AN: As proofed as anything I publish here, which is to say: this is full of typos.
Six months. That’s how long you have to wait for Santiago to come home. He has to run out his contract, wrap up his loose ends in Colombia while you wait for him in Florida.
Rated MA for p in v sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, handjobs, smoking/nicotine use, excessive drinking, characters not knowing how to handle emotions properly (same), ANGST [please let me know if i missed anything at all :)]
6,003 Words
A/N: thank you to the lovely @shakespeareanwannabe for being my ever faithful beta reader ily 🥺
Smoke disperses in abstract swirls from Joel’s parted lips, the tang of nicotine making his taste buds prickle. It’s been a long time since he’s been afforded the luxury of a cigarette and this first drag makes him think he might not want to pick the habit back up, after all. But you worked hard to find these for him after he mentioned he missed having a smoke, and he’s not one to let a gift go unappreciated. Especially now that gifts are off the table.
It’s become routine at this point. Waking up in the middle of the night; reaching for you, realizing all over again that you’re not there anymore; ruminating on what’s happened, how he’s taken you for granted. At least he has his cigarette to keep him company.
There’s no chance of going back to sleep for him–it’s 4AM anyway, close enough to a full night’s sleep. He takes another drag and decides it’s not as bad anymore. He just needs to get reacclimated to it.
He only allows himself to savor half the cigarette before he stubs it out in the ashtray on the nightstand–another gift from you–to save for next time he needs it. He wants to make this pack last; he doesn’t care as much about maintaining the habit as he does about having any little piece of you he can.
Two hours later, he’s bathed to the best of his ability given the stunted resources in the quarantine zone and ready for another day in hell.
He didn’t hate it nearly as much until he started working with you again.
When you see him you wear the same soft smile you always do, nodding your head in greeting as if nothing is wrong. His face remains flat as he nods back. Nothing he can do but play along–pretend you were never his to lose in the first place. After all, if you haven’t heard his heart fracturing into a million pieces by now, you never will.
“Either quit starin’ or go over there and talk to her,” Tess tells him sternly. He immediately snaps his eyes away and tries to shoot her a glare, but he’s a bit too embarrassed for it to actually land.
“M’not starin’,” he grunts.
She actually almost cracks a smile at his denial. “The hell you’re not, you look like a lost puppy. Why don’t you talk to her?”
“She ain’t interested in talkin’.”
“Bullshit. That’s all she wants.”
Maybe Tess is right. Maybe he’s the one who’s afraid. He’s not going to admit that, though.
“If she wanted to talk to me, she’d come talk to me.”
“You probably scared her off.”
Joel slams his hand against the wagon bed, startling everyone within a ten meter radius except Tess. “That’s enough.”
“Touchy.” Tess rolls her eyes but backs off nonetheless, not interested in poking the bear any further.
Joel lets it go and turns his attention back to his assigned job for the day, mentally preparing himself for another night of washing the stench of death from himself and his clothes. Normally, you would do it for him without complaining. Now it’s just another addition to the list of efforts he didn’t appreciate enough while he had you.
Even though he dreads the consequences, he allows himself to become completely preoccupied with his work in a way he normally wouldn’t. It’s a reprieve from the constant swirling of his mind, from the overthinking that keeps him up at night or invades his dreams when he finally finds rest.
The day is over far too soon, and then he’s back in his little apartment with nothing but his own mind for company.
His mind hasn’t been a friend lately.
He looks around and everywhere his dark amber eyes catch, he sees you. You sprawled on the worn couch underneath a threadbare blanket, you swaying your hips to the rhythm of silent music in the kitchen, you casually dropping the towel wrapped around your naked body to the floor as you step out of the shower and lure him down the hall to the bedroom.
He wants to crawl into a deep, dark pit when he remembers what he said and how he chased you away. Your only sin was introducing him to someone as your man, and he played like he was upset about it because that’s not what this was ever supposed to be. There had been an agreement, in the beginning, that feelings wouldn’t be involved. It would be you, him, separate, occasionally helping each other out.
It so quickly turned into you and him, so inseparable you were practically living together. Neither of you even tried to stop it despite the agreement. And Joel was fine with it, liked it even. Until it was put into words.
Because he’s not supposed to be anyone’s. He’s Joel Miller, and he’s not deserving of belonging to anyone; including himself.
He didn’t mean to push you away. It was more out of instinct, an inborn urge to self-destruct.
The instinct has won, because he feels like mere pieces at this point. Like you’ve taken a sledgehammer to his heart repeatedly, which really isn’t fair to you. Space was his decision–you didn’t even fight it.
With a third of whiskey in his hand and an ache in his jaw from having it unconsciously clenched so long, he slumps down on his time-worn couch and begins a long night of rehashing mistakes and feeling bad for himself.
It could be so easily fixed if he just swallowed his pride. It’s a competition of will at this point–a game to see who can survive without the other for the longest. He hates that he’s losing, that it’s not affecting you; that even though it was his choice, he’s the one who’s suffering the most.
He must spill his drink–although he can’t find where it possibly could’ve been spilled, everything around him is dry–because it’s gone within a few minutes. He allows himself another glass as a reward for surviving a particularly shitty day.
When he comes to in the morning, there’s a pounding in his head so loud that it drowns out any other sound he might hear. It takes him a moment to realize that the pounding is on the door–then he processes how blinding the sun is coming through the slats of the tattered blinds precariously hanging over the window.
Joel pushes himself up from the couch with a grunt and stumbles a little, nearly falling right back into place. He curses himself for becoming such a lightweight as he stomps his way over to the door and throws it open.
“Jesus Christ, you reek,” Tess chokes, pushing past him to make her way inside. “I’ve only been knockin’ for ten minutes, what the hell were you doin’?”
“Sleeping,” he tells her with a pointed glare. It doesn’t ruffle her at all–it never does.
“Missed morning shift,” she notes. “How much you have to drink?”
“Not enough.”
“Alright, that’s it,” she tells him with a sigh. “It’s time to stop with the pity party if you’re not gonna play the hand you’re dealt. You know how stupid you’re being? She wants you. You want her. Two words’ll fix the whole thing and you’ll go right back to bein’ the disgusting little lovebirds you are. Apologize.”
“No,” he insists without thinking it over. Because he knows she’s right–he owes you an apology. And he also knows you’ll take him back the instant he delivers.
Which is exactly why he can’t. He knows he doesn’t deserve another chance to take you for granted. He didn’t appreciate you enough when he had you, and you deserve to find someone who will. Asking for another chance would be the most selfish thing he’s ever done, and Joel Miller is not a selfish man.
“Then drink yourself to death.” As much as Tess plays at being frustrated with him, he’s never seen her this legitimately upset. “I’m done cleanin’ up for you. You’re acting pathetic, Joel Miller. Get yourself together or get yourself over.”
And before he can stop her, apologize, beg, plead, do anything besides bite his tongue in pure shock, she’s gone. The slam of the door rings through his head for a good minute longer than it should.
All he can do is slump like a sack of potatoes onto the couch, his center of gravity off balance from the weight in his heart and the churning in his stomach.
It was never supposed to be like this; it was never supposed to get this far. You were supposed to fight him, demand he stay, do anything to make him feel like you really want to be with him. Instead, you acquiesced without resistance. You listened to his offer of space and accepted without hesitance. Almost like you were looking for an out.
That’s what hurts most, maybe. That you can still afford to smile at him like nothing ever happened between you when he feels like he’ll never smile again.
He knows he can’t lose Tess over this–she’s the only friend he’s got and a damned good business partner. He knows it’s time to clean up his act. What he doesn’t know is if he actually can without you by his side.
Baby steps. He decides to start by showering and changing his clothes; the freshness should make him feel astronomically better.
He lets the limited hot water run over his sore muscles and through his hair, trying to wash away memories of you along with the dirt and grime.
He thinks of long nights spent sneaking out after curfew–his pack heavy on his aching shoulders but barely feeling it when you’re so near. He thinks of nights in this apartment together, hours and hours spent reminiscing and planning new trips and even more hours spent in comfortable silence. He thinks of you on your knees in this very shower with him, of how he felt akin to a god beneath your praise and worship.
He lets the thoughts swirl for just a moment, and then he watches as they trickle down the drain.
A towel off and a change of clothes later, and he’s almost a new man. The hole in his chest has shrunk a bit, at least.
One deep breath, then another. Joel can almost feel you slipping through his fingers, and for once the sensation doesn’t terrify him. There’s a quiet solitude, a resignation to his mind now. He’ll never be happy, and that’s okay. He might at least be able to find peace if he can’t have you.
He finds Tess and apologizes–at least in the best fashion Joel Miller can manage. It’s a grunted “sorry” and not much more, but it’s enough.
And then, because he has nothing else to do with his free time, he throws himself completely into survival. Working long shifts at the fires during the day, and even longer shifts as a smuggler at night. The crows feet at the corners of his eyes deepen and his hair grays rapidly, but he finds a way out. He finds a way away from you, and he doesn’t hesitate to take it.
Somehow, you beat him to Jackson. He doesn’t know how–he’s sure you were still in Boston when he left–but you’re waiting there for him when he arrives.
Waiting maybe isn’t the best way of putting it; you look at him like you’re looking at a poltergeist. Not just a ghost of your past, but a volatile and unpredictable one at that.
He can’t blame you. He ditched you, after all–not just emotionally, but physically.
You observe from afar for a while, like a timid animal meeting its first human. You watch his reunion with his brother, how he seems to fit like a puzzle piece into such a tight knit community. You even see him interacting with the young girl he’s brought along with him, and you wonder if he’s changed. If maybe he’s allowed his heart to open even just the slightest fraction.
The whole of Jackson gathers to greet this newest member, and you’re on the very edge of the crowd. But it’s like there’s an invisible string connecting the two of you—like the sea of people parts to make a path for your reunion.
Joel doesn’t know what to say. It’s been so long, and yet it feels like just yesterday he still had you in his arms.
You nod at him and awkwardly shuffle your feet against the cracked pavement. ”Hey.”
”Hey.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets to keep himself from reaching for you.
You don’t show the same restraint.
In mere seconds you’re on him, arms around his neck and lips pressed to his like he’s air—like if you don’t breathe him in you’ll die.
He grunts in surprise at the suddenness, but more at the fact that he can’t believe this is happening. That you’re really here, really in his arms, really kissing him. He doesn’t know if it would be better to talk through everything first, but he’s missed you so badly that there doesn’t seem to be another way to communicate it other than to show you. His hands settle on your waist and pull you tightly against him, lips parting to allow your tongue access. It’s harsh and it’s frenzied, but it’s beautiful in the way a force of nature is.
And then you remember the prying eyes surrounding you and you reluctantly pull out of his grasp.
There’s a bit of muffled conversation and a particularly loud wolf-whistle from Tommy before the crowd disperses, and you’re alone together for the first time in more than a year.
”Sorry—“ “That was—”
He clears his throat, and you nod in signal for him to take his turn.
“How did you get here?”
“It was a fluke, really. I caught a radio broadcast and decided to check it out. The QZ didn’t feel like home anymore after you left.”
Joel tries as hard as he can not to read too far into that, but he can’t help the fleeting hope that it means you wanted to fix things. That maybe you weren’t as unbothered as you always seemed to be.
You clear your throat and continue. “But… what about you? Who’s the kid? Where’s Tess?”
”I’m takin’ the kid to the fireflies. Tess is gone.”
Your face falls instantly. You’ve admittedly always been a little bit jealous of Tess and her closeness to Joel, but you never wished this upon her.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
Joel grunts noncommittally, and you’re left to awkwardly shuffle your feet while you think of something else to say. You’ve spent so much time apart, there should be so much more to talk about. But even in the QZ, talking was never your speciality—and it definitely wasn’t Joel’s. More than anything with him, you’re familiar with the comfortable silence that surrounds two people who’ve spent a lifetime together. Your lifetime with Joel just happened to be over the span of a couple of months; but that’s how it goes with someone who matches you so completely. There doesn’t have to be anything said when he already knows what you’re thinking—when you’re two parts of a whole.
”Sorry. About kissing you. I… I’m normally better controlled,” you mumble.
”Don’t be.” He clears his throat, shifts his feet—does everything within his power from making eye contact with you because he knows if he does he won’t be able to stop himself. “Wasn’t bad.”
”We did agree we weren’t gonna do that anymore,” you point out.
”That was back in the QZ.”
”And here?”
The hope in your voice is unmistakable. You’ve missed him, and that’s almost impossible for him to comprehend. Joel wants nothing more than to lean into your hope; to give you—and him—exactly what you want. You’ve missed out on so much time, and there’s little time available to make up for it.
Fuck it, he decides. “Here? I’m pullin’ my head out of my ass.”
And then he kisses you, and it’s not sweet. It burns—with passion, desire, regret. He presses his lips to yours like he’s finally realizing what he’s lost and might never get back. Joel Miller isn’t a man who can say sorry easily, but he says it to you now with his lips, and his tongue, and his hands.
It feels like you’re learning him all over again. You marvel at how tall he is, how broad his shoulders are as you run your palms across them. You revel in the softness of his lips and the contrasting scratch of his patchy beard. More than anything, you’re in awe of the feeling of his hands—how familiar they feel even after so long as they trail down your neck from your face on the way to your hips.
You pull away sooner than you want to, but you both seem to realize that you can’t just snog in the middle of the street. Most of the crowd has cleared out by now, but there’s a few sets of wandering eyes to worry about.
“Tommy didn’t happen to show you your house, did he?”
Joel’s brow furrows in the most adorable way as he suddenly becomes aware of his surroundings.
“I have a house? Is that where he’s taken Ellie off to?”
“C’mon, follow me.” With a wave of your hand, you’re headed down the street. Joel stands frozen in disbelief for a moment, utterly dumbfounded that you’re really here and really still want him the way you used to. He has to jog the few steps to catch up to your side, and then every ounce of effort goes into not grabbing your hand and lacing his fingers with yours.
You clear your throat in preparation for the question you have to ask. “I… I swear I don’t want to push labels or anything, but… what exactly is going on here?”
Joel sighs, and it’s easy to mistake it as a sigh of annoyance. You open your mouth to expand on your question, but he stops you.
”I made a mistake. I know it, I knew it while I was makin’ it. But I didn’t stop myself because… because you deserve better.”
You open your mouth again, and he holds up a hand to stop you. “Don’t argue. You know it’s true. And the thing is… I’ve spent a lot of time bein’ selfish, if fightin’ to survive can be called that. You’re good, and I don’t deserve to be selfish when it comes to you.”
”I want you to be selfish,” you insist as firmly as you can. “Joel, you don’t seem to understand how much I adore you, how much I rely on you. How much it hurt to lose you.”
He tries to shrug, but it’s half-hearted. There’s a kind of sick satisfaction to the fact that you were struggling just as much as he was. ”You seemed fine.”
”I was dying, Joel.” There are tears in your eyes now, and he feels guilty for insinuating that your pain wasn’t real.
”I was, too.”
”I just wish you would’ve talked to me,” you whisper. “I could’ve made it better. Things could’ve been different.”
”But they aren’t.” His tone is firm, but not malicious. He’s not trying to be mean—all he wants is for you to understand that there’s no point dwelling on the past. It’s something he’s learned over twenty years; that no matter how hard to focuses on all the mistakes he’s made and the things he regrets, there’s no way to undo any of them. No point in focusing on them at all, really.
”I… I miss you,” you tell him. “I don’t wanna keep going to bed alone and waking up wishing you were there. I don’t want to pretend we’re just friends with benefits or whatever the fuck we were supposed to have been. I don’t want to lose you over any more stupid arguments. I loved you, Joel. I still do.”
Joel swallows thickly. He’s known for a long time how he feels, and he also knows he doesn’t deserve to feel the way he does. Telling you might be the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. ”I love you too.”
”Then can we… stop being stupid?” There’s a giggle behind your tears, and it brings the smallest of smiles to his face.
”Yeah. Yeah, I think so.” He kisses you again, pausing on the steps of the house he’s supposed to occupy so he can pull you tightly into his arms. This one is sweeter, almost like a promise. Like he’s going to be a new man and this is his seal of authentication.
He scoops you up in his arms despite your squeal of protest, barely pausing enough to read the note on the door.
Took Ellie on a grand tour. We’ll meet y’all at dinner. - Tommy
You glance at your watch, then look up into his eyes. He’s thinking exactly what you are; his dark eyes are burning with tension. ”A whole hour of pure uninterrupted bliss. What’re we gonna do with ourselves?”
”I’ve got a couple ideas,” Joel grunts as he pushes the door open with his back, careful not to jostle you too much. “Startin’ with makin’ up for lost time.”
This time, he kisses you like you’re unbreakable. Like he’s diamond and testing your hardness, and you’re determined to meet his standards. You meet his lips with ferocity and take the initiative to slide your tongue over his bottom lip, reveling in the slight uptilt of his lips as he parts them for you.
You’re still in tune to his reactions, even after so long. You still know exactly where to pull his hair to make his hips buck towards you, where to kiss his neck to make him moan, where to place your hands so he’ll pull you impossibly tighter against him. He’s a puzzle you solved long ago, and even after taking the pieces apart you know where to put them back together again.
Joel’s head is all but spinning as he pulls you deeper inside, ignoring the urge to explore the unfamiliar surroundings for now in favor of finding a place that’s suitable to take you. He’s feverish and hurried, far from gentle because he knows he doesn’t need to be. You’re taking everything he’ll give and more. Later, there will be time for the gentle love-making that he admittedly prefers sometimes. For now, it’s desperate, wild, overwhelming in the best way possible. It’s getting reacquainted after so much time apart—old lovers using old tricks.
His hands have gotten rougher and even more calloused, but they remember you like it’s only been days since they were last on you. His palms trace every curve like you’re precious art. He holds you like water, like the slightest mishandle will send you spilling away from him; in complete contrast to the way he kisses you, harsh and nearly biting. It fogs your mind, sends you into autopilot. Your muscle memory takes command as you strip him bare and toss his clothes to the side, appreciating how little he’s changed besides the length of his hair and the extra gray that’s sprouted. He’s still your Joel, even after being apart for what seems like a lifetime.
”I never appreciated you enough,” he whispers into your neck as he unhooks your bra with a snap of his fingers. “Never worshiped you the way I should’ve.”
”I’m not a god,” you tell him, breath heavy even after parting from his lips.
”You are to me,” he mumbles into your skin, contrasting the honeyed praise with a stinging bite to the precise spot that makes your back arch.
He trails gentler bites down the flesh of your torso, leaving marks that contrast his statement. Gods aren’t meant to be owned, and yet he claims you in every way he can. He lays on you any little trace of his possession he can, because he knows how easily it could be taken away from him. He lost you once before, marks faded from your skin completely. He doesn’t ever want it to happen again.
The scent of you is heady, mouth-watering to a mind that was so sure it would never have you again. He knows he’s pressed for time, and he really does consider taking all of it to drink from you; to get his fill and leave himself unsatisfied if he has to.
But you’re whining and squirming, tugging at his hair in a feeble attempt to pull him up to you, and he knows he’d much rather give you what you want.
You’re wet enough to take him, but it’s still nearly painful when he pushes his full length into you for the first time in so long. He growls at the sensation, at every little pulse and flutter of your cunt around him as you struggle to accommodate him.
Your breath is airy and whiny as you glance up at him. ”Joel…”
”I know baby,” he coos, fighting for restraint so he doesn’t hurt you. “I know it’s a lot. But you can take it pretty girl, can’t you?”
You would take literally anything so long as he keeps talking to you like that.
You nod up at him, but it’s not enough.
”Words, honey. Tell me you can take me.”
He doesn’t miss the way your cunt contracts around him as you vow, “I can take you, Joel.”
”Atta girl.”
He starts off easy, slow enough not to overwhelm you but deep enough to nearly make you choke. His hips are flush with your ass at the base of every stroke, like he’s trying to push even further with each thrust of his hips. Maybe he is. Maybe all he wants is to get deeper and deeper until there’s nothing left out—until you’ve consumed him completely. He already feels halfway there as it is.
Your legs wrap around his waist in a desperate attempt to que him in on what you need—not long, languid strokes but hard, fast thrusts that’ll get the job done quickly. There is a time constraint to factor in, after all.
He grants your wish instantly, glad for the invitation because he’s finding it hard to continue his facade of self-control. He ruts hard and fiercely, one hand trailing from your waist to your knee so he can prop your leg up and allow an even deeper angle.
With the slightest shift of his hips he finds it—the spot that makes you writhe and scream for more. He revels in all the noises you make for him as you toss your head back and forth, like the pleasure is so overwhelming that you want to squirm away yet press closer simultaneously.
“That’s my girl,” he mumbles as his free hand finds its way between your entangled bodies. It’s almost like you’re magnetic, his fingers find your clit so easily. The small, firm circles he rubs against it with his calloused fingers are almost too much, but also almost not enough. Not until he picks up his pace, drilling into exactly where you need him with a fervor you didn’t even know he possessed.
It takes all the effort you can muster to warn him, ”S-so close…”
”I know sweetie,” he purrs, breath heavy against your ear as he shifts his hand to hitch your leg just the slightest bit higher over his hip. “It’s okay. Let go f’me.”
You’re nothing if not obedient, and Joel knows it. It’s only confirmed by the way you squeeze around him in a vice grip, legs shaking in his grip as your eyes practically roll back in your head. It’s bone-shattering pleasure, like he’s pulling you apart stitch by stitch and sewing you back together again with newer, more pleasurable fabric.
He’s quick to pull out, maybe a little prematurely as you’re still twitching with the aftershocks of your own orgasm, but even his pleasure-addled brain knows the risk he runs if he stays buried deep inside you any longer. He gives himself two, three firm strokes, then allows himself to spill over your stomach in thick, hot ropes that make you moan all over again.
He doesn’t hold himself up much longer before collapsing on the too-soft mattress with a heavy grunt.
”Missed this,” you murmur next to his ear as he drapes an arm over your waist. He pulls you in close and hums at the way you nuzzle your face into his neck despite how sweaty he must be.
“How much time we got left?”
You take a peek at your watch, then groan. “Five minutes.”
”Shit.” He’s not ready to let you go yet, but he pushes himself up to sit on the edge of the bed anyway.
”We could just skip dinner,” you suggest with a hopeful pout to your lips as you stretch out further over the floral bedspread.
As much as he wants to… “Can’t. Gotta grab Ellie. Can’t leave her alone all day.”
”You must really care about her.” There’s no malice to your tone—it’s more surprise.
He simply grunts in response—he’ll never admit it, but he can’t deny it either. “C’mon. Clothes on.”
He gathers the pile from the floor and tosses it to you, practically burying you where you lay.
”Forgot how bossy you are,” you grumble but follow the instruction nevertheless.
It’s a little awkward, sitting across the table from your lover’s family like your legs aren’t still a little weak from being so thoroughly fucked. But Joel’s hand is a constant on your thigh, and you even catch him smirking a little as Ellie grills you with a million questions—mostly about your relationship with Joel.
For once, everything feels normal. For once, you forget about the crumbling world around you. In this bubble with Joel, everything is stable and secure. There’s a future on the horizon and a chance to write your own story.
You drag Joel back home at the soonest opportunity, patiently biding your time while he settles Ellie in for the night. You hear heated conversation bordering on an argument, but he doesn’t say anything about it when he enters the room for the night.
Instead he drags you to him in a heated kiss, his large hands practically engulfing your face as his tongue sweeps into your mouth to re-familiarize himself with known yet long-unexplored territory.
He hates having to tamp down your moans, but he loves being able to swallow them with his own mouth as his fingers trace through your slick folds. You’re still puffy, wet, and sensitive from his earlier onslaught, but it doesn’t deter you one bit. He revels in each little whimper and gasp, all the involuntary squirms and twitches as he brings you to the brink on his thick, calloused fingers. He swallows every little sound with a fevered kiss until your lips are swollen and red—and then you turn the tables on him. You take him in your palm, whispering praises about how your hand can barely close around him while stroking him with the gentle, languid movements that you know drive him crazy. He fights to keep his sounds down as you settle close in his lap, chest pressed to his and legs locked tight around his thighs until the moment he has to pull your hand away from fear of finishing too fast.
This is the exact foil of the way he fucked you earlier in a frenzied, desperate passion. Now it’s soft and languid, more like searching and exploring than trying to find the end goal. It’s hot and sweaty and sticky from where your skin is pressed so tightly against his, but his strong hands only drag you closer and closer and you really don’t even consider pulling away—not when he gently tugs your hair to tilt your head back for a deeper kiss, not when he lifts you up so effortlessly to help you sink down on his achingly hard cock, not even when his hands squeeze your hips hard enough to leave bruises at the feeling of bottoming out in your soaked cunt.
You couldn’t count the minutes you’re on top of him even if you cared to try. It’s an eternity of softly rocking hips and open-mouthed kisses, like if he breathes air from anywhere besides your lungs it’ll poison him. He doesn’t even care that it practically feels like torture—like not enough but simultaneously far too much as you do nothing more than rock on his length. It takes a lifetime before he loses his patience and anchors your hips in his capable hands so he can fuck you properly. He guides you to bounce on him, hitting deeper with each perfectly matched upward thrust of his own hips.
You’re falling apart before you even know what’s hit you, biting your lip almost to the point of drawing blood to keep your sounds under control as you fall limp in his arms.
And Joel—sweet, sweet Joel—has the foresight to check in with you before he does what he has to.
”Good, baby? Feel okay? Wanna stop?”
You shake your head, and it takes you a moment to find breath enough to tell him, “Don’t stop. Come in me.”
The demand is so unexpected that it hits him like a tidal wave—and before he knows it, his cock is twitching with forceful spasms as he paints you from the inside out until you’re dripping his spend out around his softening length.
Evidently, you’re not the only one caught up in this bubble of paradise within the walls of Jackson.
He doesn’t say anything, just rolls onto his side so he can hold you closer without his cock slipping from your warmth. That’s exactly how you fall asleep—him snuggly inside you, kissing your hair and whispering the sweetest of nothings into your ear.
When you wake up, you feel empty in more ways than one.
There’s dust particles swirling in the sunbeam streaming through the far window, and your stomach sinks when you reach over and feel Joel’s side of the bed completely cold.
You try not to jump to conclusions, but you know exactly what you’ll find even before you read the note left on the nightstand.
Easier not to say goodbye. I promised I’d take Ellie to the Fireflies, and you know I always make good on my promises.
I promise I’ll come back for you.
Joel
It’s not a promise that he can make with complete certainty, and you know it. You’re sure he knew it, too; and yet he did it anyway, promised you the impossible.
You remember far too suddenly that there’s risks involved with literally anything done in this crumbling, broken world—and just like that, the perfect little bubble you’ve lived in for the past sixteen hours has popped. There’s no fairytale endings here, no happily ever afters.
There’s you, alone and aching, hoping beyond hope the man you love will return to your side.
And there’s Joel, out in the wilderness somewhere, wondering if he’s even worthy of returning to your side.
Maybe he’s not. But maybe making good on this promise—dropping Ellie off so they can find a cure—will tip his scales. Maybe he’ll be worthy of finally settling down with you the way he wants to after this one last job. He knows he’ll have to spend hours upon hours apologizing to you for it, but it would be worth it to know that he finally made the world at least a little bit better rather than worse—to know that he’s finally done something for you to be proud of.
He knows he has to prove himself one way or another before he can return to your side. And he will.
After all, Joel Miller is a man who always makes good on his promises.
THE END
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