probably come all out in the wash."

"Just a shirt," he shrugs and slips his hand through the sleeve. "What're we having then?"

He pushes his arms into the shirt and it falls to his shoulders. He tugs it and turns to look over your plate. You try to wipe the glimpse of his torso from your mind.

"Just chicken and salad." You put the dryer aside and go to the bread basket. It's only croissants.

"No bun? You're not on some sort of wacky diet, are you?" He wonders.

"None left," you shrug and go to your plate. He doesn't move. "It's fine. I'm not too hungry."

"What about that salad you brought? That was yummy."

You try to smile at him but your cheeks are tight. When you look at him, all of you locks up. You don't know why he cares, if he really does.

"No big deal, this is good for me," you take your plate and head for the door.

He follows. Shoot. He's quick too. He swoops around you and opens the door ahead of you, holding it from the inside so you brush by him to get out. He trails after you.

"You know, wouldn't take you as Chuck's kid. You're too nice. Too quiet. He's a bit of a loudmouth," he chortles. "But I'm guessing you know that."

"He's my dad," you shrug. 

"You live here with him?"

You nod.

"Ah. Not bad. Good place to crash while you finish school. You go?" He asks.

"Uh huh. Biochem." You answer. "It's hard."

"Would be," he says. "Wow. Chuck choose that or you?"

You furrow your brow and look at him. He really guessed that easily? You shrug again.

"Sorry, nosy. I get bored at these things. Hence, why I never show up." He checks his watch. "Well, I won't ruin your supper." He looks at your plate and makes a face, "if you can call it that."

He runs his hand up your back as he steps past you. It sends a chill through you. You watch him go. He approaches Brad, the neighbour, as he points at the sports cap on his head in some sort of manly challenge. They posture and chuckle. For someone who claims to hate these things, he's sure good at working his way through them.

He moved the guitar to make space for you when you came to sit between his legs. His lips pressed a tender kiss to your temple before he trapped you close to him with the instrument over your lap.

‘Right where you belong.’ he murmured into your hair before continuing to pluck that unfamiliar tune again, his chest vibrating against your back as he hummed along. 

‘You keep saying you’re gonna teach me.’ After the song he was playing had come to an end you traced your fingers along the smooth wood of the instrument before turning your head to look up at him.

‘I will. You wanna learn now?’

You nodded, a soft smile playing on your lips, and he started to show you the basics. He showed you how to hold the neck, how hard to press down on the strings, and then he showed you the chords. He showed you the easier ones first, the ones you would remember easily, to prepare your inexperienced hands for the more difficult ones. 

‘This one’s a G chord.’

His fingers wrapped naturally around the neck of the guitar, then strummed the strings, creating a clear note that echoed through the warm evening air.

‘You wanna try?’

You let him take your hand, and he delicately positioned your fingers on the strings. What looked so simple for him was harder for your unpracticed hands, and your fingers stretched unnaturally to find the right placement. When you strummed the strings, the note was quieter and more blunt but still sounded the same as Joel’s.

‘This one’s hard.’ you mumbled.

‘Yeah? S’cause you got little hands.’

Joel pressed down on the same strings and instructed you to strum. When you did, the same sound rang out clearly again, and you looked down at his rough, calloused fingers, your mind wandering at the sight of their length.

‘Daddy’s got big hands. Makes it easier.’

He took your right hand in his, completely engulfing it, and brought it to his lips to press a soft kiss to your knuckles, his soft brown eyes locked onto yours.

“You wanna try the D again?”

‘…The what?’

‘The chord, baby.’

‘Oh… Sure.’

You carefully placed your fingertips as he showed you earlier. This time it was easier, your fingers didn’t need to stretch too far, and the vibration was smooth and loud when you strummed.

“Good girl. You’re a natural.”

It all seemed innocent enough, Joel was only teaching you how to play. But from your position you could feel his length hardening against the base of your spine. While he let you strum at the chords he had already taught you, his hands found your waist and gently squeezed it while he rested his chin on your shoulder, watching your delicate little fingers pick at the instrument. His breath fanned against your neck as he observed your movements and the stubble of his beard grazed your skin, sending chills down your spine that pulled your thighs together tightly to soothe the heat that was brewing in between them.

‘Try the G again, sweetheart.’ He murmured softly, his voice low in your ear.

You tried to remember what strings to press, and on what frets, and your fingers strained uncomfortably. 

‘Don’t like this one.’ 

Joel’s lips rasped against the shell of your ear, his voice gravelly with the lust that was thickening his cock. 

‘You get it right, I’ll give you a lil’ reward.’

You pulled your lower lip between your teeth as his hands trailed from your waist to your hips, giving them a light squeeze as he watched your digits, his touch raising goosebumps on your skin. Your fingertips carefully found their place and pressed down, and the note sang out loud and clear when you strummed.

Joel’s hips rocked slightly against you, his arousal now undeniable. One of his palms travelled up from your hips to your chest and grasped your breast lightly through the fabric of your nightdress, while the other rested on your hip.

‘That was good.’ He pressed a light kiss to your neck. ‘Gettin’ good, ain’t you?’

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips. ‘Got a good teacher.’

Joel’s lips curved into a smirk against the skin of your neck while his hand crept into the lacy neckline of your nightdress. ‘Show me C again, baby.’

You took a moment to remember how to, the feeling of his hands all over you making your brain start to melt inside your head. But the promise of a reward guided your hand, and when the strings vibrated, the note sounded practiced and true. 

‘Good girl.’ Joel’s lips found that sweet spot right under your jaw while his hand moved from your hip downwards and under your hemline. His middle finger traced your wet seam through your soaked panties, eliciting little gasps from you. ‘Now do A.’

Soft whines fell from your lips, frustrated by his teasing. ‘Daddy...’

‘What’s a matter, sweetheart? Need me to show you?’ He started to slowly redact his hands from where they touched you, and the loss of sensation spurred your memory- you quickly found the chord and played it hastily, desperate to keep his hands where they were. A soft laugh escaped Joel’s lips while the echo of the sound quietened. ‘Needy girl.’ His fingers returned to where they once were and resumed their gradual, teasing strokes. ‘Fast learner when you want somethin’, ain’t you, baby?’

Your head fell back against his shoulder with gasps of pleasure as his hand found its way into your panties and stroked lightly at the sensitive bud. His grip on your breast grew firmer as your hips squirmed under his touch, desperate for more. Joel’s breath grew ragged while he watched you writhe under his agonizing touch and he pushed his hips against you, wanting you to feel exactly what you were doing to him. 

His eyes scanned the surrounding houses for any sign of watchful eyes, but only saw the windows dark, covered up by drawn curtains. He rested the guitar against the bench and gently draped your legs over his knees, holding you wide open for access.

His middle finger slid down and soaked itself in the arousal that pooled at your entrance and teasingly pushed at the hole. ‘You deserve this, don’t you, baby? Been so sweet for Daddy.’ A muffled whine escaped you as he slowly pushed his long digit in, your arousal letting it glide easily. Joel shushed you and decorated your neck with feather-like kisses while his finger curled inside you just how he knows you like.

Soft whimpers fell from your lips as Joel’s finger gradually worked you open, preparing for the second one that dampened immediately with your juices when it slid inside. Your walls clenched around his digits while they stretched you out little by little. 

‘She’s so tight, darlin’,’ his breath warmed the skin of your neck. ‘Daddy ain’t been givin’ her enough attention?’ You shook your head and looked up at him while you gripped his forearms, your eyes desperate and needy.

Joel read the look in your eyes, your silent request and slid his free hand from your breast downward until it met your core. ‘Gotta fix that.’ His middle finger traced your clit lightly and slowly, his eyes locked onto yours as he watched you react to the added stimulation. Your hips squirmed more at the teasing sensation, backing into his clothed erection that strained against his jeans. He let out a low grunt and added more pressure until your legs began to shake where they rested on his thighs.

He watched you fall apart. His jaw was tense as he watched your brows furrowing and your mouth hanging open in the throes of ecstasy, your little body trembling as you came down from the high he had given you. You made him so hard it hurt. His lips grazed your ear as he murmured, ‘Up a minute, baby.’

You stood up from his lap, and turned to see him tugging at his belt buckle, the look in his eyes bordering on predatory while he watched you watch him shoving his jeans down to his knees hastily and motioning for you to sit back down. You arranged your knees on either side of his lap while he pushed his boxers down. His tip was wet with precum and he curled a fist around the base of his length, pumping it a few times while he gazed up at you.

‘You gonna be a good girl ‘n keep quiet for me?’ His voice was low and rough with lust. ‘Don’t want nobody else seein’ you like this.’ 

You bit your lip and nodded absently, distracted by the sight of him stroking himself. His other hand tipped your jaw, forcing eye contact, demanding a verbal answer.

‘Yes, daddy.’

Joel hooked his fingers into the seam of your panties and pulled them to the side, then gripped your hips and guided you, lining you up. When you slid down on his length, your head fell back. Although you’d taken his fingers, it was nothing compared to the way his cock always managed to stretch you out. His hold on your hips grew tighter, growls of pleasure vibrating from his throat as he forced himself to stay still to let you adjust. It wasn’t easy. The juices of your earlier orgasm dampened the coarse hair that surrounded the base of his shaft as you impaled yourself further down on it.

Again, Joel glanced around the quiet neighborhood cautiously, but the only sign of movement was the branches of surrounding trees swaying in the soft night breeze. He started to move your hips, pulling them into him and then pushing them back out, urging you to move, and you started to rock against him. Your already swollen bud brushed against his skin, sending sparks of pleasure through your body that elicited small whines each time. 

Before long, Joel was thrusting his hips up into you, desperate to relieve some of the pent up lust that had been building from the second he saw you standing in the doorway. Growls and grunts fell from him pursed lips while his hands glided from your hips to the hem of your nightdress and slipped underneath the light fabric to knead your breasts. His breath was ragged and laboured. He was obviously holding back, but each of his thrusts became more forceful as they met yours, until you cried out louder than you had intended at the feeling of the tension steadily rising below your hips. 

He clasped a hand over your mouth, his eyes dark and dangerous and his voice low. ‘You want everybody in the damn neighborhood to hear you?’ You shook your head. ‘Want everyone to know what Daddy’s doin’ to you right now?’ Neither of you stopped moving despite his cautionary tone. The sound of your skin slapping against his echoed off the porch, and you were certain that if somebody was listening, it wouldn’t just be your moans that gave it away. Joel growled lowly and wetted his lip, you knew he could feel how close you were from the way your walls gripped him tightly, and the way you gushed around him. ‘You gonna let it go for me?’ Your eyes were desperate as you nodded, your sounds muffling under his hand.

Your eyes pinched shut as Joel’s hips thrusted up to meet yours with more vigour. ‘Then let it go for me, baby girl. Come on.’ Your eyes rolled back behind your eyelids and your nails dug deep into his biceps as waves of pleasure crashed over you. His hand did little to mute the sweet moans of overstimulation that wracked your body. Joel fell over the edge at the same time, his thrusts grew sloppier and his head fell back while you felt his warm release fill you up from the inside. 

After coming down from your peak, you wrapped your arms around his neck and leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder. Joel’s hands delicately rubbed circles your back, keeping you impaled on his length that was slowly softening inside you, and he had no intention of withdrawing it. His lips pressed tender kisses to your forehead and cheeks while your breathing returned to a normal pace, and you felt the peace of the aftermath take over your body. 

‘Did so good for me, baby.’ He whispered as he watched your eyes close, and your nose nuzzle into the soft fabric of his flannel. ‘Such a good girl for me.’

You hadn't even known they were leaving.

No call. No letter. No warning.

Just gone.

The late afternoon sun beats heavy against your back, turning the asphalt into a slow, shimmering sea. Somewhere down the block, a dog barks once. It sounds lonely.

You stand there on the cracked sidewalk, a single suitcase dragging heavy behind you, staring up at the place that once tethered you to the earth.

It looks smaller now.

Older. Sadder.

The windows are dark. The porch swing hangs lopsided, one chain snapped clean through. The garden is wild now, strangled with weeds.

And then there's the sign.

Staked crooked in the dry grass.

FOR SALE.

Faded letters, rust blooming along the edges like sickness. Your mouth is dry. Your throat is tighter than it should be. You step closer, slow. One foot in front of the other, like maybe if you just knock on the door, they’ll open it, laughing, some cruel surprise party for the daughter they forgot.

Maybe they’re inside right now.

Maybe.

But you can already feel the lie breaking apart inside you. No car in the driveway. No porch light left burning. Not even a note tucked into the mailbox.

Nothing. They’re gone.

They left without a word.

Your palms are sweating. Your heart hammers helpless against your ribs, each beat growing louder, louder, until you can’t stand it anymore. You sit down hard on the curb, scraping your palms against the concrete. You barely feel it.

The ache opens up inside you like a sinkhole. A hollow thing, sharp around the edges. You drag in a broken breath and press your fists against your eyes but it’s no good.

The tears come anyway.

Hot. Ugly. Unstoppable. Not the pretty kind you see in movies. No trembling chin, no single glistening tear. Just sobbing, red-faced and snotty, body hunched in on itself like you could somehow hide from the shame of it all.

You must look ridiculous. A full-grown girl weeping into her hands on a shitty little sidewalk in the middle of nowhere.

A few cars roll past. None of them slow down. The sun keeps sliding westward, pulling long shadows behind it, and still you sit there. Too heavy to move.

By the time the low rumble of a truck grinds into the gas station across the street, the sky has cracked itself into a thousand bruised colors. Orange. Violet. Sickly gold.

You don't look up. You don't think you could bear it.

Not until you hear boots and the slow, heavy crunch of them over gravel. You freeze.

Instinctively shrinking into yourself, holding your breath.

"Figured you might need these." A voice. Rough. Warm. Older. You look up through a curtain of tear-blurred lashes. A man stands over you. Sunburnt skin. Faded jeans. Sleeves rolled up to thick forearms. Hair gone silver at the temples.

A stranger. A trucker, maybe.

In his hand there's a fistful of gas station napkins, crushed and slightly oily, but clean enough.

You blink at him. The late sunlight outlines him in gold, makes him seem almost unreal.

Some part of you wants to tell him to go away. That you’re fine. That you don’t need anybody. But you’re not fine. And the kindness in his face is so rare it slices you right open. You reach out and take the napkins with shaking fingers. "Thanks," you whisper, voice breaking apart like wet paper.

He crouches down without being asked, one knee cracking softly under the strain. "Didn’t mean to scare ya," he says, low and careful. "Just saw you sittin’ here lookin’ all broken up." You try to smile, try to pull yourself together, but a fresh sob bubbles up before you can stop it.

The man frowns softens. He shifts closer, careful like he’s approaching a scared doe. "Hey now," he says. "Ain't no shame in it, darlin’. World kicks hard sometimes." You wipe your nose, mortified. Your skin burns with embarrassment.

"IㅡI didn’t know they were gone," you choke out, the words spilling uninvited. "I didn’t knowㅡ they never even told meㅡ" His mouth draws into a thin, grim line. He doesn’t say Jesus or what the hell’s wrong with them or any of the things he could say.

He just nods. Understanding. Like he’s seen this kind of hurt before.

"Families," he mutters, almost to himself. "They can gut you worse’n any knife." You let out a strangled laugh. It sounds ugly, broken, but it’s better than crying. He huffs out a soft breath, like he’s relieved to hear even that.

You’re staring at him before you realize it. At the steady set of his jaw, the faint scar running through his eyebrow, the careful way he holds his hands.

Like he knows what it’s like to hold something fragile. And for one aching second, you lean forward and try to kiss him. It’s clumsy. Salty with tears. Desperate in a way you don’t mean it to be. You feel the scrape of his stubble against your cheek, the stunned heat of his mouth, but just as fast his hands are on your shoulders, gently pushing you back.

"Hey," he says again, voice tight. "Hey. No. Not like this." You stumble backward, cheeks flaming, tears stinging anew. "Iㅡ I’m sorry," you stammer. "I wasn’tㅡ I didn’tㅡ" He’s still crouched there, breathing hard, dragging a rough hand over his face like he’s mad at himself. "You’re not thinkin’ straight," he says. "You’re hurtin’. That ain’t the way this should start."

You press the napkins to your face again, wishing you could disappear. The shame is thick enough to choke on. He hesitates. "My name's Joel." He looks out toward the highway, then back at you. "You got somewhere to stay tonight?"

You shake your head miserably. His jaw tightens. He scrubs a hand through his hair. "I got a room down at that old motel, just off the 45," he says finally. "It ain’t much. But it’s safe. Two beds. Nothin’ will happen you don’t want, I swear it."

You stare at him, every nerve screaming at you not to trust a stranger.

You nod. "Okay," you say, small. Something eases in his face.

"Alright then," he says, rising to his feet with a grunt.

He holds out a hand. You hesitate then reach out and let him pull you up. His hand is big and rough and calloused, but it holds you carefully.

Like you’re a porcelain doll. You follow him toward the truck, the sky bleeding itself dry behind you.

The motel is even sadder than you pictured.

A squat strip of rooms sagging under their own neglect, washed in the sickly orange of buzzing neon lights. Joel pulls his truck into a cracked parking spot and cuts the engine. You fidget with the hem of your sleeve.

"You sure?" Joel asks, voice low. "Last chance to change your mind, darlin'." You glance over at him. The dashboard lights throwing sharp shadows across his face. There's no pressure in his voice. No expectation.

You nod. His mouth pulls into something that isn't quite a smile, but almost. He gets out first, boots hitting the ground with a heavy thud. Comes around to your side and opens the door like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You slide out, clutching your suitcase tight, trying not to feel like a little kid lost at the fair.

The motel office is locked up for the night, but Joel already has a sad looking brass key. Room 2. He leads the way down the sidewalk. He opens the door, steps aside to let you in first, giving you space.

The room is as bad as you expected.

Scratchy bedspreads. Faded floral curtains. A humming mini-fridge in the corner that sounds vaguely threatening. But it’s clean enough. And it's safe. The first thing Joel does is toss his duffel bag onto the bed nearest the door.

"You can have the other one," he says, jerking his chin toward the second bed. Sheets still tucked in tight. Untouched. You set your suitcase down and stand there awkwardly, wringing your hands. Joel watches you for a long moment.

"You want somethin’ to eat?" he asks. "I got some stuff in the truck. Nothin' fancy, but it's somethin’."

You shake your head. Your stomach feels twisted into knots. "Water, then," he mutters to himself.

He crosses to the mini-fridge, crouches down with a soft grunt, and pulls out two water bottles.

He cracks the cap on one and hands it to you. "Here you go, darlin'," You take the bottle and sip gratefully. Cool water rushing down your raw throat.

Joel lowers himself into the chair by the window and the old wood creaks under his weight. He stretches his long legs out, resting his forearms on his knees, and looks over at you.

"You got anybody you can call?" he asks. You shake your head again. He scrubs a hand over his jaw, the rasp of it loud. "That’s a damn shame," he mutters. "You don’t deserve that." Your chest squeezes tight and you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood. "Thank you," you whisper. It’s all you can manage.

It feels stupid and small and nowhere near enough. Joel tips his head like he heard you anyway. For a while, the only sound is the hum of the fridge and the distant buzz of the neon sign outside. The whole world feels like it’s folded itself down to this one room and this one moment.

You sink down onto the bed across from him, clutching the water bottle in both hands. "I'll take first watch, if you want." You blink at him, confused.

He smiles, just a little. "Ain’t no locks on these doors worth a damn," he says. "Rather keep an eye out. Make sure nobody bothers you." Something hot and unfamiliar twists low in your stomach. A rough, tender kind of feeling, one you didn’t even realize you were starving for until now.

You curl your legs up onto the bed, tucking yourself into the smallest shape you can make. "Thank you," you whisper again, voice cracking. Joel just leans back in the chair, arms crossed loose over his chest, boots planted solid on the floor.

You wake in the dark.

For a second, you don’t know where you are.

The room is still. But you remember Joel.

Your heart calms a little. You lift your head from the pillow and squint across the room.

He’s still there.

Sitting in that same battered chair, not really asleep. The lamp on the nightstand is still on, dim golden light painting the sad looking walls. You sit up slowly, the blanket pooling around your waist.

Joel stirs when he hears you move and lifts his head.

His eyes find you instantly, bleary but alert, making sure you’re alright. "Sorry," you whisper. "I didn’t mean to wake you."

"You didn’t," he says. He runs a hand through his messy hair, the soft gray at his temples catching the light. "You need somethin', sweetheart?"

You open your mouth then close it again, suddenly too shy to say it. But Joel waits, patient as ever. You pick at a loose thread on the blanket and breathe in slow through your nose.

you whisper, "Will you come sit closer?" Joel goes still. Some battle raging behind his eyes.

Then he stands up, slow. He lowers himself onto the edge of your bed, careful to leave enough space between you that you could still escape if you needed to. If you wanted to.

You shift, just slightly, letting your knee brush his thigh. "You sure?" he murmurs. It would be so easy to say no. But you nod again instead.

The tears come out of nowhere. One minute you're fine, the next you're crumbling. Crumbling into a thousand jagged pieces. "Hey, hey," he murmurs, shifting closer. Without thinking, you press your face into the crook of his shoulder, clutching fistfuls of his worn flannel. He wraps his arms around you.

You sob into him. Ugly, gasping, hiccupping sobs and Joel just holds you through it. His hand rubs slow circles over your back as his mouth brushes your hairline. When you finally pull back, Joel lets you go without a sound. Your face is a mess, tearstained, flushed, swollen but you don’t even care. He tips his head down to meet your eyes.

"You alright now, darlin'?"

You nod. But you're impulsive, so you lean forward and press the softest kiss to his stubbled jaw. Not a kiss that asks for anything or a kiss that demands.

Just a thank you. Just a please stay.

And he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t tell you no.

Not this time. He just presses his forehead against yours, breathing you in slow and shaky.

You wake a little before the sun. The cheap motel curtains let a little light bleed through. Joel is still sleeping. Or at least, his eyes are closed.

You slip out of bed quietly, your body aching in ways you didn’t even realize from the long day before. Sticky with sweat. Heavy with sleep.

You need a shower. Desperately.

You gather the little toiletries you bought from the gas station last night and tiptoe to the bathroom.

The water comes alive with a groan of old pipes and a thin hiss of steam. You step under the spray, shivering a little at first, then sighing when the heat seeps into your skin. Washing away the grime, the dust.

You’re half-done, shampoo stinging your eyes, when you realize you forgot your clean clothes. They're still folded neatly by the bed, in the other room.

Shit.

You wrap your arms around yourself, but there's no towel in the tiny bathroom either. Just bare skin and dripping hair and a racing heart. "Fuck this..." you whisper. "He’s still sleeping. Just real quick." You crack the door open and peek out. Joel's heavy figure is still sprawled across the bed. Face turned into the pillow, blanket rucked around his waist.

You tiptoe out.

Naked, dripping. You reach the edge of the bed, your fingers brush the hem of your clean shirt, but that’s when you hear the shift of sheets. Then the low and scratchy sound of a man clearing his throat.

You freeze. Like a deer caught in the center of a long, empty road. Joel is awake. Very awake, actually.

Sitting up, eyes wide and dark and fixed on you. His gaze drags over you, his hands clenching in the bedsheets like he’s holding himself back with everything he’s got. Heat floods your whole body. You can't move. Can't think.

You're naked, soaking wet, standing in front of a man you met less than 15 hours ago. "Shit—" he rasps, dragging a hand over his mouth, looking away fast. "Shit, darlin’, I thought you were still in the shower—" You scramble backward, grabbing your shirt against your chest, face burning hotter than the sun. "I—I’m sorry, I thought you were still asleep—!"

Joel swings his legs over the edge of the bed, palms raised like he’s trying not to scare you. "It's alright! Ain’t your fault." He keeps his eyes carefully averted, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jump.

You hurry back into the bathroom, slam the door shut, heart trying to punch its way out of your ribs.

You lean against the wood, gasping, mortified.

But for a moment you pause. With your palms flat on the door, heart still hammering, you call out to him. "Joel?"

"Yeahㅡ" you can hear the hesitation in his voice. You squeeze your eyes shut as your cheeks burn. "Will you come wash my back...please?" The quiet drags out for a second too long. You almost lose your nerve. Then the floorboards creak and his rough voice come through again.

"Yeah, s-sure 'Course I will." he stutters. This giant hunk of a man was blushing, and you could hear it in his voice. The door opens. Finally. He steps inside and shuts the door behind him. You turn away, back into the shower, giving him your back, the damp curve of your shoulder blades. You can feel his stare.

When he finally touches you, it’s like fire. His hands are rough, careful, sliding soap over your back, your shoulders, the nape of your neck. Everywhere he touches, your body lights up. And when his hands slip around to your front and you don’t stop him. You don’t want to stop him. You turn in his arms.

Still slick and warm and trembling. Finally he lifts your chin and kisses you like he’s been dying to. Soft at first. Then deeper, needier, like he’s finally giving in.

Joel kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. His palms flatten against your hips, fingers spreading wide like he wants to memorize the feel of you. You clutch at his shirt, the old cotton clinging damp to your palms, dragging him closer without thinking, needing to feel him, needing more.

He groans low in his throat, the sound rumbling against your chest, and suddenly it's like something inside him snaps. He picks you up, just lifts you like it’s nothing, your bare thighs hooking around his waist, your wet skin sliding against the denim of his jeans.

You gasp into his mouth, and he carries you, stumbling, until your back hits the cool tile wall. "Fuck," he breathes against your jaw, "Fuck, you’re killin’ me, baby..." You can feel him, hard and aching pressing into you, and it sends a desperate heat spiraling through your belly. Your hands roam up under his shirt, tracing over rough scars and thick muscles, greedy and shy all at once.

He shudders under your touch, dropping his forehead against yours, trying to catch his breath. "You sure about this?" His voice is hoarse, wrecked. "Don’t gotta do nothin’ you don’t want, sweetheart."

Your throat feels tight, but you manage a shaky whisper."I want to. IㅡI want you." Something shifts in his face. He kisses you again, slower this time. Like he’s worshiping every little gasp, every brush of your lips against his. One hand slides down between your bodies, rough fingertips skimming the inside of your thigh then finally finding its way to your wet fold, and you whimper into his mouth.

He smiles a little at that, a small crooked thing that makes your knees even weaker. You can barely hold on. "S'alright," he murmurs, soothing, "lemme take care of you, little girl."

He touches you with maddening patience, two fingers deep in you, dragging every tiny sound out of you until you’re shaking in his arms, crying out against his neck. "good girl, so pretty, you’re doin’ so good for me, sweetheart —" and it wrecks you even worse.

You want to cry so bad.

You manage to push yourself off of him, sinking down to your knees and looking up at him through tearstained lashes. A little gift, you said, for taking care of you. He groans, his head all over thinking how is this even real. You looked straight out of one those pornos he used to rent back when he was about your age, face flushed and mouth full of cock. "Shitㅡ Atta girl...Y-eah, please keep goin'" he whimpered through bared teeth, hands roughly gripping your hair. His hips were barely kept from snapping like he wanted to. He wondered how it'd feel to fuck your throat, but he didn’t want to force you right now.

Your tongue swirled and lapped around his head, saliva and precum mixing and dripping down onto the shower floor. Your jaw hurt, and knees even more, but you didn’t want to stop. Not until you made him unravel.

Your thoughts are cut short by Joel, pulling you off and up. "Don't make me come yet, baby. Gotta feel you around me first." Oh, how your heart twisted. When he finally sinks into you, slow and careful and thick, your head tips back against the wall with a broken sob.

Joel curses under his breath, clutching you tighter, pressing kisses to your damp cheeks, your temple, your throat. "Shhh," he breathes, rocking into you with aching sweetness, "I got you, baby. I'm right here." And you believe him. For the first time in a long time, you believe someone. You cling to him like a lifeline, gasping his name over and over, as the whole world narrows down to just this.

His cock slides in and out of you rapidly, reaching places you didn’t know felt this good. He fucks you deep and hard, and for the first time you're actually not faking anything. It's all raw, and beautiful and sad at the same time. You cry and he kisses you hungrier, eating up your sobs as his length throbs inside of you. You're all broken again, in his arms, body jolting as he bites your shoulder.

Maybe you'll regret it later. But who cares about later when it seems like today is all you have. When he is all you have. Maybe he's a murderer on the loose, maybe he'll hurt you. Maybe it's the pain controlling you, but it feels right. Just right.

Your vision is blurry, and your head is fuzzy with him, that familiar feeling in your lower belly blooming again. Finally you come undone in his arms, shaking, crying and moaning all at once. He holds you closer, if thats even possible, and spills inside of you, his soft groans filtering through the ringing in your ears.

When it’s over, he doesn’t let you go. Just holds you there, cradled against his chest, both wet and sticky. Dirty and clean. Ugly and rough. "Was real brave of you," he whispers rough into your hair, pressing a kiss there. "Comin’ out here. Trustin’ me."

You smile against his skin through tears, small and trembling.

You had both had two drinks before he agreed to a dance. Just a slow one. Even if he was acting reluctant, you knew how much he enjoyed wrapping his arms around you, his fingers brushing the top of your bottom, swaying you back and forth.

“Are you still mad to be here?” you whispered in his ear.

“You’ll be the one who’s mad when I tear that pretty dress right off you later,” he whispered back, and you threw your head back with a triumphant laugh, even as a thrill at the promise in his voice ran through you.

Later in the evening, when Joel was talking to Tommy and Maria, you found Ellie and Dina at the snack table.

“Wow!” Dina exclaimed at the sight of you, and you curtsied.

“Wearing this thing was the only way to get your dad out of the house. Sorry, El,” you said, and she rolled her eyes but smiled at you, just a little.

“Gross,” she said, and Dina elbowed her.

“It’s not gross! She’s so hot, I’m almost jealous of Joel.”

You waved your hand in the air to dismiss her words, and took a pretzel off Ellie’s plate.

As you opened your mouth to say something, you were knocked off balance by a loud, firm slap to your ass.

Your face was the perfect picture of shock, mirroring the two girls in front of you. Dina reached out, catching you before you stumbled over into her.

“What the fuck?” you hissed, turning around to see a stranger. Medium height, blonde hair, and glazed over eyes. This man was drunk off his ass, over served three drinks ago.

Ellie pulled on your arm, stepping in front of you, though you stood a head taller than her. She raised her arm, poised to strike, but before she could, the man clattered with force into the snack table.

Pretzels and chips flew everywhere, and where your assailant had once stood was now Joel, his eyes alight with rage.

He was gearing up to throw a few punches, so you stepped between him and the man, now passed out covered in food.

“You got him. Let’s just go,” you said.

Joel looked over your shoulder for a tense moment.

“Damn,” Dina whispered.

“Let’s go. I don’t want to wear this dress anymore,” you told him. The slap had been so hard that your ass still stung. You didn’t know how many had seen, but you felt hot with embarrassment at the idea of so many people in here watching you get slapped like that. “I want to go,” you told Joel, your eyes filling with tears.

You turned to the girls. “Thank you, for catching me, and for stepping in,” you told Ellie and Dina respectively. They were looking at you with concern and a hint of pity, which made you feel even worse.

When you turned to Joel, he had removed his jacket, and placed it on your shoulders.

Without another word, you left.

You didn’t cry until you were safe inside Joel’s house, but you could feel him vibrating with rage the entire walk home.

“Baby, I should’ve killed him,” Joel said, probably as softly as he could given how angry he was.

“Unzip this dress, please,” you said, leading him to his bedroom. You kept a few outfits here, for your frequent sleepovers.

He obliged, and you shimmied out of the dress, letting it pool on the floor.

“I shouldn’t have worn that.”

Joel bent down and picked up the thin fabric, fisting it in his hands.

“This dress ain’t to blame for what he did. You ain’t to blame for what he did. It was his fault. Tommy and me’ll deal with him.”

You nodded, tears still falling down your cheeks, and turned to grab a t-shirt out of the dresser.

Joel hissed when you did, a sharp intake of breath.

“What?” you asked as you pulled one of his worn shirts over your head.

“He left a mark.” The words came out through gritted teeth.

You ran into the bathroom, twisting and turning, so you could see a red, palm-shaped welt on your ass cheek.

“Mother fucker,” you said. Joel appeared in the mirror behind you, rage set in his harsh features again. “You can be mad about this tomorrow, Joel. I just need you to hold me tonight.”

You turned, and he reached for you immediately, gathering you in his arms, practically smashing you into his chest.

You took in a long, deep breath of him. The scent of whiskey and pine and Joel. It was intoxicating. You wanted to bottle it.

He lifted you up, and you wrapped your legs around his torso as he carried you to the bed. He lay you down gently, reverently, and lay down beside you.

“If you’d walked into that barn stark ass naked, it wouldn’t have given a single person in there the right to touch you,” he said, looking down at you. He reached out, wiping a tear from your eye.

“I know. It feels just, embarrassing. That maybe everyone saw.”

He shook his head. “Only one should be embarrassed is that fucker. If he’s not, he will be soon.”

You knew you should protest. Tell Joel it’s no big deal, to keep his cool, but it was a big deal. And what the hell is the point of dating a man like Joel Miller, a man who is hell bent on protecting the people he loves, if you don’t let him do exactly that?

You pull his face down to yours and press a chaste kiss to his lips. “Thank you.”

He rubs his nose across yours, and kisses every spot on your face.

Hard with others. Gentle with you.

“I love you,” he says, finally settling down next to you. “Maybe you can wear that dress sometimes still… just ‘round the house.”

You’re disgusted with yourself. Him as well. You sigh and stand straight. 

You drop the cloth and fix your blouse. You rinse off your hands and try to smooth the wrinkles creased into your skirt. It’s only three in the afternoon; not quite the end of the day. 

You open the bathroom door and march out. You’re surprised and not to find him still sprawled over the foldout mattress. You grab your phone to confirm the time. Just after three. 

“Sir,” you cross your arms and step back to face him. “I recall you have an appointment at four--” 

“Cancel it and come back to bed,” he insists. 

You stare at him. He runs his hand down his naked torso and hums. You look at the wall. 

“You wanted that report done--” 

“Am I asking you for it now?” He turns onto his side and his green eyes flare. “You are being defiant.” 

“No, sir, I’m doing my job--” 

“I told you to come back here,” he taps the mattress. 

You stare at him. His coily black hair is messy and tangle around his hand as he holds his head up. He flattens his palm to the thin mattress and rubs it. 

“Take all that off and come here,” he demands. 

You put your phone down. He’s not much different than the guards or even some of the inmates in prison. It’s a power struggle. Like them, he just wants confirmation that he’s the one with control. The fact that he is who he is, makes it all the more pathetic. 

You undress. As you do, your mind strays. It isn’t hard to guess why he’s doing this. Not after meeting his family.  He has an inferiority complex which you suspect is attached to his aforementioned brother. You have your own issues; too many siblings, a shitty mom, a steady stream of ‘father figures’. Even so, you can’t relate much to what he’s doing, though you can guess at his flawed reasoning. 

As you shove down your skirt, completely exposed, he purrs and strokes himself. You hold back a cringe. You repress a sigh as you approach and grab another condom. He catches your hip as you put your knee on the bed. 

“No need to rush,” he assures you. 

You stiffen and say nothing. He’s invaded your home, your body, your entire life; you just want him out as soon as possible.  

He drags his hand up your side and cups your tit. He sits up as he continues fondling you, watching his thumb as it circles your nipple. He brings his other hand up and moves you closer. You don’t resist. 

He pushes your tits together and buries his face in them. He growls and nips at the bulging flesh. He wiggles his head around and kisses along your skin. He drops one hand down to tickle your stomach. You shudder and tighten your fist around the condom. 

He urges you closer as he clasps onto your hip. You lift your leg over his and straddle him on your knees. You reach down to pump him as he plays with your chest. It’s all mechanical to you. Just a part of the job. You’re ticking off another box on the list. 

You pull back and tear open the condom. You push it onto him and he sits back, his stomach muscles clenching as he watches you sheath him in the rubber. His nails dig into the bed and his hisses out a breath. 

You grip him firmly and position yourself over him. You lower yourself gently. You’re thankful for the pre-lubed condom; you’re dry. You grunt as you take all of him. His hands go to your hips and he holds you down. 

He groans as his thumbs trace along the top of your pelvis. His eyes scour up and down your body. He squeezes and rocks you against him. You exhale and let him guide your motion. 

He’s slow and deliberate. He focuses on the joint of your bodies, watching how you glide up and down his length. He shoves you down suddenly and tilts your pelvis so your clit rubs against him. The spark of delight startles you. 

You latch onto his forearms as he keeps your moving. He snarls and leans forward. He nips at your chest again. You stare above his dark hair. He nuzzles and teethes at your tits, teasing you as he drones out. 

“Darling,” he slithers. “Mmm, you... are very capable.” 

He leans back and twists his arms free of your grasps. He takes your hands and puts them on his chest. He smirks at you as his hands falls down to the bed. 

“Go on.” 

Your eyes meet for a split second. You lower your lashes and brace his chest. You roll your hips. He croaks and twitches. He tilts his head back. 

“Oh, yes,” he taunts. “A woman like you... so naughty.” 

You bite your lip to hold back your frustration. ‘A woman like you’... What kind of man does that make him?” 

“Hm, you’ve had some practice, haven’t you? Is this how you got through it? Get an extra dessert at meal time--” 

You pull your hand back without thinking, jaw locking, and you curl your fingers to a fist. You still, arm cocked, ready to bash his face in. You glare at him and he snickers. 

“We both know you won’t,” he reaches and pushes your hand down. Your arm slackens and falls. You deflate. “Remember who and what you are.” 

He grabs your sides and hauls you up with him. He puts you on your back as he gets to his knees, staying inside of you as you hit the mattress. He adjusts himself and frames your throat, tightening his grip as he snarls down at you. 

He thrusts deep. Your insides constrict and you tense. He does it again. And again. Each time is cruel and sharp. Each time, his hold on you tightens. You gasp for air as he fucks you until the metal frame whines. 

You grab his wrists. Your eyes well and your head throb. He slams into you, over and over, his grunts deep and furious. His tempo builds until the whole world seems to quake around you. 

He finishes in a flurry. He peels his hands away from your neck and plants them on either side of your head. He holds himself up as he hammers into you. You close your eyes and wait for it to end. 

When it does, he collapses onto you, breathless. You throb around him. His sweaty skin sticks to yours and his weight paralyses you. You stare at the ceiling. 

You could be mad. You could blame it on a thousand different things. What good would that do? You made yourself a criminal. You made yourself vulnerable. 

It will end. He will get bored. That’s how you got by. You waited it out. Bullies always lose interest. 

💼

You wait in line at the coffee shop. It’s early. You’re exhausted. Well, you were tired for years. No one sleep good on a prison cot. 

You step up and order the usual cortado. Nothing for yourself. As you shuffle along the counter to wait for the coffee, a twinge makes you wince. You hate that you can still feel him. You’re trying to ignore it. 

You thank the barista as she slides over the cup. You take a lid for it and set off. You get to the office; it’s unlocked. 

You enter and find Mr. Laufeyson say behind your desk. He greets you with a taunting grin. You hoped that yesterday would end it. That once he had his little victory, he’d let you be. You put the coffee down and face him over the desk. 

“Sir.” 

His cheek dimples. He stares at you. You don’t flinch. 

“You’re early,” he drawls. 

So is he. That fact isn’t lost on you. 

“We’ve time.” 

His feet are set wide. He turns the chair slightly and unbuckles his belt. You don’t react. 

“Sir, I didn’t get to wrap my work up yesterday--” 

“After,” he reaches into his pants. “Just a quick one.” 

You blink. What is wrong with him? 

He nods to the desk. There’s a condom waiting. You choke back your reticence. You drop your bag and grab it. 

You step in front of him as he pulls himself out. You slide the condom on and he sighs. You turn your back to him. You tug up your skirt and push your panties aside. 

You reach between your legs as you hover over his lap. He shoves you down by your hips. You grunt and keep a hold of the desk. 

“Mm, yes, just as I recall,” he leans back. “Darling, you take me very well.” He runs his hand up and down your back. “And you obey remarkably. I would say you are nearly reformed.” 

You rock your hips as you keep a grip on the desk. You use it for leverage as he traces lines up and down the back of your blouse. You tilt faster and faster. He leans forward and wraps his arms around you. He gropes your chest through your blouse and rests his chin on your shoulder. 

“Yes, darling--” 

A sudden knock makes him cough. Shit. He pauses and listens. The knock comes again. 

“Hullo, anyone in?” Dina’s voice wafts through the door. 

Your eyes snap wide and you elbow Laufeyson off of you. He untangles his arms and stand, the condom coming off inside of you. Shit. You don’t have time. 

You pull your skirt down and tidy your blouse. You scurry away from the desk as he stands, his buckle clinking loudly. You go to the door and look at him. He tucks his shirt in and sends you an agitated gaze. He gestures for you to open the door. 

You pull it back on the hinges, “oh, Dina, hi.” 

“Hello, dear. Checking in. Is Mr. Laufeyson--” 

“Good morning,” Mr. Laufeyson crosses the office lithely, “we were only going over opening tasks.” He offers his hand. She shakes it.  

“I’m so sorry for interrupting.” 

“Not at all. She is still adjusting, so we are diligent in reviewing,” he explains. You back away from them. 

“Oh, yes, sometimes it can be very much work. When they’re locked up, they have routine, but once they’re out...” she clucks. “Well that’s why I’m here.” 

“You are very thorough at your job,” he says. “It is early, are you in the mind for a coffee?” 

“At that place downstairs? I passed it and thought it smelled wonderful,” she trills. 

“My treat,” he insists. “I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have about her performance.” 

“Oh my, Mr. Laufeyson, thank you,” she preens and tugs at her over-styled ringlets. 

“Loki suits me well enough,” he insists. “Let us be off.” 

She spins and struts out, a notable sway in her hips. You stand behind the desk. Laufeyson lingers at the door and peeks back at you. His cheek twitches. 

“You will wait for me and we will continue going over your tasks for the day,” he says. 

“Yes, sir,” you answer as you tap your fingers on the desk. 

He nods and leaves, snapping the door shut behind him. You exhale and grimace. You bend your knees and reach between your legs. You pull the condom out of your cunt and flick it into the bin. Ugh, he’s so gross. 

You drop into the chair and stare at the black screen. It’s a good thing he got in out of there. She’s got an eye for detail. She’d be able to see the coffee you got him or the fact that you hadn’t even got set up for the day. 

You almost think you should just tell her. You’re not stupid. She wouldn’t help you, she would blame you. Maybe it’s not such a bad thing to go back to prison. At least there, you know where you belong. 

No, because then he wins. 

You tap the power button and let the laptop boot. You pull your bag closer and unzip the top. You put your phone beside the mousepad and take out your water bottle. 

As you get the inbox open, your cell buzzes. You flinch and snatch it up, turning it to silent. The message waiting for you is from him. You can’t catch a break. 

‘Darling, you’ve left me undone.’ 

You curl your lip. You can’t tell if he’s reprimanding you or trying to be coy. Either way, you’re repulsed. 

You don’t respond. How can you? The puke emoji seems fitting but foolish. 

Another message brightens the screen before you can put the phone down. ‘I was awake all night. Thinking of you on me.’ 

You furrow your nose. What the fuck? 

‘Did you feel empty without me?’ 

You snort. You put the phone down and throw your hand up in silent confusion. No. He doesn’t think that you enjoyed it, does he? He doesn’t think this is more than you playing along. He can’t. How could he think that you want him? 

The phone lights up once more. 

‘I need you badly. It hurts. You will be ready for me upon my return.’ 

You stare down at your phone, scowling at the message on screen as the van jostles you on a turn, pulling into a new neighborhood. Your coworkers, Alicia and Gladys chat in the front seats while you sulk in the back. You don’t mean to be so off putting, but you’re reflecting on how you ended up here, staring at a text from your father inquiring about your day at the firm. Guilt squeezes your insides at the fabrication you’ve concocted, the way you couldn’t be further from the false narrative you’ve given to your parents, and with hardly anything to show for it yet.

“Wait…” you mutter, your eyes focusing and scanning along the perfectly manicured street of gorgeous brownstones rising up, all crammed together. You know that despite the small, more humble outsides of these homes, the insides are immaculate, thousands of square feet renovated to perfection. “I know this street.”

Alicia turns from the passenger seat, raising her eyebrows at you. “This richie rich neighborhood? Who do you know here?”

You feel your cheeks warm up, too embarrassed to admit to them that your own parents’ luxury apartment is on a street not too dissimilar to this. In fact, you don’t even need this job in the slightest, but have been desperate to make your own money under the radar, away from your parents’ obsessive peering into every aspect of your life. Every day that has passed since you hatched your little plan that had felt like some kind of genius at the beginning has only proven how futile it was to jump into it so hastily.

“I… swear I’ve been here before…” you mutter, mostly thinking out loud to yourself, eyes staring out the window as you wrack your brain. 

When Gladys pulls into a drive, dipping below the house into a garage that opens for the van, your stomach tightens. It’s all too familiar, but you can’t quite place your finger on it. You haven’t been here for a few years, at the least. 

“W-who’s our client today?” you ask urgently, tightening your hands into fists. 

Gladys glances at her work tablet, filled with the itinerary for the entire week. “Mr. Miller, hon,” she replies before peering back down at the screen, confirming it. “Joel.”

You can tell you must look as shocked as you feel, eyes flashing with fear and going a little wider and your face dropping instantly.

“I-I know him,” you manage to stutter out. “Well, he knows my parents. Like, really well.”

Joel could not, under any circumstances, see you like this. What a disaster that would be - your rich daddy’s rich friend getting a house cleaning from said friend’s daughter. One who is supposed to be off interning somewhere. Instead, you’re plotting to live by scraping by, collecting money for what you hope could be an escape from this life, their life. 

Your parents are both insistent on you taking over the family business - some corporate bullshit you have no interest in - so you’d sated them by claiming you were off gaining experience in between classes with some interning hours at a firm. You’re lucky that a friend of yours from college actually does work there, hoping if it came down to it, they could vouch for you. If the truth got out, you know the possibility that you would be cut off is high. It’s the kind of massive fallout you’re not sure you’re prepared to deal with yet.

The lies you’ve had to concoct and the harsh reality of cramming your schedule full between class and this job - scrubbing floors, endless vacuuming and wiping surfaces, your body aching after each and every day of work - was starting to get to you, but you had to persevere.

“They’re hardly ever even home when we come anyways, especially this Mr. Miller,” Alicia suggests at your panic, and you swallow and nod. Gladys agrees with her, then they shoot each other a concerned, confused look. They’ve been a team for a while, but you’ve only just met them a few weeks ago, assigned to train with them. Both of them are older momma bear types, having clung to your young ass like glue, vowing to teach you all the ropes and take good care of you, which you’d appreciated. You’d been lucky enough to have gotten a job with this particular company, having no experience in the field, or nay field for that matter. The client base they worked with was high end, their homes millions of dollars, the service only known to the more wealthy side of Manhattan.

“Y-yeah, you’re right. It’s totally fine.” You’re not sure if you’re trying harder to convince yourself or Gladys and Alicia, the two women staring you down with their brows wrinkled in worry. 

It’s the last cleaning of the day, and all you need to do is get through it. It has to be fine, it just has to - you need the money. Desperately. You push out a small smile, moving to exit the van. “Let’s do this,” you add on a little more encouragingly after the two of them look less than convinced.

“There she is,” Gladys teases, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze as you all start to unload all your supplies. You’re let in by a middle aged woman with dark hair in a sleek bob answering the garage door with a polite smile. His house manager or assistant, you realize. Men like Joel Miller had assistants, you remind yourself, to help take care of everything - the house, grocery lists for the week, light cooking, or even his schedule. She likely did it all.

You take in Joel’s home with wandering eyes, recalling now that you’d come here for dinner before - a family outing that your parents had dragged you to, the details of the place coming back to you as you all move further inside. It feels strange to be here without his permission, without your parents knowing where you are right now. Your chest is tight at the thought, but once you three get to work, you feel your anxiety dissipate as you get lost in the monotony of it - the drone of the vacuum, the mindless scrubbing of sparkling surfaces, the fresh lemon scent as you clean the bathrooms. Joel’s house isn’t all that dirty to begin with, an easy job compared to some of them you’d seen since you started.

You’re feeling downright pleasant by the time you’re finishing up, a job well done filling you with satisfaction as you wipe a thin layer of sweat off your forehead. You’re heading back to the main living room, hoping to link back up with Gladys and Alicia when you spot him.

He’s walking down the hallway with purpose, eyes glued down on his phone, dark framed reading glasses shielding his eyes from you further. His black suit hugs his body like it was meant for him, and you suppose it likely was tailored to his exact measurements, right to the very centimeter. You stop dead in your tracks, head whipping from side to side, looking for an out, a door you can rush into, but you’re trapped, the nearest one at least several paces behind you. When Joel glances up, he’s silent, stopping as he’s close to crashing into you and giving you a range of emotions rushing across his features - quizzical brows turning into full on confusion as he just stares.

Your name finally leaves his lips, almost incredulously. “Now what’re you doin’ here?” He takes in your outfit with his dark eyes - the branded tee shirt, your working slacks, and plain black work shoes - possibly one of the least flattering ensembles you could be wearing. “What is all this?” 

“Not sure what you mean, Mr. Miller,” you spit out in a panic, keeping your voice professional, a high, sweet lilt as you hold your smile. 

“C’mon now,” Joel urges, his brows coming together further in concern. He steps towards you with his voice lowered, but you step back a little almost instinctively, keeping your distance. Like you can run from this, from this mess you’ve suddenly made of your life. You break a little, lips faltering as your smile starts to fall. Tears prick behind your eyes, embarrassment from being caught creeping its way up from your chest.

“Please don’t tell my parents…” you mumble, darting your gaze away from his intense stare. 

Joel pauses for a moment, adjusting the glasses up on his nose before deciding to take them off completely, tucking them into his jacket pocket.

“I don’t even know what I’d be tellin’ them, if I’m honest here,” he admits, rubbing a hand along his lips and chin, studying you. It’s starting to practically burn your skin, the way he stares, a man of confidence and command looking at you this way. Not something you were completely unaccustomed to, your father having plenty of business partners and associates with the same demeanor. But Joel felt different, like he was genuinely concerned for you.

“There you are,” Gladys huffs out, turning the corner behind Joel, her mouth forming a small "oh” when she sees who you’ve run into. 

“Mr. Miller, great to see you, sir,” she chirps immediately, giving him her professional grin, one you’ve seen plenty of times already in the few weeks you’ve worked with her.

Joel, not forgetting his manners, smiles back at her and greets her, turning his body to let Gladys into the conversation. Alicia follows close behind, and you’re starting to burn up with embarrassment at this clusterfuck of a gathering you’ve found yourself in now.

“Everythin’ looks great, ladies. Why don’t you two head on out and I’ll steal her for just a bit,” Joel says, charming and smooth, his accent thick. “Think my office needs some special attention.”

Alicia and Gladys shoot each other a glance, then you, then Joel, seeming to try to piece everything together. Your cheeks couldn't possibly be any hotter, white hot and spreading up to your ears, knowing that this looks bad. Like Joel is about to take you into his office and do unspeakable things to you. The classic maid trope, or whatever.

“It’s okay,” you mouth quietly to the both of them, giving them an encouraging smile even though you feel shaky, like your stomach is bottoming out.

“She’s an old family friend in need of some catching up. In fact, I’ll drive her home after. Don’t y’all worry about it, I know you’ve got places to be,” Joel adds to sweeten the deal. The two ladies exchange another look, but then turn back to Joel, their faces slightly strained but professional.

“Of course, Mr. Miller. We’ll see you for the next service, then,” Alicia says a bit robotically. They both nod curtly and then bow out, not before peeking one last look at where you stand like a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar.

“This way,” Joel says, turning back to face you with a steely expression, brushing past you to lead you towards where you already know he’s going - his office. You hadn’t been in there today - Gladys had tackled the office, so it’s all new territory to you as you pass the threshold, taking in the modern but cozy decor. It’s mostly black and dark wood furniture, dark gray chairs but contrasted with airy white walls, a high ceiling, and colorful art, making the room feel spacious despite the dark features.

Joel sighs softly, shutting the door behind him, even though nobody else is here, no reason to need the privacy. It serves to make you even more nervous, and you lick your quickly drying lips, standing near the doorway with your hands folded in front of you.

“Look, Mr. Miller -” you start, wanting to explain yourself. Joel moves closer, sending you backing up into the room, cutting off your train of thought as his large, imposing form closes in on you.

“You gonna tell me what’s really goin’ on here?” 

“W-what do you mean?” you ask innocently, knowing there are a myriad of very reasonable reasons for Joel to be questioning you right now. You’re not sure what charade you’re even trying to hold up at this point, it’s only pure panic. Another step closer, and another step backwards for you, he continues until the backs of your thighs hit the desk and you stop, surprised as you glance back at it behind you.

“Don’t play coy. Imagine my surprise when I see my one of my oldest buddies' daughters, knowing he takes care of his family, here cleanin’ my floors and toilets. Now don’t you think that’d strike me as odd?” His head cocks, and he looks at you seriously, brows raised. You can’t quite tell if he’s getting any satisfaction out of this, or if he actually seems angry.

“Mr. Miller, I - I can explain, okay?” you start nervously, and Joel waves a hand impatiently, as if to say go on then. “They, my parents, I mean, they want me to be in the family business, and I…” You sigh. “Don’t know what I want, but it’s not that.”

Joel stares at you for a long, quiet moment, flashing eyes studying your face, trying to read if you’re being truthful.

“And what’s this have to do with cleanin’ my house?” he asks curtly. 

“I… well, it doesn’t. I mean, it does. I just need to make my own money. If I don’t follow in his footsteps, I think they’ll… cut me off,” you reply, deciding to try to be as blunt as he is. Your voice falters on those last words, the reality of it painful, twisting in your gut. What kind of parent cuts their child off for something so frivolous, so selfish?

Joel looks amused suddenly, cocking his head a little further, and you can tell he definitely doesn’t believe you. He’s so close, so in your personal space, you’re finding it hard to breathe. “So you’re sayin’ your daddy ain’t takin’ care of you?”

You bite the inside of your lip and give him a small nod. The thing about your dad was if you acquiesced, if you followed exactly the plan he’d laid out for you, you’d have been riding high, walking on easy street for the rest of your life. And if not, well, he’d always made it perfectly clear he didn’t deal with traitors, because what was the point of having children if they couldn’t take over your business for you? Sure, it was tempting to take the easy route, but maybe you’d gotten tired of it all, found your rebellious streak a little later in life than most people. 

“Yes…” you say out loud, unable to believe you were sharing this with Joel of all people - someone more likely than anyone to feed this information straight back to your father. It’s not like you knew him well, despite him being one of your dad’s closest and oldest friends, one of his closest business partners and confidants. You’d spent a decent amount of time in the same room as Joel, but you only knew the surface level, just the polite, agreeable conversations you were expected to have. It typically was some kind of public function, or the holiday party at your parents’ place every year, maybe a dinner party sprinkled in here and there, but you’d certainly never been quite this close to Joel Miller. Or alone.

His face falls at the sincerity in your voice, seeming to feel the gravity of it weighing down on him. “Now what d’you mean, cut you off? Like, full on, ‘n everything?” He steps back a little, giving you some space, his brows scrunched together in concern and arms crossing over his chest.

“Er, with all due respect, Mr. Miller, I don’t think I should be talking to you about it all.” You slump back a little, pushing yourself off of where you lean back on his desk, glancing past him to look around his office. It’s tidy, bookshelves lining the far wall full of perfectly placed, perfectly organized books on all kinds of things - some practical and business related, some seeming more like guilty pleasures of fiction and nonfiction of various genres, but mostly mystery, it seems. 

“Y’made it my business when you stepped into my house today though, didn’t you?” he quips back, but you detect a hint of teasing there, feeling it start to disarm you.

“C’mon, sit,” Joel says, seeming to soften when he notices you stuttering to reply, gesturing to one of the chairs that sits near the large bay window in the room, a matching one set up across from it. “This’ll be… confidential.” He smiles, trying to convince you, and you don’t know if you believe him, but the twinkle in his eye almost makes you want to. You decide to sit, smoothing your scratchy work slacks, crossing one leg over the other, feeling like you look as stiff as you feel. 

Joel, on the other hand, looks relaxed as he sits back, legs spread wide, his large palms settling onto his thick thighs, fingers spread over them. 

“I… don’t believe you,” you finally tell him. “What’s to stop you from telling my dad everything I say right now, or even that I was here in the first place?” you ask before feeling your heart sink a little at the likely prospect of it. Your life as you know it could be over, starting from scratch with one phone call from Joel. 

Joel chuckles, the corner of one side of his mouth twitching upwards as he eyes you. “Look, I get it, I wouldn’t trust me either,” he replies, his hands lifting off of his legs to be thrown in the air before he fists his upturned palms and settles them on the arms of the chair. “I wanna hear you out, though. Your dad, he ain’t uh, without his faults, I know that.”

You try to hide your surprise, keeping your brows from twitching inward, your face showing the intrigue you feel. You breathe out, slow and steady. “My dad isn’t interested in anything but me being the next, well, him. And if I’m not interested in that, then I don’t think he’s interested in having me as his kid.”

Joel goes stone-like at your bare confession - so honest - and he seems to soak in the words quietly with serious consideration. “An’ where do they think you are right now, hm?” he finally questions, steady eyes on your anxious ones.

“An internship.” Your cheeks heat a little as you face your lie and how stupid it sounds when you say it out loud.

Joel chuckles again, this time looking a bit impressed by you. He shoots a handsome, devilish smirk your way and you avert his gaze. “Yeah? And they’re buyin’ it?”

You let out a small laugh of your own, releasing some tension, and shrug. “Seems like it.”

“Why… this? Why the, uh, cleaning?”

“Turns out the job market is pretty shit when you have no skills, no experience, and are trying to do things under the radar - y’know, name recognition around all the big places, and all of that.” Being spoiled for your entire life, never worrying about wanting anything, needing anything, had predictably led to you never having needed a job, even now into your early twenties. The only things you’d learned were with your dad, the days he’d dragged you up in his high rise to shadow him and start preparing you for the future. Your future, as directed by good ol’ dad.

Joel nods softly a few times, running a hand across his face. “Got it. An’ what exactly do you want to be doin’ if it ain’t workin’ for your daddy, fast trackin’ to CEO?”

“I…” you stutter, your eyes falling. That was the problem, wasn’t it? You hadn’t had the mindset, the freedom to wonder for so long, not realizing that you did have a choice in what you did with your life, that you could try to find a path you at least tolerated more than what your dad was going to have you do. You’d seen too much - the pressure, the stress, the kind of person it had made him into, and you wanted no part of that lifestyle. 

“I don’t know yet, honestly,” you admit, embarrassed that you’d started this whole plan without an end goal, all built on a frustrated whim you had one day. “Maybe something in education? Maybe fashion, interior design? Something more creative, I think. Or I could even be a lawyer, help people out, or something.”

“Thas’ quite a laundry list, sweetheart,” Joel says, and your heart thuds at the pet name. You hate it, hate how it makes him sound condescending even if he isn’t meaning to, like you aren’t smart enough to figure this out for yourself.

“I know, I know,” you acquiesce. It was all a pipe dream, you knew that deep down. “I just needed to get away from it. I hate business school - it just feels like a load of shit, honestly, Mr. Miller. I don’t want to become like my dad.”

“An’ what’s that, hm? What’s becomin’ like your dad?”

You shake your head. “I-I’m not answering that. It’s your friend, and clearly you see some merit in him to stay close all these years. I… don’t want to ruin that for him, too.” The thought makes you sad. Your dad is already about to lose his only child if he finds you out, and you don’t want to bring losing Mr. Miller into it, too. While it was by your dad’s own choices and shortcomings that he’d lose you, you still find your heart squeezing a little for him at the thought.

“Fair enough,” he says with a small smile, rubbing his hands together before putting them back on the armrests, gripping it. He pushes himself up, standing and walking over to his desk, opening one of the top drawers and pulling something out. You can’t see from this angle, and fight the urge to get up and go see what has so suddenly grabbed his attention. 

“How much?” he asks, grabbing a pen from a tiny box on the desk - a pen that likely costs more than what you’re making from this one job today. 

Your lips part, mouth hanging open slightly. “What?” you ask, shaking your head.

“How much do you make in a week? Here at this job? I’ll pay you five times just f’you to quit it.”

“Mr. Miller… n-no,” you spit out, hopping up from the chair in a hurry. You rush towards the desk, your non-slip work shoes clunking along the hardwood until you reach the plush rug that surrounds his desk. “No,” you say a little more firmly, planting your hands on the desk, standing opposite of him. 

“And why not?” He smirks now, like he’s somehow having fun here, and it irritates you. That would only make one of you having a nice time, because you are certainly fully out of your depth here. 

“B-because! It’s ridiculous, that’s why. I don’t need handouts,” you say indignantly, now moving both of your hands to your hips, standing taller. 

“Sounds like you might,” he half-teases, looking down at where he’s pulled out his checkbook onto the desk. His face falls suddenly and he rubs the back of his neck. “Jus’… I don’t like hearin’ what I’m hearin’. Could never imagine cuttin’ off Sarah, and if that’s true what you say about your dad, well, I…” he glances up to you with a more serious look in his eyes - pity.

Like your father, Mr. Miller also only has one daughter, Sarah, who as far as you’ve heard is well and thriving. Doing some kind of work in animal rescue, you think. You two had never been close given the over ten year age gap between you two - Joel had Sarah relatively young, and as long as you’ve known them, her mother hasn’t been fully in the picture. You’d always noticed how much Joel cared about her, how good of a father he was, remembering the pangs of jealousy you’d get as a kid when you saw how engaged he was with Sarah.

“You’re a good dad, that’s why,” you murmur in reply, eyes casting downwards. 

“I try t’be, I suppose,” he says, sounding more bashful. “C’mon, jus’ name it, sweetheart. No harm done, it’ll be our secret.”

“Wh- what am I even supposed to do? If you give me the money? What do I…” You swallow hard. “Owe? What do you get out of this?”

Joel’s energy turns a little lighter, his smirk returning. “Let’s just say I enjoy helping you. I want to. Nothin’ owed, except coming by same time next week for your next check. We can talk more then, give y’some time to think.”

Think? About what? You almost scoff, but reign it in at the last second, fighting your eyes from rolling on top of it. “Mr. Miller, this is…” 

“Ridiculous? Is it, really?” 

Oh, he’s good, so convincing when he wants to be. Suave and calculated yet warm at the same time. You understand how he got to be so successful, how so many people likely fall at their feet to just be a part of the air he breathes, the aura he fills a space with. He’s a giant, knowing how to command a room, take up just enough space, yet feel so relatable at the same time.

“I’d feel too guilty…” you say quietly, your shoulders sagging in defeat.

“More guilty than doing this job, droppin’ out of school behind your parents back?”

Your skin is burning up, your brain at war with itself. He’s too insistent, there has to be some angle here that you’re missing, some reason he’d be so kind to you. Leverage - blackmail, maybe - to your father, to be able to hold it over your head to get what he wants at some point.

“Hey, c’mon. I’m serious, sweetheart. Just the check, nothin’ more,” Joel says more urgently, seeing the way you’re starting to waver.

“How can I trust you?” you finally spit out, and Joel leans back in his office chair, just watching where you stand. “I’m sorry, it’s all very nice and everything, but no. I c-can’t. I shouldn’t. I need to do this for myself.”

You turn to leave, and you hear the creak of Joel’s chair as he sits forward, watching you throw the office door open and move with purpose, rushing to get yourself out of this situation as fast as possible. You feel the spell lift immediately now that you’re out of reach, whipping past his fine furnishings and art as you move through the hallway back to the foyer. You hear Joel, hot on your tail, his energy a little more frantic than he’s been as he follows you.

“At least let me drive you home,” he finally offers as he rushes to catch up. You keep moving, shaking your head.

“N-no, I’ll just get a ride or something. Call my driver,” you throw at him over your shoulder, and his hand on your wrist stops you in your path just as the front door is in sight. You fully turn your head to face him now, and his eyes look soft, like he does care.

“Offer’ll stay on the table, okay?” Joel says and you just let your lips part, meeting his gaze for a moment. It’s intense, the standoff between the two of you, his eyes searching for weakness, for any crack that indicates you’ll give in. You offer him a succinct nod, slipping out of his grip and not looking back as you step out into the bright sunlight of the evening, shielding your eyes before pulling out your phone to call Karl, the man who has been your personal driver for years. Your father hired him, but he’s been nothing but loyal to you - you know Karl has kept every secret of where you’ve been, overheard phone calls, arguments with your father. He never says a word, never spreads the information - he’s paid well, and that extra cash pays for his silence.

In the back of the car, your phone buzzes in your lap while you stare contemplatively out the window. You ignore it, letting your eyes glaze over as you watch the houses pass you by on the way out of Joel’s neighborhood and back towards downtown. 

What if this was your chance? Your only option to really get out from underneath your parents? It could be a huge cushion, much more than you’d make doing what you’re doing now. At this rate, it would take ages to get enough to push you through school, where you’d already have to start from scratch, leave Columbia and start an entirely new curriculum, most likely. Find a much cheaper school, then take care of housing, bills, everything on top of it that you’d never been prepared to have to worry about in your life, always promised the comforts of your parents money. You knew you were lucky, going around with your life spoon fed to you, but you wanted to feel something, the part of you that was excited about anything having died off completely when you realized the spoon had been fed to you through a cage. Live this way or we starve you, cut you off.

You sigh, dropping your head into your hand where it rests along the window of the car. The noise of Manhattan traffic goes in one ear and out the other, fading into oblivion as you realize you may have made a mistake by leaving so soon, not hearing Joel out. 

Did you have a choice?

Your phone buzzes again, a reminder of the message from your father you’d ignored and you tear your eyes off the passing landscape to peer down at your lap. Your face falls, brows pushing together when you see it’s an unknown number texting you.

Unknown: If you change your mind, let me know. - JM

How the hell? You stare down at the message, eyes scanning rapidly over the screen in disbelief. You scoff quietly, but find your lips turning into a smile before you can stop it, unconsciously putting your fingers over your them as if Karl seeing you grin like this could give it all away. 

You: How did you get this number?

Joel: I think you underestimate how persistent I can be.

You: Does it hurt your ego to take no for an answer? Is that what this is?

You eagerly lick your lips, smile growing as you find yourself so quick to banter with him. It’s always so much easier over text, you think to yourself, to be a little more bold, a little more careless. Joel had a warm, welcoming energy, but it doesn’t mean you’re immune to the way he charms, the way he seems to be a man who gets what he wants more often than not.

Joel: I think it’ll hurt you more than it does me sweetheart.

You: I’m thinking about it, okay?

Joel: Think away.

You tuck your phone away, flipping it over on your lap so you can’t see the screen anymore, drumming your fingers along the back of the case as you feel a surge of frustration wash over you. If Joel’s offer is genuine, if he really expects nothing in return, you’d be a complete fool to pass it up, right? Who passes up free money? You knew you were screwed either way, really - the job you had right now wasn’t getting you anywhere near achieving your dreams. You needed more, you needed support. Financially first of all, but if you were honest, someone like Joel with some life experience to help you figure out your next steps couldn’t hurt.

Fuck.

You wince and flip your phone back over, unlocking it to where the messages still sit on your screen, taunting you. Your fingers go flying before you can stop yourself, your heart starting to pick up in pace.

You: You’re serious? I wouldn’t owe you anything? Have to pay you back someday?

Joel: Serious as can be.

You: $800 a week. Without tips from lovely clients like you.

Joel is quiet on the other end for a while, slower than his usual response thus far, and your throat gets a little tight. You swear, if he was backing out now, or worse, sending screenshots of your conversation to your father, you were going to have it out with Joel Miller. And it wasn’t going to be pretty.

Instead, a few moments later, a text comes through, a photo. That same checkbook, the background the sleek black surface of his desk, with the top check filled out for four thousand dollars. Signed and everything, with the memo line reading ‘knew you’d make the right choice’. Your hand shakes a little, all of this feeling wrong suddenly now that it's gone this far. 

Joel: 9am tomorrow.

Joel sits back, satisfied as he smirks at his phone. The check lays in front of him, taunting him, his energy buzzing and satisfied picturing your pretty hands taking it from him tomorrow. He sighs heavily, a hand creeping up his thigh to where he’s started to bulge through his black dress slacks. 

“Fuck…” he murmurs quietly to himself as he palms it, his hard and wanting cock desperate for any relief. It would be wrong, should be wrong, if you’re the one involved in all of this. But he can’t care when he pictures your lips smiling with the check in hand, you depositing the money and buying yourself something pretty with it, taking care of bills, getting a nice meal. You spin in a new dress or top, showing it off to him, bought with that chunk of change he’d so willingly given to you. Just the tiniest of dents in his finances, so much more where that came from if you’d let him. He’s hardly realized it, the way his hand had undone his belt and zipper while he got lost in the fantasy, hard cock in his fist as he pictures it over and over. He tries to make it not you, not his friend's daughter as he immerses himself in the scenes, but he’d be remiss if he tried to deny that you’re a gorgeous young woman, that you’d look so good doing everything he’s picturing.

“Fuck, oh god…” Joel whimpers while his hand moves along his cock, slickened from the bit of precum leaking out the tip and the saliva he’d haphazardly spit down there when he started. He stares at the check, your hands on it over and over, your pretty lips and smile and the way he could give you more and more and more until you wanted for nothing. He grunts, hips stuttering forward as he fucks his fist quickly and finds himself coming faster than usual, his release taking him by surprise with a loud moan.

“Christ,” Joel murmurs as he breathes heavily, quickly cleaning himself up with a tissue before rushing to the powder room connected to his office, washing his hands of it all. He stares at himself in the mirror, such a bastard for what he’s doing, all the secrecy inlaid in his plan.

Your father… one of his oldest friends, and this is what he’s doing with that friendship? That empire of business savvy they built together? Years of trust, of advising one another, throwing it all away for a little gratification on his end? No, he knows this is about more than just him, this could really help you if what you said about your father was true. He knows your dad isn’t an easy man to live with - he’s got a short temper and is stubborn as hell, a black and white thinker if there ever was one. If he truly was saying he’d cut you off, then well, Joel was starting to think he’d believe that. 

And he wants to be the one to ease that burden for you.

You fuss with your appearance yet another time, anxiety pooling in your gut as you inspect your hair and complexion, searching for anything amiss. It’s not like Joel hadn’t seen you a complete mess yesterday, your bland outfit so far from what you were used to wearing, your appearance an afterthought as you went into work at an early hour.

But last night, as you tossed and turned, anticipating meeting back up with Joel today, you’d wondered what he expected out of you. Someone pretty to look at, someone deserving of the money? Would you get there and find Joel completely different, taunting the check in your face unless you decided to get on your knees and suck his cock? Let him get a quick fuck in for the money? There was no way he was that charitable, just willing to drop four grand because you’d given him your daddy issues sob story yesterday. 

So what was the catch?

There always was one - men with money didn’t just give it away for free unless it was to charity, wanting to look good. And you surely weren’t a charity case by any means. Sex for money seemed like the next logical option to your tired, frazzled brain as you laid awake in the dark. You didn’t know if he presented it like that, would you go along with it? Would you, this far in already, bring yourself to your knees for him?

Joel Miller is certainly handsome, nobody could deny that, but you’d never thought of him in that way, not really. Maybe noticing his broad, muscled shoulders stretching across his suits when you’d seen him, his cocky, warm smile that seemed to melt hearts everywhere he went. He’d always seemed kind, more amiable than your parents’ insufferable network of friends, which you’d taken notice of and respected Joel for over the years. But you’d never thought of yourself with someone older like him, despite seeing those young dates being toted on wealthy, older men’s arms to all kinds of charity events and parties over the years. Would you want that? To be seen like that?

You feel your skin tingle as the thought comes to you again this morning while you get dressed. Joel Miller in a lavish, designer suit, tailored perfectly to his body, you next to him in an equally gorgeous gown that he paid for, your hand slipped between his body and his thick bicep as he glides into a room full of people with you. And he’s proud of how good you look on his arm, how he can show the world just what he’s bought, what he’s paid for. Your head shakes violently as if to jolt the thought far away from you.

“No…” you whisper to yourself. It wouldn’t get that far, you wouldn’t let it. Maybe you’d just take the one check and run, tell Joel you couldn’t be what he was looking for. But that’s when you realize you don’t even know what it is that he may want to get out of this, the curiosity eating at you. 

That bastard. Such an enigma he’d painted himself as yesterday when he’d so cooly offered you the money like it was no bother, like he’d expected nothing back. There was always something, always a trade - if you learned anything from your father, it was that.

You can't shake that incessant thought, walking up the steps of Joel’s brownstone, hesitantly knocking on his door and swallowing down the lump in your throat. The assistant you’d met yesterday opens it with a polite smile, beaming at you.

“Welcome. Mr. Miller will be right out,” she says, guiding you to a plush daybed off to the side. You just nod, a little dumbfounded as you step back into his grand foyer. It’s a lavish room with tall ceilings, a skylight at the top pouring extra light in along with the floor to ceiling frosted windows on either side of the front door. Joel’s dress shoes click along the floor, the sound bouncing off the walls as you stiffen and then freeze where you sit. You see him come into view, the top button of his pale blue dress shirt unbuttoned, navy slacks adorning the bottom of his look. He looks a little frazzled himself, like he’d tossed and turned just as much as you had last night. You hadn’t considered the possibility that Joel could have reservations about this now, too, since he’d been the one so eager to offer it up yesterday. 

“Thanks, Clara,” Joel says kindly, giving her a nod before Clara skirts along the edge of the room, dismissing herself at Joel’s signal. You watch her go, confidently striding away before you skim your eyes up to Joel’s face, trying not to look too guilty.

“Back this way,” he says, holding out a hand in the direction of his office as if you weren’t here only yesterday. You stand, meeting him, and he quickly takes you in, noticing your complete change in style from yesterday - dressed much more like the businesswoman he knows you loath with a pencil skirt on. He tries not to laugh at the irony as you follow him back, taking that same path you’d just been on yesterday, a strange sense of deja vu washing over you. 

You’re silent, just trying to breathe, to remember to stand your ground, not do anything you don’t absolutely want to do. You haven’t signed a contract, you aren’t bound to this, you two are just… talking. Joel smirks as he eyes you, clearly trying to walk in with confidence, but he knows this look - you’re apprehensive about the arrangement, you have questions. They always have questions. 

He curves around his desk, pulling out his highback office chair and sinks into it, you doing the same in one of the sleek armchairs in front of his desk. It feels too much like a professional meeting, and your skin prickles with discomfort at how formal this all seems now. His fingers scratch along the checkbook on the desk, and you salivate as you keep widened eyes on it, knowing the number written on there, the promise of more of it to come. Your way out.

“So…” Joel says cooly, letting his hands link together and pulling them behind his head as he leans back a bit, the picture of relaxation. “Let’s talk.”

Is this some kind of sugar daddy situation, or what?

Joel laughs, a genuine smile across his face at your blunt question as he sits across from you. 

“Well, in a lot of ways, I ‘spose it is,” he answers casually and honestly. You don’t understand how he can maintain this cool facade, this relaxed attitude given the circumstances. You’d think something so awkward and uncomfortable could get anyone frazzled, but then again, you take it this isn’t Joel’s first go-around with this type of offer. He goes on. “I’ll try to be blunt for both our sakes. We’re busy people. I want to… go beyond jus’ the checks. I’d pay for your lifestyle - school, car, whatever you want. Treat you, too. Give you money for all the things your pretty little heart desires, see you enjoyin’ it.”

That was not what you’d expected him to say. You stare wordlessly, stunned, expecting him to go on, to tell you now what you have to do to earn all of it. He remains quiet though, finally looking the tiniest bit sheepish as the both of you size each other up. 

“…And you get?” you finally ask, your face screwed up in confusion as you shrug, throwing your hands up.

Joel smirks again, and you notice the dimple on the side of his face that he seems to prefer tilting his mouth upwards. “I get exactly that. What I said. You enjoyin’ it.”

Your mouth hangs open slightly, eyes narrowing in his direction. You give a tiny shake of your head. “No… there has to be something. One day you’ll turn it around on me, blackmail me or something.”

Joel laughs again, and you’re starting to get irritated at how blasé he seems about all of this. Your foot starts to tap anxiously on the rug underneath your feet, arms crossing over your chest. You try to remain unimpressed as you stare him down, but he’s not budging in the slightest, remaining cool as ever. 

“You really think that’s the kind of guy I am, do you now?” he asks with amusement. 

You scoff, pinching the inside of your lip between your teeth. “How should I know? You offer me a bunch of money and we hardly know each other, Mr. Miller.”

“First off, Joel, please, unless you’re into that, I ‘spose.” He gives you a suave smirk and your lips part a little, cheeks heating almost immediately at his words and their insinuation before you check yourself, turning back to the conversation. You’re determined not to let his charm get in the way of you walking out of here with your future secured.

“Okay, then, Joel. I just… you don’t want something from me in return? It’s not that I’m not grateful, I just can’t understand.” You tut and glance around the room for a moment to collect your thoughts. “I mean you get it, right? People with money always want something out of it. I’ve seen it my entire life.”

Joel gives you an understanding look. “I do, I get it, sweetheart. If you want me to want somethin’ out of it…” he trails off, pondering for a moment. “If that’d make you feel better about takin’ the money, then why don’t y’come spend some time with me. Let me take you out, or jus’ come by for a nice dinner, me ‘n you. Get to know each other a little, keep an old man company, hm?”

You roll your eyes with a breathy chuckle pushing out of you, feeling yourself relaxing the tiniest bit at his appeal. “Really trying to play the sympathy card calling yourself old, I see,” you say, quirking a teasing brow. You grow more serious with your next words, worrying that you’re signing yourself up for something you aren’t sure you want or even understand. “But uh, I… could do that… if that’s all you want.”

Joel’s gears are turning, and you see a flash of recognition across his face as it falls a little. He leans forward, propping his forearms on the desk, his brows knit tight and eyes narrowed while they watch you. “D’you think I expect you to sleep with me?”

You nearly choke on nothing, just the air that you’re now fighting to gasp in as you clear your throat. Your cheeks burn like something fierce, that notion you’d been so worried about as you tossed and turned last night now sounding so obscenely ridiculous when Joel says it out loud. 

“I - I thought maybe that was how this sort of arrangement worked, l-like an unspoken expectation or something. But if you’re saying no -“

“I’m saying no.” Joel is hard with the words, concise, and his gaze ices over. He was kidding himself if he thought he wasn’t even remotely attracted to you, but he was already putting himself in a precarious enough spot with the secrecy of giving you this money behind your father’s back, let alone deciding to bring something as complicated as sex into it. 

You didn’t need to know that just the thought of handing you this check made him start to get hard inside his slacks. You didn’t need to know that this wasn’t the first arrangement of this kind for him, the only difference being that most of them involved a relationship of some type, or at least something physical once and a while. There had been times it was just about the money, and sometimes that was enough to satisfy him without the women having to fall into his bed, too. He’d hated that he fell into such a cliche - wealthy older man toting around a younger, gorgeous woman on his arm - but he’d come to accept it by now that this was who he was, trying to come to terms with the shame of it.

“Right… right, good,” you confirm, trying to sound equally as sure. What was that you were feeling? Disappointment? Relief? All you could sense for certain was the way your stomach tightened with nerves as you delved into this conversation with Joel. 

“We got enough on our plate without all that, don’t you think?” he asks, a very roundabout way of putting it, you think. Maybe he’s too afraid to hurt your feelings or directly tell you that he’s not interested in sleeping with you, even if that’s what he’d normally do in a situation like this. Joel Miller was nothing if not direct, though, you’d noticed in the last two days. You aren’t even sure why you’re thinking this way - it’s not like you’d really shown much interest in Joel, never thinking of him as accessible in that way. It never went past him being an extended part of your family, one of your father’s inner circle. So if he didn’t want to have sex with you, fine, your ego could take the hit. 

“Jus’ the money, helpin’ out a family friend who needs it,” Joel adds, seeing the way you’re a bit lost in thought. You bring yourself back, meeting Joel’s eyes, noticing the rich color of them in the early daylight streaming into his office. They’re so warm despite the chilly facade he can put on. 

You nod, giving him a small smile. “Yeah, when you put it like that… I mean we go way back, right? You’re practically family.” You cringe at the words, kind of hating the implication when you’re half flirting with the man and then proceeding to call him your family. “Uh, well, you know what I mean…”

Joel chuckles again, and you return it a bit nervously. “I do, sweetheart. Known your daddy a long time, so I’m trying to be, as dumb as it sounds, respectful.”

Fuck my father, your mind churns out in a flash, not daring to mutter it under your breath. Fuck him for putting you in this position, pushing you to this point where you’ve ended up in Joel Miller’s office, about to become his latest sugar baby because your dad can’t figure out how to love his only child apart from what it could bring to his business.

“Yeah…” you say, putting on a grin that you fear may have started to turn a little diabolical.  “Respectful.” You’d be lying to yourself if you thought that this wasn’t starting to entice you more, the idea of such a big screw you to your father.

“So let’s talk terms…” Joel starts more pragmatically, picking up that same pen from the little box on his desk, tapping it on the hard surface a few times before he holds it over a blank page on an open black leather bound notebook. “I like t’start at five hundred for allowance. See how it goes. Then up to two thousand. An’ that’s just for you, and you alone. Your bills will come to me. Your apartment, tuition, your car, anything that’s a bill, I don’t want to see a cent of that allowance come out for it. Is that clear?”

Your mouth is slowly opening to gape at him, eyes tracking across his face as you try to follow what he’s saying, thinking it must be a joke. “S-sorry, but two thousand dollars? A… month?” you ask incredulously. That already sounds like too much to be going from Joel’s pocket to yours if he’s also taking care of your bills.

Joel goes completely smug, lips pressed tightly into a smirk. “You’re cute,” he deadpans. “Per week, sweetheart.” 

You almost gasp, shaking your head. “I- no, I just need money for school, to make sure I can do any major I want in school, I don’t n-“

“Shh,” Joel interrupts you. “You came here lookin’ for my help, and this is how I like to do things. You deserve to have fun, not just pay for classes and have no extra money f’yourself.”

“I have plent-“ you start, referring to the extensive funds you have access to thanks to your parents. Funds that you do realize could be ripped out from underneath you at any time, you realize all over again with a quick jolt of fear. 

“Enough,” Joel snips, raising a hand, palm facing you for further effect. “If what you tell me is true, I think your daddy ain’t gonna be too keen to pay for all your favorite things you’re used to gettin’ when he learns the truth, is he?”

You look down, ashamed. Were you really that shallow? Is that how you’d been raised to be? Joel sees through your facade right to your designer bag and clothes, all the expensive things you’d gotten accustomed to. But he doesn’t judge you for it - he understands it and he’s a part of that world, whether he likes it or not.

“No…” you murmur in defeat.

“And I’d like to keep seeing you in pretty things: nice clothes, shoes, gettin’ yourself pampered. So, two thousand dollars per week once you earn it.” He grins, setting the pen down and folding his hands together on his desk. You stay quiet, letting him go on, your heart steadily thrumming in your chest louder and louder with every word he says. 

“Weekly allowance is, of course, a suggestion. If you need somethin’ more, you ask me. And otherwise, I’ll set your bills, tuition, all of it, to be paid by me.”

“I mean, weekly allowances?” you sputter out, “This is a sugar daddy thing.”

Joel doesn’t waver, he just smiles a little at you, completely unfazed. “We can call it whatever you want, but I see you want it too. I’m gonna be straight w’you here - I want to do this. I like you. I think you’ve got spunk and deserve to carve out a place for yourself in this world. Doin’ something you want, not half heartedly runnin’ your dad’s company someday. So… Do you still want this?” he asks, picking up the check, holding it out towards you. “Don’t think you’d be here if you didn’t.”

Joel’s face is kind, like he’s listening, attentive, acting like he doesn’t have a plethora of meetings or things on his plate today, which you know he must. He’s content to hear you, if you have something to say. You feel your whole body sitting tense and rigid in his chair, your mind spinning. It’s all becoming too much, this idea you had to get out on your own seems to be poked with more holes every day you’ve been trying to work and save up. You don’t really have much of a concept of money, once again thanks to your parents who never thought to put in the effort of teaching you. Why bother when there’s so much of it to go around?

“I- I know… what I’m doing now, the house cleaning, isn’t going to cut it long term. Especially if my parents find out I’ve been bullshitting them before I can save up enough for school and stuff… I just don’t k-“ you clear your throat, holding back the way your voice wants to crack as you fight tears springing to your eyes. “I feel so out of my depth,” you sigh. “I have so much to learn about real life and it’s been so… overwhelming.” 

You breathe out a shaky breath, feeling your chest loosen a bit - you’d been holding this all in, doing it on your own for weeks now, not even able to trust your friends with the information even if just to vent about it because everyone in your world always has an angle. It’s exhausting. 

Joel hears your words and stands up, going the few paces around his desk to stand next to you. He lays a hand on your shoulder, and you look up from where you sit, seeing him through slightly watery eyes, but you refuse to cry and break down in front of Joel. It would be too embarrassing to recover from. But you’d be damned if you didn’t feel like you were about to snap in half, holding in your tears for weeks now as you navigated this foolish path you’d set yourself on.

He gives your shoulder a squeeze before moving to sit down next to you, turning the identical chair to face you more, settling himself down and crossing one ankle over his knee. He leans towards you, and you do the same, angling your body in the chair to face him. His gaze is so steady and clear, giving you that full sense of his presence once again.

“Y’know…” he starts, scratching a hand through his beard. “I think you’ve got more potential than you’re givin’ yourself credit for.”

You snort, a tiny scoffing sound. “Oh yeah?” you spit out sarcastically, “That I have no experience, no references, nothing to show for all the time I wasted doing what my dad wanted? Except for a last name and a family that people recognize.”

Joel tuts and bites the inside of his lip. “You’re smart and so young with all this potential. You know this kinda talk ain’t gonna get you anywhere. Neither is feelin’ sorry for yourself. All you can do is use the opportunities you’re given, like this one landing in your lap from me today. Right?”

“Y-yeah, I mean, I guess you’re right. This just feels… kind of wrong.”

“Well we ain’t a couple of saints for doing this behind your daddy’s back, that’s for sure.”

You find yourself chuckling softly amidst the seriousness of the situation weighing on your chest. You honestly don’t have a clue how your father would react if he found out about this - he’s unpredictable and stubborn, and you’ve seen his vindictive side more than a handful of times. It makes your stomach clench a little at the thought of him unleashing any of that in your direction. You strengthen your resolve, unwilling to let your father stop you from exploring new horizons any longer. It was your life to live, and it was about time you did what you wanted.

“A-alright,” you tell Joel, sighing out a calming breath and sitting up straighter. “Alright, I’m in, then. What’s next?”