Neighbor!Simon who notices his new neighbor as soon as he sees the U-Haul truck pull up at 7:39 am.
Neighbor!Simon who offers to help the “sweet thing” move her boxes into the apartment, but she refuses. He nods, ready to go on with his day. “Names Simon. Right next door if ya need anythin’.”
Neighbor!Simon who was planning on asking you out on a date, but finds a man opening your door instead of you. “Jus’ wanting ta see how ya liking the neighborhood. Seems like I interrupted, g’day mate.” He plays it off, scoffing as he walks back to his door. “Fuckin’ idiot. ‘Course she got a boyfren.” He thinks to himself, once in his own apartment.
Neighbor!Simon who notices the man brining over other girls while you’re out. He was going to tell you, but he just couldn’t see such a sweet thing in pain.
Neighbor!Simon who’s proud once he sees a U-Haul truck pull up again, seeing the pathetic excuse of a- man load up boxes into the truck, and drive off by 9:30 pm.
Neighbor!Simon who of course has to check up on you. “Sweet thing like yourself deserves a real man, sweetheart.” He tells you, rubbing his oh so large hand over your back as you cry into his shoulder.
Neighbor!Simon who comes over a week later, ending up in between your thighs the second he walks through the door. “Fuckin’ idiot for lettin this go.” He swears under his breath, before digging right back in.
Neighbor!Simon who makes you cum 3 times right on his tongue. Had you crying and begging for more. Left you with a kiss and fresh sheets. “I’ll be back soon, lovie.”
Neighbor Boyfriend!Simon who convinces you to sell your apartment, saying it’s a waste for you to spend $2000 a month when you could live with him. “Spend that money on something’ nice, yeah? New set for me to take off ya nice body?”
Boyfriend!Simon who’s so grateful you moved in next to him 2 years ago.
hii this is my first write ever🫣 if you see this please interact!!
john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist
Chapter Nineteen: wanted
The crowd groans in disappointment as the rope binding your hands together is cut.
Still smiling, the deputy loosens the noose around your neck before raising it over your head as if it's nothing but a mere necklace rather than the item that, until moments ago, was supposed to bring about your demise. It doesn't make it any easier to breathe. You're still choking on your terror as the man offers you a gloved hand. You don't have the capacity within your mind to deny him, so you accept his help as he assists you down the stairs on your lubberly legs.
The world spins as you feel the tangible suffocation of the divergence of time—of what should have happened to you. In another universe, you are swinging from that rope with all eyes on your corpse, left to hang and rot as a warning to others to not cross The Law in Blackpeak. Knowing your luck, you wouldn't have died right away. You'd be left strangling, legs kicking helplessly in a pitiful attempt to release the pressure around your throat, blood shunting away from your brain until your life fades just as meaningless as it began. Maybe someone would have taken pity on you. Maybe some brave or stupid person would have pulled on your legs until you stopped squirming.
Instead, you're slicing through the crowd that was so eager to witness your demise. Their gazes haven't changed much. They're more sour now, like dough left to rise for too long. The deputy keeps a sharp hold of your hand like you're his wallet, a valuable he can't afford to lose. You suppose that you are of some importance to this man; a tool turned into a weapon to be aimed and fired at John Price, though you're not sure what the nature of your destruction might be.
As you have learned, lawmen aren't always above the law.
"On behalf of my men, I apologize for their actions," the deputy says once you're out of eavesdropping distance of the crowd. His drawl is thick like honey but there is something about his tone that leaves your tongue dry and not at all interested in the faux sweetness he attempts to sell you. "You must understand that any mention of John Price has everyone up in arms. I'm sure you're aware of what him and his boys did in the mines. Such a tragedy. So many lives lost for such a selfish reason."
It's easy for his words to flow into your skull and directly out again. Every thought that attempts to spark in your brain fizzles out before you have the moment to fully grasp it. Pain throbs in your bones, burrowing deeper than you can cradle in your arms.
You forget that the deputy is holding your hand until he's pulling you to a stop next to a lean horse. Pressure builds behind your eyes as you stare up at him with his flaring nostrils and beady eyes. This horse lacks the quiet stupidity Jester had. A tall, stupid brute that knew how to do nothing other than eat things he shouldn't and make a fool out of you, but he was your fool of a horse.
Was.
"Climb on up, miss," he prompts. "We've got a walk before we reach the sheriff's."
Getting up on the horse feels like second nature to you now, but the deputy refuses to allow you to hold the reins. Wary of your instability, he guides the horse for you, spurs jingling with each step he takes. All you can do is hold onto the saddle horn and keep your head low in what you tell yourself is to keep the sun out of your eyes, but it feels more like shame.
You hold onto the saddle horn as you're paraded through the streets of Blackpeak like an oddity for everyone to behold. You expect to see another mob staring at you, waiting for the perfect moment to strike you, already bloodied and wounded, except there is no one. Insignificant, you're a speck of dirt. Flickering eyes search for someone still, despite the pain. Eyes of blue like a cooling lake for you to dive into, to ease each scrape and swelling mound that plagues your skin and body—John Price is nowhere to be found.
Buildings begin to thin until—much like Penmosa—farm land crosshatches with private town dwellings like a dusty chessboard. Cows moo in verdant pastures while geese honk overhead as they soar through the air in the burning light of the sunset. All beauty is lost on you as the deputy guides you to a dark timbered home with a fat porch and the redolence of cooked meat wafting around it. It's a home that looks like a God-made structure against the backdrop of mountains behind it, blending into the faraway trees and carved stone.
The deputy offers you his hand to help you off of his horse but you refuse to take it in a silent sort of revolution. You climb off without aid, but everything moves beneath you as your feet hit the ground, earth tearing right out from the treads of your shoes.
"Now, now," the man chuckles. When he catches your unsteady frame, he pulls your back against his chest, bracing your body against his. It feels wrong. Not because Daddy would disapprove, but because he's not John. "Take it easy."
"M-My head," you whine, back arching, arms flailing in an attempt to push him away, but your body is broken, and the deputy is having too much fun to let go. "Please."
"What do you think I'm trying to do, sugar? Quit your fussing and I'll take care of that head of yours," he goads.
Though you're released from the confines of his body, the deputy ensures you stay close by with his hand resting on your lower back while a gentle amount of pressure leads you towards the porch and up the steps to the door. He knocks on the door and shushes you when you wince at the sudden sound, noise reverberating in your brain until you're certain more of your skull has cracked.
A woman with pale lips and greying hair answers the door with a huff, and her gaze only grows more severe as she wipes her hands on her apron. "Phillip Graves, what have I told you about badgering my husband while he's at home?"
"Sorry Mrs. Shepherd. You know I try and keep my nose clean, but I think I've managed to wrangle someone who likes to get into trouble more often than I do," the deputy—this Phillip Graves—humors. "This sweet thing here seems to have gotten herself involved with John Price."
The woman's gaze lands on you and something overcomes the frustration that she held for Phillip Graves. If you didn't know any better, you'd confuse it for concern with the way her eyes soften and brows raise at the sight of you, blouse stained with your own blood, skirt tattered from the brawl, body littered with scrapes you can't soothe.
"Well, alright. You might as well stay for dinner, too," she begrudgingly accepts.
Phillip Graves keeps his hand on your back as you're led inside, but he ensures that he takes his hat off at the door and sets it on one of various pegs nailed into the wall for such a purpose. Though the outside of the house is rough-hewn with raw wood and sun bleached material, the inside is neatly polished with smooth walls painted a delicate cream. The brightness only makes the pounding in your head worse and you find your eyes focusing on the floor as you're brought to the dining room.
Mrs. Shepherd instructs you to grab a seat while she fetches the rest of dinner and her husband. The table is intimate with only enough room for four people to sit comfortably along the round perimeter. Various food items already sprawl out. Ham, a bowl of beans and bread rolls. Phillip Graves pulls a chair out for you before taking the seat next to you.
It's as if you've been transported back in time, shrinking inside of yourself until your body has no choice but to follow, leaving you as nothing but a pitiful girl once again trying to make it through the violence of another meal with your father. Tight lips, only speaking when spoken to, eyes never wandering where they shouldn't lest you inadvertently poke the beast waiting to roar within his throat.
The silence doesn't save you here. Phillip Graves leans back in his chair, wood creaking beneath him in time with his spurs ringing as he stretches his legs with a groan. You note the distinct glint of his six shooter resting on his hip and you can't help but think of the one John gave you to protect yourself—the one that's now sitting in the middle of the street, or more likely, in the possession of one of the men who beat you.
"I'll get you cleaned up after supper," he tells you. "I know it's more proper to wash up before a meal, but I think the sheriff will forgive us given the circumstances."
"That's fine." You sound like your mother, voice even and unwavering yet tinged with that underline whisper of pain that you can't quite get rid of.
In an attempt to comfort yourself, you reach for your neck in search for her necklace only to be met with your own feverish skin.
"If you wanted a free meal, you could have just asked, Phillip."
A new voice bleeds into the room. With slow movements, you look up from your lap and into the doorway to find a sickly looking man with white hair cropped so short he nearly looks bald. His leather vest looks freshly polished and his feet hit heavy on the floor as he approaches the table. The aura of authority wafting off of him is enough for you to know exactly who he is. The man of the house, the keeper of the peace—Sheriff Shepherd of Blackpeak.
"You know me, sheriff. Always here to keep things interesting," Phillip shrugs.
"Interesting, and a pain in my rear."
Mrs. Shepherd sneaks out from behind her husband with one hand occupied with plates, cups and cutlery and the other with a pitcher of water. The men dive into quaint conversation while she sets everything up, even going as far as to ask you what you'd like and serving up your plate when you can only offer pitiful nods and thank yous in response.
Once everyone is settled, the conversation dies and you find that there are more eyes on you than you'd care to have ever perceive you. When you meet Sheriff Shepherd's gaze you note the hue of his eyes—pale blue—and how they're sickly like the rest of him. Withered away and moments away from shattering. They lack the youth and vigor of John's. A pale imitation of a man he could only ever hope to be a fraction of.
"And who do we have the pleasure of welcoming to our table tonight?" he asks.
Knowing that there's no use in lying, you give him your true name, though the nickname Lamb is truly growing on you. Or rather, perhaps it's just the man who coined it in the first place.
"Very good," he hums, somehow pleased with himself. "Let's pray."
It's the first time that you have ever neglected to bow your head and fold your hands at the dinner table before a meal, especially after those words have been muttered. You watch as they all lower themselves, make themselves smaller, near cower as they're lead through quiet mutterings of praise and thanks. The sheriff speaks with such reverence you're almost convinced he's a true man of God until he opens his eyes to look at you before the prayer has even finished.
Once done, Mrs. Shepherd and Phillip Graves waste no time diving into their food, and while the sheriff does begin to eat, he seems much more interested in something else. "Not one for praying?"
You swallow the lead weight in your throat. "I don't know."
"She has been spending time with John Price," Phillip Graves reasons. "He's always been something of an atheist."
"Corrupted the poor girl's mind, no doubt," Shepherd agrees. "Is that how you found yourself here, girl?"
You nod. "Yes."
Quiet deliberation clouds the man's mind as he takes a few more bites of his food. You consider doing the same, but the pain that ripples throughout your body forces you to rethink. Instead, you go for a sip of water.
"And what business was he having you conduct here on his behalf?"
Your head spins. Vision swirling like a whirl pool, you dig the pad of your thumb briefly into the apple of your cheek, allowing the pain to ground you. "He needed money from the bank."
Phillip Grave's chuckle is warm but sharp. "Must be hard finding an honest job when you're such a criminal like he is."
You bite your tongue so hard it bleeds, but it tastes no different from the ichor that's already stained your mouth after the abuse you were subjected to today. Instead, you keep your head lowered and mouth sewn shut, just like you always have.
"What did he need this money for?" Shepherd questions.
"I don't know," you say.
He raises a brow. "You don't know?" he asks incredulously.
"He didn't say. I just… I just do what he tells me."
Something of a pained sigh leaves Mrs. Shepherd as she places her palm over her chest as if to quell an aching heart. When you glance at her, you note the pity in her gaze. It's comforting to know you're fooling someone at least. You're in too much pain to put together anything more complex.
He allows silence to settle over the table to give himself the opportunity to at least marginally enjoy his meal. You allow yourself to try a bit of the beans, but there's too much salt and it nearly causes your tongue to shrivel up. The bread is the only thing you can truly get yourself to stomach. Plain enough to not upset the unstable balance of your stomach, yet still filling at the same time, you eat your roll then leave your hands folded in your lap, done with what you think is the most violent meal you've experienced since you left Penmosa.
"Are you not enjoying your food, girl?" Shepherd asks. As you meet his gaze, you wonder why he even bothered to learn your name if he was going to demean you with such a term—verbiage he shares with your father.
"I'm not hungry," you truthfully admit.
He scoffs as he sets his silverware on his emptied plate. "You insult my wife."
"Oh, Herschel, look at her!" Mrs. Shepherd says. "Poor thing, can you blame her for not being hungry? Getting beaten over something John Price coerced her into doing? It's no insult at all. The poor girl needs help and a place to rest."
Washing his dinner down with a healthy gulp of water, Phillip Graves gives a thoughtful hum as his cup hits the table. "There's a few free cells open down at the jail we could keep her in."
Mrs. Shepherd's eyes go wider than the plate she's eaten off of. "You would keep her in the jail?"
Sheriff Shepherd's patience wears thin. You see it in the deepening creases on his forehead and the dusting of pink that begins in his cheeks and spreads to the tips of his ears. His ovular head looks as if it's an egg ready to crack open due to heat and pressure alone.
"Dear," he says almost as if it's a warning. "Why don't you tidy up our guest room? She can stay there for the night under Phillip's supervision."
Content with the compromise, she nods before clearing the plates from the table and vanishing back into the kitchen to clean up. You're left alone with the two men and you find yourself scrambling for something else to look at. Anything else. The wallpaper, a knick in the side of the table, the sunset burning up through the window. A part of you wishes you'd see John riding over the hill through the glass, hat set low as he speeds towards the house with a pistol in hand.
You get nothing but the squeak of Shepherd's chair as he stands. "Get her cleaned up once the room is ready," he orders. "I'll get everything at the jail in order for her."
It doesn't take Mrs. Shepherd long to tidy up the bedroom-turned-cell that is to be yours for the foreseeable future. She fetches you immediately once it's finished, bringing both you and Phillip Graves down two short hallways to a room that has a single twin-sized bed with a lily patterned quilt smothering the mattress. You don't realize that the house has electricity until you note the sconces on the inside of the door. They sport the same glass covering as candles would, but they lack the signature flicker of warm flame that you're used to.
She brings your attention to a makeshift vanity. Really, it's an old worn desk with a mirror nailed to the wall, but for all intents and purposes, it works just fine with a freshly filled water bowl, clean rags, and a jar of something that Mrs. Shepherd says is a salve meant to help your cuts and scrapes. She leaves you after telling you that if you need anything else to find her and ask for it. The door is open.
Phillip Graves closes it.
"Alright sugar," he prompts. His head tilts to the side as he sucks on his teeth, chin jutting out towards the bed. "Grab a seat."
His order makes the contents of your stomach curdle but you know you're not in a position to argue or reason. It's as if that noose is around your neck again, pulling tight around your throat, eager to cut into your skin as you march to the bed and sink into the rocky mattress. The jingling of his spurs sound too akin to church bells, or perhaps the toll of a death march.
Rag into water, he turns to you with glistening hands and wordlessly presses it to your skin without prompt or warning. It's frigid, freshly pumped from the well, biting into your skin like the mountain air John kept you warm through. Your bottom lip begins to tremble at the thought of it while Phillip Graves wipes the space above your lip, scratching away the dried blood around your nostrils as if you are a child incapable of cleaning herself.
With each pass he makes, you watch as the rag comes away from your skin tinged pink and brown, body marred with the earth and the demise you were supposed to face. He wipes everywhere, but when he gets to the bridge of your nose you gasp enough to make him recoil. Instead of leaving you be, he pokes and prods the area until you're hissing with tears in your eyes.
"Got some mighty fine swelling, sugar," he tells you, finally no longer subjugating you to his torturous interest. "Wouldn't be surprised if you broke something in there."
Furiously blinking, you wipe at the stray tears but keep your eyes cast towards the floor. "What am I to do with that?"
"Wait and pray it doesn't heal crooked," he chuckles.
Huffing at his response, you keep quiet as he continues. He moves down to your chin and jaw where you feel the stale blood pull at the hair of your skin, pinching like you've got your finger caught in the door again. He doesn't sit next to you as he cleans you, he stands in front of you towering over you like a human does an ant, belittling you until you feel just as small as he wants you to feel.
His hand wanders down to your throat and you wince with anticipatory pain only to realize it doesn't come. The rope never quite snapped around your neck. That lever was never pulled. Though it feels like you died in that moment, you are still very much alive, kept on God's green earth and made to suffer all his terrible creations.
Philip's hand dips lower and your breath catches in your throat, forcing your chest to cease its movements as you stop breathing. You remember the letter shoved into your blouse hiding in your slip, the only place you could think to stow it away where it wouldn't be knocked free from your pockets or torn with the wind. You feel his hot gaze on your body and the smirk on his lips and you think of what he might do to you. You know this story well. The raping of women before their murder—their final good use all used up before they're disposed of.
Then what of John and the others? You broken and their only piece of evidence ripped to shreds, forever to live the lives of wild men.
When his hand reaches the top of your breast just under your collarbones, you grab his wrist and cover yourself with your free arm. You finally bring yourself to look up at him and though you are infuriated, you aren't surprised to see that wide-eyed joy on his face as if the fish he has on his line is finally decided to make the reel more interesting.
"What kind of man do you take me for, sugar?" he asks.
You bite your tongue for only a moment before you decide to let it free. "A greedy kind."
Leaning away from you, he yanks his wrist free from your grasp before inspecting the bloodied rag he clutches in his fingers. "Is that so? Think a greedy man would've saved you from the gallows? Think a greedy man would dedicate his life to protecting the interests of the people in this town? I serve Blackpeak, little lady. There ain't a greedy bone in my body."
"Blackpeak?" you repeat. For the first time all day, you allow the rage to envelope you. You allow it to raise your chin, to narrow your eyes, to curl your upper lip into a snarl. "Or just Makarov?"
It's the first time you've seen him waiver in his otherwise infuriating ability to seem impermeable. Still, he only leans back, tongue clacking against the back of his teeth as he shakes his head. "I see John Price has poisoned your mind with that, too." When you don't fight back, Phillip huffs and tosses the rag at you, allowing the sodden mess to fall into your lap, adding to the various stains that bleed into your skirt. "Clean yourself up then, if that's what you want, but don't say I never did you any favors, sugar."
With that, he leaves you and you are finally alone. Your sore fingers curl around the damp cloth and you are overwhelmed with a sudden grief that disguises itself as fury. You feel your face contort as you stand from the bed, fist clenching around the rag before you drown it in the water bowl at the desk with a strangled growl. Droplets splatter through the air like rain falling backwards, gathering across the wooden surface of the desk and the now muddled shine of the mirror.
You force yourself to view yourself through the mess and it's the first thing that prompts you to slow down. You look so much like your mother, you realize. Tired eyes, swollen face, angry tears giving your cheeks the kisses your father never would. You bear her resemblance in your quiet anger. It was the last thing she left you with on this earth—the frustrating will to endure where others would refuse.
Wiping your face, you make the quiet decision to not destroy yourself and instead take care to blot the stains of your dress and care for the scrapes on your legs. When you're finished you dip your fingers into your blouse where you feel the comforting scratch of paper against your skin, warmed by your body heat and bending to the curve of your body.
In the morning when your head is clear, you'll come up with a plan. John Price wouldn't abandon you. He's out there somewhere waiting for you.
Phillip Graves returns with a rocking chair that he sets up in the far corner of the room, giving himself a perfect view of the bed, door, and window. He chuckles at your bewildered look before settling into the chair with an old book in hand and a candle lamp to read with. Realizing that you will be getting no privacy tonight, you leave your overdress on before burrowing deep beneath the blankets like you could hide the way rabbits do in their burrows.
He does not speak throughout the night—the rhythmic turning of the pages of his book and the creaking of the chair do enough chatter for the both of you. Even as night falls, you do not sleep. You lay on your side with your back to Phillip as you stare at the wall where the darkness morphs shadowy shapes before your eyes as if you've had too much communion wine.
When your bladder stirs you awake in the middle of the night, he follows you there too, only letting you out of his sight long enough for you to relieve yourself and wash up before leading you back to bed. Not even dawn chases him away. Stirring from your restless slumber, you wake to the smell of hotcakes and the view of him still in the corner of the room, seemingly finished with his book with the way he has it folded in his lap.
"Mornin' sugar."
Mrs. Shepherd serves both you and Phillip for breakfast. Pancakes, sausage and some freshly brewed tea she made for the meal. You are wary of the glaring lack of her husband's presence, but she informs you he wandered in town to the jail earlier in the morning with the order for Phillip Graves to take you there once you were finished with your meal.
Anxiety fills up your stomach too much for you to eat much of anything, but just like the night before she doesn't say much about it as she takes your plate and wishes you luck on your journey into town.
Phillip Graves doesn't offer you his horse this time as the two of you make the walk back towards the main section of town, but he doesn't take the ride for himself either. Each step you take is excruciating. The swelling has overwhelmed your body, rendering each joint achy as you travel beneath the heavy weight of the sun and your shame. Each figure that you pass prompts you to raise your head to look at their face, eager to find familiar blue eyes.
You begin to fear John might not be coming for you at all.
Unlike the other buildings that surround it, the jail is made of brick. Dust settles heavy on the red stone giving it a pink appearance like the rag you stained with your blood last night. On the outside just beyond the porch there is a wooden posting board filled with legal notices like local laws and changes within the town, but most notably there is that drawing of John's wanted poster again.
This time, it's not just him, but the others as well, each earning their own poster and matching bounties, a band of bothers kept together with a long string of hatred. As you walk up the stairs, you note the graffiti scribbled on the parchment in graphite and ink. Some people have scribbled out the word alive on dead or alive while others have drawn nooses around their throats. The violence of this town is so deeply sewn you're not sure how you survived such contempt—the more time you spend with Phillip Graves, the more you feel as if the reason he saved you wasn't purely out of mercy.
He opens the door for you, allowing you inside of the jail where you're met with a wide room that seems like a cell morphed into an office. Two sets of jail bars section off the back corners of the room with nothing inside but a bench, but they both lay empty. The only other door besides the entrance is one on your left, cracked open just enough for you to find a set of stairs that descend down into what you assume must be the basement and the place where they keep a majority of their inmates.
Sheriff Shepherd sits at a desk full of papers and envelopes both torn open and fresh ones waiting to be filled and mailed off. His eyes were on you the moment you stepped foot into his jail, pale and dead as they were last night when he all but interrogated you at his dinner table. Having something more interesting to do than paperwork, he points at the wooden chair across from him.
"Take a seat, girl," he commands as if you are a dog.
You make no fuss in following his orders. As far as you're concerned, the less time you spend with this man, the better. He stares at you in silence for a long moment as if contemplating how he should gut you. His gaze is uncanny. Even when you believed John to be nothing more than a cold blooded murderer he never gave off such an algid aura. This pale, sickly man looks like death—or a creature who enjoys toying with it.
"I've arranged for a ride to bring you back home," he finally admits after a moment. "It would be faster by train, but we don't have any passenger trains that come through here. Just the engines that lug coal to the cities. A few of my lawmen will take you by carriage to the next town over and you can hop on one there. It'll take you over the gorge and right on home."
You blink at him. He must be lying. "That's… That's it?"
"I don't want you in my town. This is better for both of us," he says bluntly.
Gears begin to twist in your brain as ideas sprout; dark, conniving ones you never would have thought before leaving Penmosa. You think of Kate and Lottie, of Grand Hollow and its train station, of the hotel, the place John wanted to keep you because it was safe. You could go back, you realize. Back to them all with the letter hiding safe in your blouse and wait for John to come find you.
It could all be over. This mess. The lies.
"You mean, you'll take me back to Grand Hollow?" you question cautiously, throwing your line into the water to see if anything bites.
The sheriff raises a brow. "Is that where you're from?"
"Yes sir," you nod.
He stares at you for so long you fear he might see through you. "You're not lying to me, are you, girl?"
"No, sir. I'd never," you insist.
Humming, he nods. With a sigh, he begins to sort through some papers on his desk. You note a letter already sealed and stamped with his name and address on it, but you don't get the chance to look at the recipient before it's covered by tickets for a train company you don't recognize. He holds them out for Phillip Graves to take, who shoves it into the pocket of his vest with a chuckle.
"Tell me, girl," Sheriff Shepherd says. He retrieves one last piece of paper before setting it flat on the desk for you to view. "Why do I have this, then?"
Your blood runs cold as you're faced with a drawing of your exact likeness. Every line is correct, all the way from the curve of your nose to the pull of your lips. Your name is stamped in dark, inky letters underneath the photo with a description that reads:
WANTED: MISSING GIRL
TO BE RETURNED BACK TO HER FATHER IN PENMOSA
REWARD: 25$
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3k8| Joel Miller x fem reader | ao3 | se7en collection | masterlist
Summary: after your breakup, Joel struggles to find joy in life. But when someone hurts you, his anger and protective instinct immediately take over
Warnings: 18+ mdni. age gap, yearning, angst, SA attempt (not by Joel), protective!Joel, Jackson!Joel, soft!Joel, alt pov but mostly Joel, piv
a/n: this is written for @felix24601, thank you so much for sending me this ask- a long time ago, sorry it took me so long 🙏❤️
"Consider this -and you can totally ignore this- Jackson era Joel, him and reader aren't together or maybe she's a friend of Tommys, maybe her and Joel have some tension or flirting.... Then Joel opens his door late at night and you`'re beaten up. You tell him who hurt you (you decide the level of "hurt" I'm thinking SA but it's up to you) and Joel enacts brutal revenge even tho he knows he's gonna get in trouble with Maria. Maybe Tommy helps idk. Maybe they both end up in the little western jail for a few nights happy as a clam to take their punishment. Anyway ignore me. If you wanna do a fic that's cool or if you just wanna reply and expand on it with me l'm in 🥰"
Thank you @aurorawritestoescape for helping me all day every day, i love you so much 💕🫶 | dividers @/saradika-graphics 🙏
Joel was sipping whiskey in his kitchen, his heart aching, his mind unable to stop thinking about you. He usually kept himself busy all day, fixing everything he could in Jackson when he wasn't on patrol, doing anything to stop lamenting the fact that he missed you. Anything that would leave him exhausted at night, to the point that he’d sometimes fall asleep on his couch, too tired to climb the stairs to his bedroom.
But today he had run into you at the Tipsy Bison. You were wearing clothes he’d never seen on you before, their color highlighting your eyes. You were beautiful, so beautiful that it sent a spike right into his already wounded heart.
Joel nodded when you smiled at him, then quickly turned away, afraid of holding your gaze for too long, scared of what you could read in his. He just mumbled “mornin’, sweetheart,” that sounded so cold and impersonal it left a bitter taste on his lips. It was mechanical, it had to be, so different from the words he used to murmur in the mornings when you’d wake up in his arms, all warm and smelling so well, before you wrapped your arms around his bare shoulders and pressed yourself to his chest.
Now he woke up alone, and your scent had left his bed.
Finding alcohol on patrols had become some kind of relief, that's what allowed him to forget and pass out when the ache was too strong on some nights, when it hurt him too much that he could no longer hold you in his arms or kiss you. When he had to face that all he had now was the memory of your laugh or the way your fingers used to linger on his chest, the sound of your moans when his lips were on you.
You had left for a reason as old as the world, you were young, much younger than him, and you didn't want to settle down. He hadn't held it against you, that's just how it was. Some things didn’t change, even in the apocalypse.
Joel almost finished his first drink when he heard a knock at the door and his name sobbed by a voice he would have recognized even dead drunk.
He jumped out of his chair, flung the door open and the first thing he saw was your bruised face and trembling lips.
Words got stuck in his throat when he noticed your hands clutching at your torn top, trying to keep your chest covered as much as you could. He hastily removed his cardigan to wrap you in it and told you to come inside, trying not to lose his mind when he felt you shake under his touch. The shock he was in at first started to fade away when you sniffed, holding back your tears, and something twitched inside him, urging him to hurt those who had done this to you.
But he couldn't let this part of him take the lead.
Not yet, not when you needed him. So he brought you to the couch where you sat down mechanically, then he covered your shoulders with a blanket and sat next to you. For a moment he stayed silent, trying to keep a cool head, to figure out how to talk to you about what happened.
First, Joel asked if you wanted some water, but you shook your head. He wasn't sure you even heard him. He saw your thoughts trapped in the moment you couldn't escape alone, a dark place he had to help you leave, so he insisted softly. “Sweetheart? Sweetheart, look at me.”
As if he had snapped his fingers, you finally heard him and set your eyes on him.
“You're in my house, you came to me, do you remember?”
“Yeah, I… yeah, I remember.” you replied, your gaze desperately trying to rest on him, as if to anchor yourself, to escape your memories.
“You're safe here, ok?”
“What if he comes here?” you stammered, your eyes now running away from him. It felt like a punch in his stomach. Not only did someone put his hands on you, hurt you, but they scared you to the point that you were feeling unsafe in his house, next to him.
The feeling Joel was trying to contain in your presence rose again. Boiling in his blood.
“Nobody will hurt you here,” he gruffed, his voice a mixture of firmness so that you would fully believe him, and gentleness to reassure you that you were safe. “But I need to know who did this to you.”
Your misty eyes raised towards him, you gave him the name.
The name of a man he saw at the Tipsy Bison that afternoon, some new guy that joined Jackson a couple weeks ago. Primary and instinctive, the need to track and hurt him rushed through Joel’s veins, but he had to know if you needed medical care right away. He cleared his throat, hating the words he was about to say.
“Did he…?” he murmured, and you shook your head, clutching the blanket around you, then added “no, I fought him off.”
"Ok, sweetheart. I'm gonna take care of this, ok? You’re safe here, I won’t be long.”
His soft look on you turned black as soon as he closed the front door behind him and faced the dark of the night.
Joel ran to the guy’s house, never taking his eyes off it the whole time, the fury acting like gasoline in his body. He slammed his shoulder against the front door, his broad frame filling the room, and pounced on the man who barely had time to see him coming. Joel punched him, the man’s lip already bloody probably because of you, and made him fall to the ground with the force of his hit, then Joel grabbed his collar and struck him again.
And again.
And again.
He stopped only once, just to yell, “what did you do to her, you son of a bitch?” then lost count of the punches that were painting the floor red with each blow, the collar still clenched in his fist. He didn’t hear the screams or the footsteps outside, didn’t notice when Tommy rushed into the house.
“Joel! Joel! Stop it!” the man urged, trying to grab his older brother by the shoulders, but he was pushed back by the beast led by wrath Joel had turned into. “Hey, stop it! You’re gonna kill him, for fuck’s sake!”
Even if the younger Miller was a strong man used to combat, it’s only when Joel heard Maria shout his name that he stopped. He looked up at her, breathless, fist and jaw clenched, then back at the unconscious guy whose face was swollen, unrecognizable, and finally let him go.
“What the fuck, Joel? What happened? You can’t—”
“Don’t lecture me and tell me it doesn’t work this way,” he said, brushing her scowl with a wave of his hand. He growled as he stood up, his fist and shirt covered in blood, and looked at the man on the ground with disgust. “Not in this case. He deserves it.”
She looked at him as if she didn't recognize the man in front of her, then at Tommy, seeking the support of her husband, but she only saw brotherly bond in his look, felt that he was on Joel's side, even without knowing what had happened. As if beating someone up could only happen for a good reason, something her Assistant District Attorney former self couldn't comprehend.
She moved closer to Joel, raised her hands then added, “but it doesn’t, Joel, that’s what the council’s for.”
It only made him sneer.
“Listen. Put me in a cell if you want, I don’t care. When I get out, if there’s another scum like him to beat up, I’ll do it again. You hear me?”
She crossed her arms, then sighed. “Calm down, and tell me what happened.”
“Not here. My place. I have to go back there. But not before this guy is locked up somewhere.”
“Damn Joel, he can’t go anywhere… you almost killed him.”
“I want him locked!” he shouted, his cold, dark glare piercing Maria.
"Okay, okay, I'm gonna take care of it," Tommy assured him.
He knew his brother too well to realize that something serious had happened, serious enough that he would never change his mind.
You rushed towards him as soon as he entered his house, followed by Maria and Tommy who looked at you in shock when they saw you.
“Your hand, oh my god…” you said, as you seized it delicately and frowned at his bloody knuckles.
“It’s okay, it’ll heal fast,” he replied and smiled to reassure you, but all his anger rose again when he saw your blue cheekbone and dried tears on your face. He looked at Maria, his gaze pleading, begging for her to listen to you, to be gentle with you.
“I’m sorry, Joel… I didn’t know where else to go,” you sobbed.
“Hey, hey, hey… you did the right thing by coming here, okay?” You pressed yourself against him and he put his arm around you, then led you to the kitchen where you told them what had happened earlier. How the man attacked you after you told him that you weren’t interested, that you barely managed to escape after he hit you and tore off your top, before you rushed to Joel's.
They all tensed while listening to you. Nothing like that had ever happened in Jackson before.
“He has to be banished, Maria, and he should feel lucky that it doesn’t go further. I won't tolerate a predator within these walls, this is not negotiable,” Joel asserted, his gaze dark and inflexible.
“I agree with Joel,” Tommy said. Maria nodded then turned towards you.
“He won’t stay in Jackson, he'll be out in the morning. And he's locked up for now. I’m so sorry this happened to you, honey.”
“Please don’t put Joel in trouble because of me... It’s my fault.”
“No, no no, it’s absolutely not your fault, ok?” Maria replied, brushing your shoulder gently. You did the right thing by coming to Joel. Now we'll take care of the rest, you did great.”
You went to the bathroom as Maria and Tommy discussed the next day with Joel. You heard them leave and took the supplies from the medicine cabinet, thinking back to the day you'd brought them from the clinic, when you and Joel were still a couple and you’d been spending more time in his house than in your own. Several months later, you had made the biggest mistake of your life and had packed your bags.
You sighed, thinking how dumb you had been back then, then closed the door of the cabinet when you heard his footsteps.
“I’m the one who’s gotta take care of you, sweetheart,” he murmured, but you stopped him, told him you needed this, needed to think about something else, someone else rather than you. He didn't insist and let you clean his hand, watching you apply light pressure to his knuckles.
He patted your cheek gently, his big hands turning into delicate nurse’s fingers.
“Thank you, Joel,” you said. “For taking care of it... For protecting me.”
“I wish it hadn’t happened. I wish I were there with you and he never laid his hands on you. I'm so full of rage that it happened…”
“I wish you were there with me, too,” you murmured, clinging to him, seeking safety in his embrace.
“Can I stay here tonight? I… I don't wanna overstay my welcome but I'm afraid to be alone,” you confessed, your cheeks hollowed by fatigue and anxiety.
“Of course. You can take a hot shower, if you’d like. And I’ll get the second bedroom ready, okay?”
You thanked Joel and went to the bathroom. There you tried to wash away the sensation of that guy's hands on you, before putting on one of Joel t-shirts and boxers he had left for you on the bed, and you slipped under the clean sheets.
A few minutes later Joel knocked on your door, hair wet and clean clothes on, making sure you didn't need anything. With a soft smile he wished you a good night.
A creaking of his door woke Joel up in the middle of the night and he sat up suddenly, to see you standing in the doorway, shivering.
“I'm sorry to wake you up,” you murmured.
“No, no, it's ok. Tell me what you need, sweetheart,” his voice was so soft that your heart melted.
“Can I sleep with you? I… I feel anxious, all alone.”
“Of course,” he replied, pulling back the comforter. “C’mere.”
Your bare feet padded across the parquet floor, you joined Joel in bed and curled up against him. Safe. Two minutes later, you were asleep, and your scent enveloped him.
When Joel woke up, the sun was bathing the room in its pale yellow light. Your hand rested on his chest and his arm was wrapped around your shoulders as if your bodies had instinctively found their bearings. He didn't want to wake you and didn't move an inch, lulled by your breathing. He could see the blue on your cheek, and fear mixed with anger gripped his heart. Joel didn't dare imagine what would have happened if you hadn't managed to escape, and the thought made him sick. He looked at his hand then clenched his fist. At least the motherfucker got a lesson.
“Does it hurt?”
Your sleepy voice pulled him from his thoughts and made his anxiety disappear. You were close to him, safe. That's all that mattered.
“No, not at all,” Joel reassured you, hoping confidence could be heard in his tone. He didn't want you to worry about him.
“What did you do to him?”
“Punched him, knocked him out,” he shrugged. “He'd probably be dead, without Maria and Tommy.”
Hearing his words, you brushed his chest with your head and squeezed his hand softly.
“I can't thank you enough, Joel. After what had happened between us, you didn't have to.”
“Of course I had to. And what had happened doesn't change a thing.”
You frowned, as if searching for your words.
You were both still lying in his bed, your warm body pressed against his, his arm around your shoulders just like many times before. He refrained from stroking your arm, but was secretly breathing in the scent of his shampoo on your hair, savoring the softness of your skin beneath his fingers. Enjoying how close you were, thinking that all he wanted was to offer you his full protection, his fists and his anger if he had to, like a guard dog ready to bare its teeth the moment danger arose. And all his tenderness and love at other times.
Joel wondered what you were thinking about, if you felt safe, if you knew he’d do anything to protect you. Anything, couple or not. You were the most precious person to him.
“I miss you,” you confessed, so suddenly Joel didn't see it coming, the words making his heart jump in his rib cage. You caressed his torso and raised your gaze towards him, as if asking for more, and time seemed to stand still. He looked at you softly, with some sadness in his eyes, then said “sweetheart, we shouldn’t… go there. You’re probably still in shock because of what happened, confused… acting in a way you wouldn’t, under normal circumstances, you know?”
He hated himself at that moment, feeling he was so clumsy in his words and reaction, afraid you'd feel rejected. But he didn't want to seem like he was taking advantage. He tilted his head to the side and smiled at you gently, tenderly, hoping you’d understand him.
“No, it's not that.” You were staring at him with a mix of certainty and something else he was scared to define. Something that seemed so similar to the way you used to look at him, when you had still loved him, before everything had ended, leaving him desperate and alone.
Joel pushed those thoughts away to the back of his head, didn't want to let hope take over, not today, not now, when you were so fragile.
“I miss you, Joel. I knew it was a mistake the second I left.”
Your words shattered his resolve, leaving him unable to avoid the subject. “What… what are you talking about?” he asked skeptically, searching for an answer in your eyes, something to hang on to, to stop hope from swallowing him alive before spitting out his bones. “Why didn’t you tell me, then?”
“Because I didn’t know how you’d react,” you confessed, lowering your head. “Because I was afraid you hated me. Each time we met, you were so distant.”
“Sweetheart, I could never hate you… I was distant only because I wanted to respect your decision. It’s the only reason.”
“Why were you drinking tonight?” you asked suddenly, your glare piercing his soul. He thought about lying, about giving you any excuse to explain the drinking. But was it right to deceive you? He sighed, then murmured “because I missed you. Because I saw you this afternoon and you were so beautiful… and because you weren’t mine anymore.”
You moved closer to him, your face just inches from his, eyes locked on his.
“I’ve always been yours.”
“Baby, don’t… don’t tell me something like that…”
“It’s true. And deep down I’m sure you know it.”
“After what happened, I don’t think it’s a good idea…”
“After what happened, I need tenderness..I need to remember what it’s like to make love to someone I love.”
“Sweetheart…”
“Please… I don't want to be the one who got attacked in Jackson.”
“That's not who you are,” Joel stated. He hated that you felt guilty, hated what that motherfucker had done and had made you think about yourself.
You leaned towards him and your body pressed against his, reminding him of so many memories he had tried in vain to keep buried. You were looking at him the same way you’d done before, when you shared this bed every night, and warmth ran through his veins. Hope, too.
“I miss you,” you repeated, just before pressing your lips to his, placing a kiss there, then two, and brushing his beard with your fingers.
“I miss you too, sweetheart,” he replied, finally surrendering and responding to your kisses, feeling himself melt as you were peppering his cheek with kisses then his neck, lingering beneath his ear and going back to his lips. The tip of your tongue traced them, as if asking permission to slip in between. You moaned into his mouth, and his cock twitched when your tongues melted.
You sat up and pulled off your t-shirt before removing his, and ran your fingers over his chest, smiling as his skin shivered under your touch, feeling heat reach your cheeks under his look on you, still the same as before. Full of love, tenderness and desire. You grasped the sides of his boxers and slid them down, freeing his hard length.
“I want to,” you murmured when you felt his hesitation. “I feel safe with you, and I wanna feel you” you whispered, making his heart beat so fast he wondered if you could hear it.
You stroked his shaft slowly, your thumb tracing his wet head, and straddled him, sliding his tip between your folds to coat him with your wetness. You nestled it at your entrance, seized his wrists and placed them above his head.
“Let me be in charge, ok?” you breathed. “I need to… need to be in charge.”
“Take what you need, sweetheart. I’m all yours.”
You kissed him and you sank down onto him, slowly, gasping when your folds spread under his girth. You looked at each other as you welcomed him inside, breathless under the stretch that you weren’t used to anymore, your forehead against his.
“You ok?” he asked.
“Yeah.. I just need to… get used to it.”
“Take all the time you need. Take it slow.”
You remained still for a few seconds, feeling his cock throb inside you, then started to slide up and down his shaft, moaning at the feeling you’d been craving so much lately.
“Oh my god,” you whined, “you always feel so good.”
“You too… I missed you so much, baby.”
You couldn't stop kissing him, feeling his skin beneath your fingers, the sweet stretch of his cock parting your walls making your mind go blank.
Joel let you take the lead, be in charge, setting the pace you needed, as he was enjoying the warmth of your breasts against his chest, the softness of your skin and your lips on him. It all seemed unreal, this moment between you that he had dreamed and longed for so much. He didn't mind having his hands bound by yours, loved the feeling that your control over his body brought you back to life, making all your dark thoughts disappear. Joel loved feeling your fingers on his wrists, your breath against his, your moans against his mouth, your hips slowly rising upon his shaft. Feeling every inch of your core around him, his cock rubbing against your walls, your heat surrounding him.
Joel noticed the way your breath quickened, recognized those moments when your climax was building, and he could think of nothing else, apart from the moment you would clench on him, when he would have to hold back from coming inside you, not yet, because he didn't want it to end.
“Joel… I’m gonna come,” you whined, and it was the sweetest melody to his ears. He kissed your neck and moaned as your pussy clenched around him, your whimpers growing louder and louder until you came, pulsing on his shaft and squeezing him so tightly that he started to see stars.
“Shit, baby… I’m not gonna last much longer,” he moaned. You slid off him and, pressing your forehead against his, stroked his cock just before his seed spurted out and covered his stomach and your lower belly. Then he grabbed a t-shirt and cleaned you both. Once done, he pulled you close and you kissed him, his hand brushing the back of your head softly as his breathing slowed down.
You remained silent for a while, enjoying this moment that each of you had dreamed of for a long time.
“Are you ok?” he asked.
You looked up at him and smiled. “I missed my home,” you whispered. “I missed you.”
His heart melted, making him feel fragile in the best way and madly in love, a ball of sweetness, far from the beast he had transformed into the day before.
You were home. You were safe.
And no one could ever hurt you again.
Joel masterlist
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summary: you’re not good at taking up space, so frank (lovingly) makes you.
word count: 1.7k
warnings: implied feminine reader, one (1) use of attagirl, blood, swearing, hurt/comfort
author’s note: one 10 second clip of frank drops and suddenly i’m revived… to be fair i’ve been thinking about writing something like this for a while! hope you enjoy <3
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺
From the very beginning, Frank was worried that he wouldn't be able to give you what you needed; what you deserved. He was by no stretch of the imagination a romance novel boyfriend or husband material, not anymore. He was just a lonely, sad man with scars of both the emotional and physical variety, and you were... a small spot of light through all the darkness surrounding him. He wanted to give you the best but he knew his best might not be good enough, not for someone who gave him so much comfort and security in return. You didn't even have to try particularly hard; all he needed was a rest in your bed or the scent of your hair in his nose and suddenly, he felt that much more content with his shitty situation. He felt awfully selfish for soaking up all your love while having so little to give back, but he wasn't strong enough to cut that tie no matter how deep a hole the guilt in his chest carved.
Much to his surprise, though, you were far more understanding and patient than anyone should have been. The first time that he stood you up on account of a mission running long, he came to your door in the middle of the night with a bouquet of your favorite flowers held in apology.
"I'm real sorry, sweetheart", he grumbled, pulling the hood of his jacket off of his head. The corner of his eye was an angry red and his bottom lip swollen with a tiny but lethal cut in the middle - he didn't need to tell you about his night for you to know. Still, he tried to offer an explanation. "Ain't right I stood you up. Wish I had a better reason than these assholes keeping me on my toes all night", he continued, extending the crumpled flowers to you with a manner that seemed almost bashful.
And you gave him a smile. An honest, radiant smile, while your dainty hand clasped around the bouquet, fingers brushing against his warm and calloused ones in the process.
"It's okay, Frank", you insisted, stepping aside to let him into your apartment. "I understand."
His eyes narrowed slightly but you sounded and looked just as genuine as you always did. He entered your home even though he didn't feel the slightest bit worthy, his mind running a million miles an hour. It felt like a trap; like a siren song inviting him close just for you to bite his head off. But you didn't, you just beamed at him like you were truly grateful that he was here now.
Like an idiot, he let himself be lulled to a sense of security by your open arms and kind smiles. It wasn't so much that you were trying to deceive him, but it did dawn on him that despite the brave front you put up, it did hurt. Of course, it hurt. Who wouldn't feel a sting when their loved one disappears unannounced, doesn't respond to texts, drags blood every time they step through the door? Still, somehow, he had let himself believe that you were fine with it; fine with him.
It wasn't until the umpteenth time that he let you down that he realized all his past transgressions had slowly chipped away at your heart. He had shown up late again and you had ushered him into the shower to get cleaned up while you heated up some leftovers for him, taking care of him like always. You hadn't even realized he had peeked out of the bathroom to ask for an extra towel, only for his heart to sink at the sight of your sniffles. You were moving around the kitchen so casually despite the tears streaming down your cheeks, despite the tremor in your hands that he could see even across the room. He didn't have the heart to tell you because he knew it was his fault and he was too much of a coward to face the truth. That he was bad for you, bad to you and somewhere deep down, you knew it, too.
He tried to show up more after that. Tried to do better, because somewhere down the line, he had found himself wanting to be worthy of you. What had once been a blunt acceptance of the fact that he never would be, had shifted into the desire to at least try.
"You okay, sweetheart?" he asked more often, observing your face as you sat on your couch or laid in his arms in your bed. He tried to get a read on you, but you were pretty damn talented at masking the hurt in your soul. It had convinced him, anyway.
Not anymore.
"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" you always smiled back, shrugging meekly. Like the mere idea of being anything other than compliant was unfathomable. He could see it in your eyes, that you were upset. Sometimes it wasn't even his fault; sometimes you just had a bad day but even then, you always shrugged it off.
"I don't wanna talk about it", you said casually, "it's not important."
As if anything about you could be anything but.
So, slowly but surely he realized that you weren't as happy and tranquil that you seemed. Even worse, he realized that it was far easier to see than you thought. All this time, you had been trying to placate him by removing your own issues from the equation. You offered solace, a safe haven, and he could no longer enjoy it because he figured out your trick to doing it - you made space for him at the expense of your own.
He finally had enough when he inadvertently pushed you to your limit once more. In his defense, like you pointed out too, he showed up on your doorstep holding his cracked ribs, his face bloodied and his breathing shallow. He had taken a proper beating and still dragged himself up your stairs just to show you that he wanted to be here, and that should have been enough for you. Or so you thought - he didn't.
"Frank, I get it. You look like shit, let me-", you started, reaching for him as he slumped against your door. He huffed, pulling away from you almost petulantly, giving you a tired look.
"Sweetheart, enough. I know you're mad. You gotta be mad. Tell me I fucked up, tell me you're sick of my shit", he gritted out, his words encouraging but his tone irritated. He sucked in a breath, standing up as straight as he could while clutching his ribs. "I keep droppin' the ball. Don't let me get away with that shit."
A frown pulled at your face and you tilted your head at him. "You're angry, because... I'm not angry?" you clarified, almost chuckling at the idea.
"Damn straight", Frank said firmly, huffing and puffing. The pain throbbing throughout his body wasn't nearly as bad as the pain of knowing how blind he had been. "And I dunno why you ain't."
You sighed, reaching for him again. This time, he didn't protest, just let you wind an arm around his waist. He grimaced and hissed at the sting in his ribs but you simply shushed him softly while guiding him to your couch. It proved difficult to set his heavy body down with any sense of grace, but a relieved sigh escaped him, nonetheless, once he sank into the cushions. You stood in front of him, twisting your bracelet nervously.
"I don't know how to be mad", you offered quietly, nerves building in your stomach. You had never been good at being loud, being demanding. And with Frank, it felt especially difficult. How could you ever yell or snap at someone who had been through so much but found comfort in you? You couldn't take that sanctuary away from him.
"You oughta try." Shaking his head, Frank exhaled. "Makes me sick to see you make yourself small like that, sweetheart. You shouldn't have to do that for anyone. Least of all me", he went on, hurt bleeding into his own voice now. It was killing him, knowing now that you were so used to shrinking. Taking up as little space as possible. He wanted to see you flourish, be honest with him, let him see you at your worst - because Lord knows you had seen him at rock bottom, too.
"Well, I am upset", you exhaled, fidgeting on your feet. This felt so incredibly strange, owning up to the hurt inside you, but the way Frank was looking at you was every bit encouraging. "I-I wait up for you and you never even text me. Sometimes you leave me on read, and-and it really hurts my feelings", you rambled on, your eyebrows knitted together as the emotions bubble to the surface. You were used to crying to yourself, behind closed doors, but this was different. This was frustration.
Frank said nothing. This wasn't the time for him to interject or make any comments. This was your moment to unload.
"It makes me feel really unimportant, Frank", you huffed. You swallowed hard before continuing, finally meeting his eyes. "I feel so... so lonely and dismissed when you pull stuff like this. I like you a lot and I want to keep seeing you but I need you to give me something in return, okay? I can't keep doing whatever this is."
Nodding along, Frank broke into a small smile. "Attagirl", he whispered approvingly, bowing his head in apology. "I'm real sorry for the way I've treated you, sweetheart. I'mma do better, I promise. 'Cause I really like you too, you know?" he continued, beckoning for you to join him on the couch. You hesitated before sinking down next to him, curling up against his good side.
"Thank you", you sighed softly, resting your hand on the skull on his chest. "Was that okay?"
Chuckling gruffly, Frank nodded before pressing a kiss on the top of your head.
"Yeah. That was real good", he agreed, looking down at you. "Now you just gotta keep doing it every time I fuck up."
blurb - This is what you wanted—pretend Dallas never happened, pretend Joel never happened. Get back to work, fix things with Tommy, stay focused. But Joel isn’t sticking to the plan. Not even close. And when pieces of his past resurface—messy and unresolved—distance becomes harder to keep. Especially when your body seems to want the one thing your mind keeps saying no to.
warnings - Mocking of mental health and abuse, mentions toxic/unhealthy relationships, and low self-esteem
Word Count: 16.1 k
Work had swallowed you whole again. Not chewed, not bit into—just opened wide and consumed you with the indifference of something that had done it a thousand times before.
The Wednesday sun streamed through your office windows, casting a warm glow across the room. Everything shimmered soft and hazy, like honey poured over tea. Too bad you didn’t feel half as warm.
The clients, the contracts, the numbers… all smooth sailing from Dallas. But it was a landslide. One you were quietly being buried under.
So when a knock echoed against your door, you barely looked up.
“You can put the papers on the left,” you muttered, absently tapping beside your keyboard, eyes glued to the sluggish loop of your cursor.
“Guess I’ve been demoted from family to intern.”
Your head snapped up.
Maria stood in the doorway, arms crossed and smirking. In her hands?
“Is that coffee?” you asked, suddenly alert, posture straightening like a soldier at roll call.
“Ah, now I’ve got your attention.” She laughed, stepping inside and setting the cups on your desk. The scent hit you immediately—your usual. Perfectly made.
“You know my order?”
“Tommy says it’s the only thing you drink. Wasn’t hard to guess.”
You tried not to wince at his name.
The work itself was a lot—but manageable. What wasn’t manageable was the silence where Tommy used to be. No corny jokes. No loud, boisterous stories breaking the afternoon lull. He’d kept things painfully professional. Clean lines, no softness.
It’s what he wanted. What he’d asked for.
And you were doing your best to respect that. Truly, you were. But it stung.
You wanted to skip this part—the awkward in-between, the stiff formality, the uncertainty. You wanted to fast-forward to forgiveness. To the part where he made fun of your playlist again and you rolled your eyes with a smile.
But healing didn’t come with shortcuts. And if this was the road back to him, back to that friendship… you’d walk it. Crawl it, even.
Maria’s voice tugged you back.
“I’m excited,” she said softly, and there was a light in her eyes you hadn’t seen in a while.
Your gaze flicked up, curious. “About what?”
“We told Raymond and Lorraine about the baby.”
You blinked, then grinned, warmth spilling into your chest. “Well, shit. That’s amazing. What’d they say?”
Maria lit up—actually lit up—as she pulled a chair over beside you. She absentmindedly twirled one of her braids around a finger, eyes gleaming.
“Lorraine screamed,” she said, practically glowing. “I mean screamed. It echoed through the receiver. Kevin almost had a heart attack.”
You laughed with her, the sound catching you by surprise.
“Oh, and that wasn’t even the funniest part,” she added.
You arched a brow. “Do tell.”
“Raymond,” she said dramatically, “decided to lecture Tommy on how not to hold a baby. Said, and I quote, ‘You better not be one of those dummies holdin’ ‘em by the feet.’”
You nearly choked. “Does he not remember that Kevin exists?”
“That’s what Tommy said!” Maria slapped the desk, giggling. “And Raymond goes, ‘Well, Kevin turned out half-right on account of his mama. Better let Maria do all the holdin’.’”
She nailed Raymond’s accent so perfectly, you nearly fell out of your chair laughing.
“I’m… I’m so happy for you guys.” You barely got your words out through your laughs, brushing a tear away “Are they coming over?”
“That’s the one thing I hoped we could put on pause,” Maria took a sip of her water, glancing out your window, “Lorraine immediately started planning a trip.”
You winced in sympathy. “That sounds… intense.”
Maria nodded enthusiastically, “I love her, I really do. I could have gotten a monster of a mother-in-law, but she’s been great. It’s just…”
“A little smothering?”
“Exactly!” Maria snapped her fingers like you nailed her thoughts on the head. “She’s already made plans for everything she wants to happen.”
“No.”
“Yes.” she slumped dramatically, taking another sip like it might calm her down. “Even my own mom isn’t going this hard. And yeah, sure, she already has grandkids, but she still freaks out every time a new one shows up. Lorraine’s on another stratosphere.”
“She’s extremely family-oriented.” You shrugged as if that was enough of an answer, taking your coffee and taking a sip. Warm and earthy, just how you like it.
“So family-oriented that she’s bringing her entire knitting collection to make a custom onesie for every week of the first year.”
“Hey,” you teased, “she’s your mother-in-law, not mine.”
Maria smacked your arm, and you broke into laughter, half-heartedly swatting her back as you both dissolved into giggles.
“Look at it this way,” you offered once you caught your breath. “You’re gonna have help around the house.”
Maria sighed and slumped deeper into her chair, flinging a hand over her bump like a dramatic heroine in a period film. The gesture tugged at something uncomfortable in your chest, a dull throb that you quickly smothered with a sip of coffee.
“That’s true…” she admitted. “But for more than four months? That’s well into next year!”
You tapped your chin “July is picking up speed.”
“It is…” Maria pondered with you “Thank God my baby won’t be a Christmas baby.”
“Would that really be so bad?”
“Yes!” Maria said with sudden gusto. “Because that means they’ll get combined gifts! You know what that’s like? You get birthday presents wrapped in snowflake paper. Your birthday gets absorbed into the holiday season and you become an afterthought.”
“Sounds like you’ve been harboring some personal Christmas trauma.”
“I have seen it happen,” she shuddered at the memory. “My cousin was born on Christmas Day. His parents didn’t even have a cake for one year. Just handed him a candy cane and called it festive.”
“Sounds slightly neglectful,” you deadpanned.
“Well, he did get taken by CPS, so…”
“What?”
“Nothing! Never mind, you. Long time ago. Even longer story.”
“I have the time.”
“Do you?” she challenged, raising a brow. “Because when I walked in, you looked like you were about five seconds from falling into your screen.”
You waved her off with an exaggerated flair. “I’m always like this. New York, Austin, doesn’t matter. You put work in front of me, and I’ll prioritize it.”
“I wish I had that kind of control. I have to force myself to even look at my casework. Half the time I come in here just to pretend none of it exists.”
“Naughty Maria,” you teased, clicking your tongue at her in mock disapproval.
She rolled her eyes, but her gaze shifted to your monitor, squinting a little.
“Is that all the Dallas stuff?”
“You bet,” You moved the screen so that Maria could see all your work “I’ve spent Monday, yesterday, and today organizing, setting up meetings, and prepping contracts for all these people. I think I’ve learned a million names in like… seventy-two hours.”
“That’s brutal.”
You gave a tired shrug. “Helps that I care. If I didn’t love this work, I’d be chewing nails by now. But still—sometimes… it’s just a lot.”
“I figured.”
“Hey, don’t toot my horn too long,” you said, swiveling slightly back toward her. “You had a full house during the entire Dallas conference. Work. Sarah. Kevin. The baby. And hell—Aspen. She probably tried to bite Kevin’s hair off.”
Maria groaned, dragging a hand over her face. “I have PTSD from those three days, I swear.”
“That bad?”
“Whatever you’re imagining?” She pointed at you, deadpan. “Triple it. Then triple that.”
“I don’t want to do that.”
“Well, it’s reality,” She muttered, slumping in her seat like the memory physically weighed her down. “Sarah was an angel, as always. I mean, it’s summer—she could’ve stayed holed up in a room, scrolling and ignoring all of us, but no. She got up, helped around the house, wrangled Kevin when I was ready to sell him…”
You raised a brow, amused.
“She even convinced another kid to help, even though she fought tooth and nail.”
“Oh yeah?” you asked, half-focused, eyes darting to your screen as a new email notification popped up. “Who?”
“Some girl. Ellie. Ellie Williams.”
Your fingers paused over the trackpad. “Never heard of her.”
“She’s new,” Maria said with a shrug. “From what I heard, she’s living with her mom? I don’t know, something like that. Anyway, it wasn’t her. Kevin, oh my Lord.” Maria threw her hands up. “I thought someone had baby-swapped him with the devil.”
You huffed a laugh, clicking through your inbox.
“He screamed so much about people invading his space. And Aspen started whining at the noise, and she’s still just a puppy, so of course she immediately began clawing at the couch like it personally wronged her…”
“Mmhmm,” you hummed distractedly, your eyes locked on the screen as the page loaded, slow as ever.
“…and I was eating like there was no tomorrow. Tommy says he doesn’t give a shit, but I give a shit.”
“Yeah, fuck Tommy,” you said absently, your eyes skimming the subject lines piling up in your inbox. Contracts. Updates. A few stray personal messages. Then—
“Yeah…” Maria echoed, gripping her cup of water. “Fuck Tommy. He’s the one who put his fat Miller baby in me. He gets to go for a jog every morning while I’m over here struggling to get my foot in a sneaker.”
You didn’t answer.
There it was. Bolded. Sharp. Impossible to ignore.
[YOU have 1 email from: JOEL MILLER]
It shouldn’t be as world-pausing as it was… but it still caused you to stutter in your conversation. Maria kept talking, her voice fuzzing out, background noise to the static rushing in your ears.
Joel had done a great job of avoiding you. Not just pretending like you suggested and he agreed to. No, he changed the agreement to completely avoid you.
It became evident on the shift from day one on Monday. You were holding onto a ton of papers, making your way in the tight hallway from the printer. Apparently, some clients loved paper over digital format, which made complete sense in this modern world.
Joel had appeared at the end of the hallway, grumbling about something on his phone. You paused, then thought to yourself: ‘Don’t make it weird. Don’t take it back, you wanted this.’
So you powered on. Your heels must’ve hit like a bell for him, cause his eyes snapped up, then back down, then widened and snapped back up.
He completely paused in the hallway, forcing you to stop as well. The hallway was tiny, meaning that there was no way you could side step Joel without him turning flat against the wall.
You were about to move to the side to give him space, be cordial…
He did a complete one-eighty and walked the other way.
No preamble, no big gestures or words. Just him turning on his heel like you were his sleep paralysis demon, but he could finally get away.
He didn’t look back, not even in your shock, when your hands slipped and the papers went flying everywhere. You were left to pick up the papers in a shameful crouch, tugging at the hem of your skirt while you knelt on the ground.
Tuesday was the same.
So was today.
Every morning, Joel was gone. Out on site before you even parked. You checked, once, with the front desk lady whose name you forgot again. She smiled and told you Joel was overseeing field ops this week.
Which was odd—because he’d already overseen those sites. You’d help build the schedule yourself. You’d double-checked everything. Joel had swapped his week. Without telling anyone. Without telling you.
But that was good, no matter how much your heart thudded weakly at the thought of his silence.
Because seeing Joel right now would be… bad.
Bad for your heart. Bad for your sanity. Bad for the anxiety that had been dragging across your ribs ever since you got home.
You would’ve killed for a Plan B. But it had only started hitting shelves a few years ago, and even then, it was prescription-only. No chance of getting it after Joel. Too late now either way—but that didn’t stop the bitterness from rising every time you thought about it.
To cope, you’d fallen into every horrifying rabbit hole the internet had to offer. All of them laced with “motherhood” in the tags.
Eventually, after hours of being on your laptop, your spiraling would burn itself out. You’d lie in bed staring at the ceiling, letting the sharper thoughts fade. What was left behind wasn’t panic. It wasn’t even regret. It was quieter than that.
What would you even be like as a mom?
It was a question you kept coming back. You knew, without a doubt, that you wouldn’t be like your mom. That was the one clear line in your head. You wouldn’t touch alcohol—not a drop. You’d even stoped drinking recently.
And in the quietest moments, when your hand brushed your stomach, you believed in yourself. Just for a second. That maybe you’d break the cycle.
It didn’t take a genis to realize your mom didn’t have it good as a kid. A couple clipped conversation with your dad and lonely nights in your room put two and two together. From what you got, your grandpa hadn’t been a good man.
No, rather a terrible man.
One time, when your dad was drunk and sleep deprived from another double shift, he told you enough. He had been slouched over the dining table, beer in hand as he squished your cheek.
“If I… if I end up bein’ mean baby, you’ll slap me silly right?”
You’d laughed then, pinching his cheek right back.
“You’d never be mean to me Dad. Where is this coming from?”
He went silent for a second, looking at you, his eyes darting all over your features. Your eyes, nose, cheeks, mouth, every feature you shared with your mom.
“Bad men live in this world baby.”
“I know, but no one would ever—I mean, I have you. Raymond, and Tommy. Hell, even Joel if I get really hurt.”
But he shook his head like you said the worst thing possible. “No baby. You never know. It can always be the people who were sworn… sworn to protect you. Jus’ ask your mama.”
“Mama?” Your throat slightly clenched at the implication.
He nodded hard “Yes baby. Why do you think she drinks a lil’ too much sometimes?”
“She’s… she just has some problems.”
“And who did that to her?”
“Someone close…?”
“Yes baby. Someone real close.” He took your hand his his, squeezing harder now, “Broke her down ‘til there was nothin’ left. Hurt her up here…” He put a finger to temple,“Here…” He moved to his heart, “But most of the time… here…” He gestured to his whole body.
You didn’t need him to be sober to realize what he was saying.
But you knew that cycle continued in her. She was barely present when you were a kid. How many talent shows did you go with only your dad present in the audience? How may times did you watch as Raymond took pictures of Lorraine with Tommy and Joel, while you sat on the sidelines like you were seeing a flim you couldn’t relate to?
How many times were you by yourself in the store buying menstrual products for yourself because your mom was too hungover to get some for you, and you were too embarrassed to ask your Dad? Every moment was seared into your skin, into your memory. And you were too bitter to let go.
You’d make sure you were there for every damn thing. Every drawing, every talk with the teachers, every moment, every milestone. You’d shield your kid from every bad thing you’d gone through, and never pass down some warped coping mechanism to deal with your lacking as a person.
But another thought comforted you on those lonely nights. The fact that at least Joel would be there. And he was good.
That always sent a shiver down your spine.
Your nose. His dark, unreadable eyes. Your lips. His wild, perfect curls. Your laugh—his dimples, the kind you only ever caught when he smiled without meaning to.
And if the thought of a child terrified you, he didn’t. Not in that way. Not as a father.
You heard the stories on how his whole face changed when she first laughed as a baby. Like he forgot there was a world beyond that sound.
How he chose to be a father thirteen years ago when you begged him to choose himself. How he chose to be a chained down to a person that hurt him in so many way for the sake of his baby. How he deeply he loved no matter how much he pretended not too.
Even now, even after all the complicated things between you two—there was no part of you that questioned whether Joel was a good father, a good man. The blueprint had been written in how his blood, in his words, in his actions. It was just who he was.
But you couldn’t wish that.
Because this wasn’t some court case. No Punnett square scribbled on notebook paper. This wasn’t a classroom or a game. This was real. Real life. Real consequences. Real, irreversible change—
“Hey. You listening?”
You blinked. Reality snapped back like a rubber band.
Maria was staring at you, one brow raised, her hand waving in front of your face like a flag. You hadn’t even realized she'd stopped talking.
She gave you a crooked smile. “Must’ve bored you to death, huh?”
“What? No—God, no. It’s not you, it’s—” You broke off, eyes flicking back to your screen. Joel’s name still sat bolded at the top of your inbox.
You swallowed hard.
“Just got sucked into work. That’s all.”
Maria craned her neck just enough to catch the name, and she winced in sympathy. “Ah. That kind of work.”
“I don’t even know what this is about,” you muttered, dragging a hand through your hair like it might untangle your nerves too.
She stood, grabbing her water and offering a soft smile. “I’ll let you get back to it.”
“Wait—Maria, I didn’t mean to— I’ve just got a million things going on and—”
“Hey.” She cut you off gently, waving her hand like she could shoo the guilt right out of the air. “No hard feelings. I hijacked your office for thirty minutes. Frankly, it’s a miracle you didn’t kick me out five stories ago.”
“I swear, next time, you’ll have my undivided attention.”
She paused at the doorway, lips pursing like she was making a calculation. Then her face lit up with something far too mischievous to trust.
“Well. You can prove it this Sunday.”
You blinked. “Sunday? What’s Sunday?”
Maria made a face like she’d stepped in something sticky. “Lorraine’s Sunday. She said it was a holy day for a holy baby.”
You groaned on cue. “God, you’re sneaky.”
“Exceptionally sneaky,” she agreed with a smug little nod, already halfway out the door. “But effective.”
“Yeah, yeah. See you there…”
“That’s the spirit!” she called over her shoulder, voice sing-song and triumphant as she disappeared down the hall.
You listened to her shoes squeak against the floor. After you knew she had disappeared, you looked back at your inbox. Joel’s email still sat there. Untouched, unaware of how much it affected you.
Silence reclaimed your office. Finally.
You clicked before you could change your mind. The email opened—dry. Clinical.
Site details. Line after line of addresses, inspection notes, foundation issues, projected costs.
At the very bottom, in plain font. No punctuation.
Need to discuss with Tommy before you do something
Your jaw clenched.
That’s it?
No hello. No great words. No comfort to your own buzzing brain and wandering thoughts.
Just that.
You let out a low groan and slumped forward, pressing your forehead to your desk like it could drain the frustration out of you.
“…fuck you,” you muttered at the wood grain.
The email didn’t answer.
What did answer was another knock on your door.
Your head slumped back at the sound, a quiet groan escaping before you caught yourself. Maybe Maria had forgotten something. You rose slowly, still rubbing at your tired eyes.
But when you opened it, it wasn’t Maria.
Tommy’s face took up your view, and your spine snapped straight like instinct.
“Oh—hey. Tommy.”
“Hey.” His voice was lighter, more soft. Not as neutral, unlike earlier this week. He gave a quick glance to his watch. “Meetin’ starts in five.”
You blinked. “Meeting?”
Tommy looked slightly concerned. “You forgot about the meetin’?”
“What? No, no way. Yeah. I’ll just… grab my notebook…”
You didn’t make him wait long—just long enough to tuck a pen behind your ear and pull on your jacket. The walk through the office was quiet at first. You stuck close but not too close, careful to match his pace. He didn’t look mad, necessarily. But he wasn’t saying much either. Just walking with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tight.
You cleared your throat. “Thanks for coming to get me. I—uh—I didn’t realize it was already that time.”
Tommy nodded, looking straight ahead. “Yeah. I figured.”
The silence stretched another block before he spoke again—calm, but certain.
“Look. I’ve been thinkin’.”
You glanced at him, heart already sinking.
“After what happened in Dallas,” he went on, not looking at you, “I think we need to… adjust a few things.”
You swallowed, quiet. You didn’t try to argue. You didn’t really have the right to.
“I don’t like havin’ to pull rank,” he said plainly, eyes forward. “But the truth is—I brought you in. I backed you. And if I’m gonna keep doin’ that, I need to be damn sure we’re solid. That we’re clear on roles. Chain of communication. Priorities.”
Your stomach tightened. But you nodded. “Of course.”
Tommy shot you a look—not unkind, but measuring. “So here’s how it’s gonna be.”
The two of you moved through the open hall now, passing a few desks. You caught sight of two people at reception, heads bent together over some intake paperwork. They didn’t glance up.
“You bring anythin’ to me, first,” Tommy said. “Not Joel. Not the crew. Definitely not the client. Me. No exceptions.”
You nodded again. “Understood.”
“I don’t care if it’s a good plan or a gut feelin’ or jus’ some old campaign that worked when you were back in New York. You run it through me.”
There was an edge to his voice.
You winced a little but didn’t fight it. “Okay.”
“And you and me?” He gestured between the two of you as you approached the main conference room hallway. “We’re a team. But only if we’re on the same page.”
“We are,” you said quickly. “I mean it, Tommy. I’m in this. No secrets. No more running point on my own.”
He was quiet for a beat. Then, just as you reached the door to the meeting room, he lifted his hand to stop you.
You froze, expecting one last warning.
Instead, Tommy’s hand landed on the door handle, and he turned to you, the tension in his face easing for the first time in what felt like forever.
His mouth curled, just slightly. “You still takin’ notes in that little frilly-ass notebook?”
You blinked, caught off guard—then let out a short, surprised laugh. “It’s leather-bound.”
“Yeah,” he smirked. “Bet it has those stars in the corners when’re bored.”
You rolled your eyes. “They’re constellations.”
He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
It was the first time in a week that he’d teased you. The grin on your face bloomed instantly, warm and unfiltered.
Tommy saw it. You saw him see it.
And then he pushed open the door.
The shift was immediate.
Your brain toggled back into work mode as you stepped inside, already scanning for the client.
He was standing near the window: tall, suited, with a folio tucked under one arm and a branded pen in the other. Probably mid-40s. Real estate type, maybe development. You were already clocking his shoes, the watch, the posture—just something you always did. Your mouth opened slightly, ready to greet him.
And then your gaze flicked left.
Joel.
He was standing just beside the client, hands clasped loosely in front of him. He’d clearly been mid-conversation—mouth half-open, expression halfway polite.
But then he saw you.
His jaw tightened. Shoulders straightened like a ruler had been shoved down his spine. His hands dropped stiffly to his sides. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t nod. Didn’t blink.
The client didn’t seem to notice. But you sure as hell did.
You felt heat rise to your face, fast and stupid and involuntary.
You didn’t look back to Joel. Not really. But you felt him. Like a live object running under your skin. Your breath hitched—but only for a second.
Tommy greeted the client with a firm handshake and a loud, easy: “Ron, good to see you again.”
Ron. Right. That was his name.
You followed, professional mask snapping back into place as you offered a composed smile and stepped forward to shake his hand too, introducing yourself.
Joel still hadn’t said a damn thing.
You sat down, careful and smooth. Opened your “frilly-ass” notebook. Pulled the pen from behind your ear.
Your hand didn’t even shake.
Joel took a seat across the table—diagonally, thankfully. Just kept his eyes on the folio in front of him like it had all the answers.
Tommy cleared his throat. “Alright, let’s jump in.”
You straightened, clicked your pen, and settled into your usual rhythm.
Tommy ran point, naturally. You’d built this pitch together, and your working chemistry had always been sharp. You led the visual strategy while he framed the logistics. Your language polished, his grounded. Back and forth, clean as clockwork.
Even Joel contributed here and there—muttering a few notes about on-site timelines, material delays, where the supply chain had shifted again thanks to the recent storm.
But every time he spoke, you made a deliberate effort not to make some sort of expression toward him that betrayed what you were actually thinking.
It wasn’t hard. Not with Ron asking questions every ten seconds and Tommy steering conversation like a freight train. You were grateful for the cover. Grateful to feel useful for Tommy again. Grateful to feel like maybe—just maybe—the tension would stay manageable.
Ron furrowed his brow.
“Can you come here a sec?” he asked, tapping the mock-up packet you’d made. “This part here—‘targeted outreach to legacy contractors’—what does that really mean? ‘Cause I like the sound of it, but I don’t actually get it.”
You smiled smoothly, rising. “Sure.”
You circled the table slowly, stopping just between Ron’s seat and Joel’s.
It wasn’t tight enough to be inappropriate—but close enough that you could feel the faint brush of Joel’s sleeve as you leaned forward.
You pointed at the page, your voice dipping instinctively to that professional, soft-but-clear tone. “This is a way to bring back contractors who used to work in this region,” you explained.
Joel didn’t move.
“We’re using past employment data and purchase patterns to find the ones with the highest return rates—and then sending them personalized offers to rejoin the current builds.”
Ron nodded, eyes darting back and forth between the graphs and your notes. “Smart. I like that.”
You smiled faintly and shifted your weight to point out a specific graph, the motion subtle—except your hip brushed Joel’s shoulder.
A second too long, a little bit too much touch.
Joel went rigid.
It was so quick you almost didn’t catch it—the sharp inhale, the twitch of his entire body. Then—
THUNK.
He jerked back so hard his knee cracked against the table leg. The sound made Ron jump. Joel hissed a curse under his breath, fumbling for balance, but his elbow clipped his coffee cup and sent it toppling.
Black liquid spilled across his lap and thigh, fast and dark.
“Shit,” Joel hissed through his teeth, chair screeching back in a sharp arc as he shoved himself to his feet.
“Joel,” you gasped, his sudden movements freaking you out, but you confided your shock at spreading your face. You looked over to a little refreshment table and grabbed a napkin. “Here—hold still—”
But Joel didn’t hold still.
He twisted back sharply, legs bumping into the neighboring chair. His hip clipped the corner of the table, sending another pen clattering to the floor. Ron’s eyes widened, his grip tightening on his briefcase.
You reached forward anyway, going quick enough to press the napkins against Joel’s thigh—
“Stop—” Joel muttered, twisting even farther away. His voice was rough, strained.
“Joel,” you said firmly, trying to keep it calm, professional, normal. “It’s fine. Just stop moving, I’m trying to—”
He jerked back again, nearly tripping over the chair leg behind him, and your breath caught. His reaction was so abrupt, so sharp it made you hesitate mid-reach.
Tommy’s jaw tightened.
“Ron,” Tommy said loudly, his tone a little too bright. His forced smile was sharp as he flipped the client’s packet open wider. “Let’s keep goin’ here, huh? You wanted to see the cost breakdown. Page five. Real straightforward stuff.”
Ron tore his gaze off Joel—reluctantly—to refocus on Tommy’s calm, practiced cadence.
But you stayed locked on Joel, napkins in hand.
“Are you okay?” you asked, quieter now. “Did you get burned?”
Joel didn’t look at you. His face was red—so red it was blotchy across his cheeks and down his neck, hair sticking slightly damp against his forehead.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Jus’ a lil’ burn.”
You frowned, glancing down at the mess over his jeans. “Are you sure? Because—”
“I’m fine,” Joel cut in, sharp, too fast. His eyes finally darted toward Tommy.
You followed his gaze.
Tommy stared back at him again, brows furrowed. There was a pause—a brief flicker where suspicion crossed Tommy’s face. Then, slowly, he gave a single, terse nod.
Joel didn’t wait.
He bolted for the door.
The conference room fell oddly quiet, the sound of his boots fading fast out of the room before a sharp turn left. Bathroom.
You blinked after him, heart still hammering.
“I’ll clean this up,” you said quickly, crouching to gather what was left of the spilled coffee and knocked-over napkins.
“Thanks,” Tommy muttered through his teeth, still flashing a grin at Ron as if nothing had happened. “Now, look at these projections. You’re gonna love ‘em.”
You turned back to the mess, picking up Joel’s cup carefully by the rim. You braced yourself for the heat—just in case.
Except… It wasn’t hot.
You blinked, pausing mid-motion.
You pressed your fingers lightly against the inside of the cup.
Cold.
No steam. No warmth. Just flat, stale coffee.
Your brows pinched, confusion snagging at your chest. Joel said it burned him. Why would he lie?
Your gaze flickered toward the hall where he’d vanished. Your mind spun, a sharp, baffled pulse that you didn’t have the luxury of following.
No time. Not here. Not now.
You set the cup aside, mopped the table clean, and stacked Joel’s abandoned folder neatly off to the corner. Then you slid back into your seat, pen in hand, posture composed.
Professional again. Even as your thoughts roared.
The rest of the meeting blurred regardless.
You and Tommy picked up where Joel had left off seamlessly—if anything, the two of you worked sharper. Tommy guided Ron through final adjustments to the contract while you filled in with market data and polished phrasing, smoothing any rough edges.
By the end, Ron was nodding enthusiastically. “I like this,” he said, pen scratching across the dotted line. “Feels tight. Clean. Can’t argue with the numbers.”
Tommy smiled. “That’s what we like to hear.”
You added your closing notes with precise handwriting, tucking the papers neatly into the folder before standing.
The tension in your shoulders eased a little as the three of you walked toward the office lobby.
Ron chatted amiably, his briefcase swinging at his side. He complimented Tommy’s reputation in Austin and even praised your presentation style, which earned you a quiet but approving glance from Tommy.
For a few blissful minutes, it almost felt normal again.
Until Ron stepped out onto the front stoop, shaking both your hands warmly before heading down toward his car.
The door clicked shut behind him.
“Tommy, I’m—”
He turned.
“I’m so sorry,” you blurted, words spilling out fast. “I know that meeting was important and Joel just—God, I should’ve handled it better. I should’ve stayed in my seat instead of—”
“Hey,” Tommy interrupted.
“—and I swear I was just trying to help him—”
“Listen—”
“—but I know I probably made it worse—”
“Look at me,” Tommy said, firmer this time.
You froze mid-sentence. Your eyes snapped to his.
He gave you that steady look—the one that always felt like it cut straight through your panic, even back when you were teenagers and he had to talk you down.
“Listen,” he said evenly. “I get it. I was pissed at you. And yeah, I told you you had to prove yourself to me again.”
You nodded, swallowing hard.
“But don’t turn yourself into some snivelin’ intern over every damn hiccup.” His tone was blunt, but not unkind. “You hear me? You ain’t a kid. You know what you’re doin’. That was a mistake. It’s done.”
Your breath hitched. You nodded again, slower this time.
“Okay,” you murmured.
“Good.” He huffed, rubbing his jaw, then glanced toward the hallway where Joel had disappeared earlier. His brow furrowed. “I don’t know what the fuck’s on with him though.”
You hesitated. “Joel?”
“Yeah,” Tommy muttered. “He’s been… off. Ever since Dallas.”
Your stomach tightened.
“Off how?” you asked carefully.
Tommy frowned deeper, crossing his arms. “I don’t know. Quieter. Twitchy. He even switched his whole site week with me. I’m not complain’ though. More time at home, but still…”
You kept your face neutral, heart pounding.
“Hell, I figured maybe it was jus’ stress, but he’s never been this… jumpy. Man spilled coffee and acted like it was napalm. Then bolted? What’s that about?”
You forced a small shrug. “Maybe he’s just… just having a bad day.”
“A bad week more like it.”
Your nails bit lightly into your palm, hidden at your side.
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Whatever it is, I’ll talk to him later. Can’t have him scarin’ off clients actin’ like he just got shot.”
You nodded faintly.
Tommy’s hand clapped lightly against your shoulder, grounding you. “You did fine, alright? Quit apologizin’. We landed Ron. That’s the win.”
You nodded again, steadier this time. “Right.”
“Good.” He gave you a small, approving look, then turned back toward his office, boots thudding softly against the polished floor.
You checked the clock on the wall—just past noon. Lunch break.
Your stomach twisted faintly. You hadn’t even realized how hungry you were until now. Leftovers from takeout sat ready in the communal fridge. Maybe some fresh air, too. Maybe you could sit in the truck and listen to some music.
You gripped your notebook tighter and turned toward to head back to your office—
“Hey.”
You stopped, glancing back. Tommy stood in his doorway, one hand braced against the frame.
“Tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“You up for drinks?”
You hesitated. “Drinks?”
He arched an eyebrow. “You heard me.”
“What for?”
Tommy smirked faintly, stepping out into the hall again, arms folding loosely across his chest.
“We got plenty to celebrate,” he said. “First off, you haven’t had a proper toast for Dallas yet—we practically ran outta there soon as we wrapped.”
Your gave a noncommittal huff of a laugh. You took steps toward Tommy until he was within arm’s length.
“Second,” he went on, “business is boomin’. Third, I’m havin’ a kid—”
You swatted his arm lightly. “Oh, that one again?”
He grinned. “Did I mention I’m havin’ a kid?”
You rolled your eyes, laughing despite yourself. “No, what we really ought to be celebrating is how Maria is somehow managing to fit your big-headed kid inside her.”
Tommy mock-scowled, pressing a hand over his chest. “Big-headed?”
“Genetics don’t lie,” you teased, biting back a grin.
“Alright, that’s it. You’re buyin’ first round tonight.”
“Tonight,” you echoed carefully, side-eyeing him.
“Yea,” he said easily. “New bar I found. The Tipsy Bison.”
You blinked. “The Tipsy Bison? That’s real?”
“Dead serious.” His grin widened. “Name’s ridiculous, but I heard got good bourbon and better wings.”
You snorted. “Sounds… dangerous.”
“Only if you can’t keep up.” He winked, then turned back toward his office. “Eight o’clock. Don’t bail on me.”
You stood there for a second, a little breathless. Okay. This was good. This was progress.
You’d spent days clawing your way back into Tommy’s good books after Dallas, and now—drinks. An invitation. Jokes again.
Things were getting better.
You gave a thumbs up for approval, then let out an exhale slowly, letting your shoulders relax once Tommy was out of sight.
And then the bathroom door opened.
Joel stepped out.
He was tucking his flannel back into his jeans, sleeves shoved carelessly to his elbows. His face was still damp, drops of water clinging to his jaw and hairline, and his curls were curling tighter from where he’d splashed his face in the sink. His jeans still had that massive stain, but it was more faded.
He froze when he saw you.
So did you.
For a beat, neither of you moved.
He didn’t look angry. Didn’t look jittery or sharp-edged like he had earlier.
He just looked… guilty.
Shamful. Like he did something that went against his entire moral code for survival, and now he had to live with it.
It hit you so hard you almost forgot to breathe. Then a voice called from down the hall.
“Joel! Hey—need you out here!”
One of the crew memebers.
Joel tore his gaze from yours instantly, latching onto the sound like a lifeline. He ducked his head, muttered something low, and strode past you without a word. Boots heavy, shoulders stiff.
And then he was gone again.
❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜
A neon sign buzzed faintly over the bar, with country-rock from the jukebox mingled with laughter and clinking glasses.
The Tipsy Bison was exactly the kind of place Tommy loved: narrow and warm, all amber lighting and wood-paneled walls, and crowded just enough to feel alive without being suffocating.
It wasn’t big. In fact, it felt more like someone had converted an oversized living room into a drinking hole. Every table was full, save for a single high-top in the back corner—just barely large enough for three.
“See?” Tommy said, slinging his jacket over the stool. “Told you. Hidden gem.”
You smirked faintly, setting your bag on the seat beside you. “Still not over the name.”
“It grows on you,” he replied, leaning forward against the table’s edge while Joel slid silently into the seat across from you.
Joel hadn’t said much since you all arrived. He’d been polite—held the door for you both on the way in—but he’d stayed quiet, like usual. But this time, he didn’t look away from you. He was constantly drilling holes into your head when he thought you weren’t looking, and when you caught him, he looked like you pricked him and he turned away.
Tommy slapped the tabletop with his palm. “First round’s on you, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah,” you said, sliding off the stool and heading toward the bar.
You ordered two whiskeys and a club soda, handing over your card.
By the time you returned, Joel looked like his mood was spoiled by just being here. His brother was the opposite, completely unable to contain himself when he saw what was in your hands.
Tommy took his glass with a grin. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” He held it up toward Joel. “To new contracts, new bars, and new babies.”
Joel’s jaw ticked faintly at that. He lifted his glass mechanically, clinking it against Tommy’s.
“And?” Tommy prompted, glancing at you.
“To Maria, for putting up with you long enough to make that baby.”
“Hell yeah. Now that’s a toast.”
You sipped your drink—cold, fizzy, sharp against your tongue.
Tommy tilted his head. “No drinks for you tonight?”
You froze for just a second, heart jumping in your chest, before you smoothed it over with a shrug. “Figured I’d take it easy. Long day.”
Tommy blinked. “You? Passing on drinks?”
You arched an eyebrow. “What, I’m not allowed to be responsible for once?”
Joel hadn’t moved. He watched.
Quiet. Steady. His eyes said everything his mouth didn’t—the weight of the promise you’d made him in that motel lingering unspoken between you. You glupped, and swallows more of your soda.
Tommy grinned like it was nothing. “Fine. More whiskey for me.” He tipped back half his glass in one gulp and slapped it down on the table.
From there, it was all him. He dove straight into a story about one of the new hires drilling into a pipe on-site, his laughter booming loud enough to cut through the music from the jukebox.
You smiled where you were supposed to, tossing in the occasional “no way” or “oh my God” while he gestured wildly, painting the scene in ridiculous detail.
Joel didn’t add much—just sat back, nursing his whiskey, his thumb slow against the rim of the glass, eyes down like he was trying to disappear into it.
“—and then,” Tommy said, laughing so hard he nearly choked, “the water just shoots out, soakin’ everythin’. Boots ruined. Whole damn floor.”
You let out a soft laugh. Joel’s mouth twitched—barely noticeable—and Tommy pointed at him, triumphant. “See? Even he thinks it’s funny.”
Joel didn’t say a word. He just tipped his whiskey toward his mouth and sipped so lightly you weren’t sure he’d even swallowed.
The wings arrived next, steaming and smelling divine, and Tommy pounced first. “Gonna be the best in town soon, I bet you.” he declared, biting into one with enough force to make the bone crack.
“If Maria lets you keep coming back here,” you teased.
“She’ll be fine,” Tommy said through a mouthful of chicken. He turned toward Joel. “You in, man? Weekly tradition?”
Joel looked up briefly, nodded once. “Sure.”
Tommy just kept going, talking about Maria’s cravings, baby clothes, drywall costs, permit headaches. His voice filled every inch of the small table, keeping the atmosphere buoyant enough that no one else would notice the silence between you and Joel.
But you felt it. You felt it every time Joel’s gaze lifted before darting back down like he hadn’t looked at all. Every time it happened, your breath caught, subtle but impossible to ignore.
By the time Tommy flagged his third whiskey, Joel still hadn’t moved past his first. He cradled it like a tether, thumb still tracing idle circles against the glass. You barely tasted your soda.
It wasn’t until Tommy excused himself—muttering something about “damn whiskey runnin’ straight through me”—that you felt how loud the silence had become.
You fiddled with your straw, stirring melted ice around in your glass. Joel shifted in his seat, the faint creak of the old wooden chair loud in your ears.
You glanced at him. He wasn’t looking at you—more like past you, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder, jaw ticking faintly.
Joel took a sip of his drink. You mirrored him. Neither of you spoke.
Finally, unable to stand it, you blurted out, “You’re quiet tonight.”
Your voice came out softer than you intended, almost swallowed by the low hum of the jukebox. His eyes flicked up immediately, pinning you in place with that heavy, unreadable look.
“Jus’ tired,” he said, low and even.
You nodded faintly, like that was answer enough, but your gaze fell to your glass again. “Long week,” you offered, forcing a small smile that felt stiff even on your own face.
He hummed in response—just a short, noncommittal sound—and for some reason that made it worse. You shifted, suddenly hyperaware of how close your knees were under the table, the faint scrape of your shoes when you adjusted your seat.
“Tommy’s… happy,” you tried next.
“Yeah.”
The noise of the bar still filled the air around you—clinking glasses, laughter from across the room—but none of it seemed to reach your table. It was like you were sealed in this strange, uncomfortable bubble.
“This place’s nice,”
“You’ve been here ‘fore?”
“No.” you said quickly, heat creeping up your neck. “I meant, uh… just, like.”
He gave you a look that made you immediately wished you could crawl under the table.
“Mm.” He set his drink down. His fingers drummed once against the glass before stilling, like he wanted to say something and thought better of it.
You nodded again, a little too fast this time. “Good band, too. On the jukebox. Classic.”
“Didn’t notice.”
“Oh,”
The silence stretched again. You both shifted in your seats at almost the exact same time, bumping knees under the table.
“Sorry,” you said quickly.
“’S fine,” he muttered, leaning back slightly—only for his boot to accidentally hook yours again when he adjusted.
You both froze.
You tried to pull back at the same moment he did, which only made it worse—your shoe scraped against his boot before thunking against the leg of his chair. Joel muttered something under his breath, leaning the wrong way, and suddenly it was an awkward, silent game of tug-of-war.
“Just—move—” you hissed under your breath, trying to shift your foot without kneeing him.
“I am,” he grumbled back, his voice low and rough, but neither of you coordinated it right.
You bit down a laugh, half from nerves, half from sheer absurdity. “This is ridiculous—”
And then—
“Sorry—hi?”
You blinked and turned.
A woman stood by your table. Young—mid-twenties, maybe—pink-cheeked and nervous, wringing her hands like she didn’t quite know what to do with them. Her gaze flicked between you and Joel, then lingering on your tangled legs under the table before darting back up, like she was trying to solve a puzzle.
Joel straightened almost instantly, shifting back in his seat and tugging his leg away so abruptly that the motion jostled the table. Your drink sloshed dangerously, and you barely caught it in time.
“Uh,” you said eloquently.
Joel’s brow furrowed, wary. “Can we help you?”
“Are you two together?”
You blinked. Joel’s brows drew tighter, a faint crease forming between them.
“Oh, no,” you said instantly, shaking your head, heat rushing to your face. “No, we’re not—”
“No,” Joel echoed at the exact same time, his voice firm, final.
The woman visibly exhaled, relief washing over her features like a wave. “Oh, thank God,” she muttered under her breath.
Before you could even react, she turned over her shoulder and flashed a discreet thumbs-up toward a small gaggle of women near the bar. A ripple of squeals erupted from the group, followed by frantic whispering and the unmistakable sight of one of them ducking out of view like they’d been caught spying.
Joel’s head tilted slightly, confusion twisting his face. “What the hell…”
You got it instantly. Your stomach dipped, and you turned back toward your drink, pressing the straw to your lips, letting the syrupy sweetness coat your tongue so you didn’t have to say a word.
“Um,” the woman said, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. “This is kind of embarrassing, but… can I have your number?”
Joel froze.
“I just… noticed you from over there,” she went on quickly, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “And I thought you were cute and—God, I don’t even know what to say…”
Joel blinked once. “Oh.” His voice came out low, unreadable.
He glanced at her—then at you. Just a flicker, almost imperceptible, but you caught it. Like he was gauging you. Like he wanted to see if you’d flinch.
You didn’t. You stared at your drink, stirring the ice with deliberate care, lips wrapped around your straw like you weren’t even part of this.
Joel wasn’t yours. You’d made that clear. You’d drawn the line in that rural motel, and he’d stayed behind it, even if his version was dodging you like the plague.
You weren’t going to be the hypocrite who yanked it back now, not when someone else stepped over it.
Joel cleared his throat, shifting in his chair—the sound of wood scraping against the floor grounding you like nails on a chalkboard.
“What’s your name?” he asked finally, voice low.
The girl brightened. “Amber.”
You stirred your drink harder, ice clinking like tiny cymbals.
Amber giggled lightly. “So…?”
Joel hesitated.
The silence stretched, sharp and taut. You almost hated him for it—for making you wait, for dragging this out long enough to force you to care.
Finally, his voice came, calm and even. “I ‘preciate it,” he said, slow and deliberate. “But I can’t.”
Your gaze lifted—against your will—just to see his face. His eyes weren’t on you; they were fixed politely on her, steady and sure.
Amber blinked, surprised. “Oh—”
Joel’s hand flexed once around his glass. “I got a daughter at home. And a job that don’t quit. My plate’s full as it is.”
Amber’s smile faltered slightly. “I didn’t know you had a daughter.”
“Ain’t your fault,” Joel replied simply. He didn’t sound cruel—if anything, he was gentle, that rare softness to his drawl that always gutted you more than his temper ever could. “But I ain’t lookin’ for that kinda thing right now.”
Amber nodded, biting her lip, disappointment written plain as day. Still, she managed a small, understanding smile. “Okay. Yeah. I get it.”
Joel gave a faint dip of his head—the closest thing he had to courtesy. “Take care of yourself.”
She left, throwing one last glance over her shoulder, this time quickly glancing at you. Then she was gone, retreating to her friends, who immediately wrapped her in consolation and pats on her back.
Joel shifted in his chair, leaned back, and reached for his whiskey. He sipped it slow, his expression unreadable, like nothing had just happened.
You stared at him.
“You should’ve taken her number,” you said finally, forcing the words out light, teasing, like they didn’t taste bitter in your mouth.
Joel’s eyes cut to you, brow knitting. “Why?”
You shrugged, swirling your straw in your glass like you weren’t watching his every move. “Wouldn’t hurt. Go out sometime. Romance never killed anyone.”
His jaw worked, muscle ticking sharp. The word romance hit like flint on steel. You saw it in his shoulders, the way they went rigid, tight enough to snap.
“I don’t want romance,” he said flatly, his tone clipped.
You cocked a brow, leaning in slightly. “Not even with someone cute like her?”
Joel’s eyes darkened. He stared at his whiskey like it was safer than looking at you. “‘Cause I don’t,” he muttered.
“That’s not an answer,”
His head tilted, gaze slicing toward you—sharp, heated, torn between annoyance and something else you couldn’t name.
And for one split second, you swore he might actually say it. Whatever it was. His mouth parted, a snarl caught on his tongue—
But the word died on his tounge when two tattooed arms wrapped suddenly around his shoulders from behind, yanking Joel halfway off his stool in a rough, brotherly kind of hug.
“Miller!” a loud, brash voice boomed, so full of careless energy it made you jolt.
Joel stiffened under the grip, his head jerking around instantly, jaw snapping tight. You startled too, blinking as the stranger leaned over Joel’s shoulder like they were old friends.
The guy was loud. Abrasive. His laugh carried across the bar. Every part of him inked with swirls of black and red. His head was buzzed, and the tanned skin you sould see on in the gaps of tattoos that his skin was rough, almosted weathered.
Joel growled low, deep in his chest. He twisted sharply in his seat, ready to shove the guy off, mouth already opening again—
But then his eyes dropped to the tattoos.
The reaction was instant. Joel froze. That sharp growl died in his throat. His whole body went rigid, shoulders tightening like steel cables.
The guy didn’t even notice Joel’s shift in posture. He laughed louder, giving Joel’s back a firm slap. “Ain’t seen you in a while! Look at you—older, sure, but same damn man?”
Joel’s expression had gone dark. His silence was like he was holding something down.
You blinked between them in confusion.
The guy finally released Joel and stepped back, grinning wide at his silence. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember me?” He held a tattooed arm up, like it was some kind of badge of recognition.
Joel’s gaze was locked there, low and simmering. His jaw moved once, a small grind of teeth, before he said, flatly: “I remember.”
Something about the way he said it, edged with a restrained kind of venom, made goosebumps rise on your arms.
“Joel…?”
He didn’t glance your way. Didn’t blink. His grip on the glass tightened just slightly, his knuckles pale.
The man grinned. He stuck out a tattooed hand toward you, casual as anything. “Name’s Travis Hall,” he said, his voice loud enough to turn a couple heads nearby.
The last name sparked something in your memories, but before you could, he put a grin so wide on his face it felt like it was testing Joel’s patience on purpose. He added:
“Joel’s brother-in-law.”
The words rang sharp in your ears—brother-in-law.
It clicked instantly. The memory, the face, the connection—it all came together in an instant, and your stomach turned like you’d swallowed bad alcohol.
Kaia.
You didn’t even realize your expression had shifted until Travis laughed. He glanced between you and Joel like he was seeing something deliciously entertaining.
“Oh, there it is,” Travis teased, leaning back in Tommy’s empty chair like he’d been invited. “Don’t worry, little lady—ex-brother-in-law.”
You blinked sharply, pressing your lips together, trying to smooth out the sharp look you’d clearly let slip. It didn’t work.
“Travis,” Joel said finally, his voice mean enough to grind down the edge of Travis’s smirk. “Stop talkin’.”
Travis only laughed again, taking a chunk out of a wing and waving his hand. “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ bad, Miller.” He shot you a pointed look, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Guess some some people are born with a stick up their ass, huh?”
Your nose scrunched automatically, your reaction quicker than you could hold it in. Your impression of Travis was quickly going down the drain. Every insult thrown at Joel made your finger twitch, and Joel’s silence made you want to throttle them both. Why wasn’t he sticking up for himself?
Travis, completely oblivious, or maybe just delighting in pushing, leaned forward on his elbows.
“But anyway, I ain’t seen you in years. Tryin’ to catch up with everyone. So tell me—how’s life been treatin’ you?”
Joel’s jaw flexed.
“Been fine,” he said curtly.
Travis’s grin widened, clearly savoring the short response. “Fine, huh? That all I get?” He chuckled, leaning closer. “Hell, last time I saw you, you were practically goin’ crazy at any an’ everythin’.”
Your breath caught, chest tight.
Joel didn’t move, didn’t blink. But you saw it—the way his chest rose just a little faster, the faint flare in his nostrils.
“Speakin’ of crazy—ya hear from Kaia lately?”
That name. You looked at Joel. His shoulders had gone rigid. His chest rose again, slower this time but heavier, like he was swallowing something sharp.
“No,”
“Figures. She ain’t exactly the type to send Christmas cards.”
And then Travis turned to you suddenly, his grin sharp and careless.
“You know my little sis, don’t ya? Bit of a firecracker.” He tapped his temple with a single finger, smirking. “Kinda messed up here sometimes, but hell, that’s family.”
Your lips pressed tight, teeth digging against the inside of your cheek.
“She got married ‘gain, y’know,” Travis went on like he was swapping gossip over coffee. “Some guy down back in Houston. They’ve got a kid now, too.” He turned back to Joel, that grin sharpening. “Sarah’s got herself a little brother, huh?”
Joel’s shoulders locked, chest pulling in sharp as his hands curled tighter than you’d ever seen them. His mouth opened—just a fraction—but before he could get a word out, you reached across the table and grabbed his hand.
His head snapped toward you instantly, eyes wide with that startled, furious kind of heat.
You shook your head firmly. A silent don’t.
People like Travis got off when they got a reaction. Experience told you that he wanted more than anything was Joel to snap and loose his mind. But you wouldn’t let him.
For a second, Joel didn’t move. His fingers were taut under yours, tense and trembling faintly with restrained anger. His jaw flexed again, muscles jumping, but he didn’t speak. He stared at you, hard and unblinking, chest rising heavy.
And then—
Travis leaned forward with a smirk that turned your stomach, like he was spilling a secret just for you but loud enough for Joel to hear.
“Y’know,” he drawled, voice laced with poison, “Kaia had to be the man in their relationship.” His tone sharpened into a cruel sneer. “Been puttin’ him in his place since day one, huh?”
That was it.
Joel needed his self control, but fuck your own.
You were on your feet before you even realized it, chair scraping back hard. Joel jolted, his hand slipping from yours as you planted both palms on the table and leaned forward.
“The hell did you just say?”
Travis was amused, as he stood up too, towering over you with an infuriating kind of ease. “Look at this,” he said with a mocking chuckle, glancing at Joel. “Little lady’s got more bite than she gives off.”
Your blood boiled, heat rising sharp and hot in your chest. You stepped closer, finger pointed right up at him. “Shut your damn mouth.”
“I’m just sayin’,” he said, shrugging, “Joel’s always had a way of lettin’ people walk all over him. Guess it runs in that family.”
That family. It broke something in you.
You lunged forward, but Joel’s arm shot around your waist out of nowhere, pulling you back against his chest before you could plant yourself in Travis’s face. “Hey—‘nough,” Joel muttered harshly, his breath hot against your ear, his grip tight but steady.
“Joel, let me go,” you snapped, struggling against his hold.
“No,” he said flatly, voice like his grip, iron.
But you weren’t done.
You twisted in his hold just enough to face Travis again. “You think it’s funny, huh?” you barked. “You think it’s funny that someone survived hell and came out of it with their damn dignity still intact?”
“Dignity? Please. The man married my sister.”
Joel made a sharp noise behind you that you felt it through his chest.
“Yeah, he married your sister. And you know what that says?” You jabbed your finger at Travis’s chest this time. “It says he cared about her enough to give her everything, when she damn well didn’t deserve it.”
The bar had gone quieter now. Even over the hum of the jukebox and clinking glasses, you could feel eyes on you. You shook off the feeling it gave you and settled into your rage.
Travis paused, then laughed once, short and humorless. “Jesus. You really are somethin’, huh?”
Joel’s grip tightened around your waist, pulling you just half a step back. “I said ‘nough,” he murmured again. You could hear it in his voice now—the plea under the grit.
But you leaned forward anyway, glare never wavering.
“You don’t get to talk about him like that. Not after how hard he fought to come out of that with a kid. So shut your damn mouth, Travis, before I do it for you.”
For a moment, the air between you three was taut as wire.
Travis’s smirk sharpened, crueler than before, taking you up on your challenge.
“Sarah’s lookin’ more like Kaia every day, ain’t she?” he sneered, his voice carrying just loud enough for the nearby tables to hear. His eyes remain on you, but his words are for Joel. “How long you ‘til she drives off too?”
Your stomach dropped.
The world stopped.
Joel went still behind you, so tense you swore you could hear his teeth grind. His hand on your arm flexed hard, knuckles pressing into your skin. His face shifted in an instant: gone was the restraint, replaced by pure, blistering rage.
The air in the bar went razor-thin. A few of the nearby tables went silent, conversation dying off. You felt Joel’s breath in your ear, harsh and uneven, and he was heading forward, his hands slipping off you to—
But you moved before him.
Before anyone could react, you ripped yourself out of Joel’s grip and stepped forward. Heat roared in your chest—white-hot, molten, and feral.
Your fist came up and—crack—slammed square against Tavis’s cheekbone.
The pain was instant. Your knuckles screamed white-hot, and for a second you thought you might’ve actually broken something. But it didn’t matter. The sight of his smug face reeling back was worth every bit of it.
“Don’t you EVER talk to him like that!”
Gasps rippled through the bar. Chairs scraped. People leaned in.
Tavis staggered back, his hand flying to his jaw, blinking in shock before his mouth twisted into something ugly. A smear of blood glistened on his lip.
“Goddamn!” He spat a streak of blood onto the wooden floor, grinning through it. “Guess you got yourself a lil’ guard puppy.”
You stepped forward again, but Joel was there immediately, arms locking tight around your waist again, dragging you back.
“Hey—HEY!” Joel barked in your ear, his voice rough and commanding. “That’s it!”
But you were too furious to stop. You fought against his grip, shouting past him. “Let me go—he’s a miserable, worthless piece of—”
Joel spun you abruptly, his hands cupping your face, forcing you to look at him. His palms were warm. His forehead dipped close enough that you could feel his breath fan across your cheek.
“Not for me, sweetheart,” he spoke low, his voice cutting through the haze of your anger. “Not for me.”
The word cut through the haze. Your chest heaved against his, fury still boiling hot His grip—his eyes—were anchoring you, holding you steady in a way that dragged you out of your head just enough to hear him.
And God help you, it worked. For one dizzy, trembling second.
Behind him, Travis chuckled darkly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Christ,” he sneered. “Now you got this little bitch foamin’ for you, Joel. Guess she’s your type—”
Joel turned.
You didn’t even notice until he was gone. He didn’t even hesitate. His fist snapped forward so fast it barely registered until it connected squarely with Travis’s jaw. The crack of it echoed in the quiet bar.
He stumbled back more violently this time, hitting a nearby table with a crash that made glasses jump. People backed away, gasps and whispers echoing throughout the establishment.
Joel’s voice thundered, rough and vicious:
"You shut your filthy fuckin’ mouth ‘bout her! Or I’ll break it clean off your face!”
Travis spit blood again, grimacing, but even then his grin lingered faintly, satisfied with Joel’s reaction.
Joel surged forward again, and you were suddenly moving, throwing your arms around his arm from behind, your raw hand screaming in protest as you clung to him.
“Joel!” you gasped, your voice sharp and urgent. “Stop—stop!”
He didn’t listen. His bicep were taut beneath your grip. His shoulders tight and ready to lunge again. You pulled back with everything you had.
Joel jerked forward another step despite your hold, his boots dragging you with him, and for a second you swore you’d lose your grip entirely. If you didn’t get help soon—
That’s when Tommy finally appeared. Miraculous, definitely tipsy, unaware Tommy.
He strode out of the bathroom, hands still drying on a paper towel, and immediately froze when he took in the scene—Travis bleeding against a table, Joel staggering forward, and you clinging desperately to Joel’s arm.
Tommy’s voice rang loud and sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade.
“Fuck, not this shit ‘gain!”
His face went through several emotions in one second. First, that same look of disbelief at the mixer in Dallas. Then recognition at Travis’ face. Lastly, that pure rage that matched what his brother was currently wearing.
He was there in an instant, grabbing his brother’s other shoulder and shoving back hard.
Joel snarled under his breath, but even he couldn’t fight both of you. He jerked once against Tommy’s grip, like a bull testing the gate, but you felt some of the tension ease as Tommy got in his face.
“Hey!” Tommy barked sharply. “Joel! Look at me.”
Joel glare could’ve set the room alight—but slowly his head turned toward him.
“Not here,” Tommy said firmly, the way only a brother could manage. “Not now. I know you wanna, but not now.”
Joel’s chest rose and fell like he’d run a mile, but after a beat, he gave a sharp, jerky nod.
You loosened your hold fractionally, your sore hand throbbing in protest. His gaze flicked to you for just a fraction of a second, and his fists unclenched.
Travis, still leaning against the table, wiped his mouth. “You’re still the same piece of shit you’ve always been,” he slurred, grinning bloody teeth. “Ain’t changed a bit.”
You felt your pulse spike in panic, gripping Joel tighter just in case.
Tommy stepped forward, his boots heavy against the wooden floor. He angled himself between Joel and Travis, his posture sharp and coiled like a spring. When his voice came, it was ice-edged and lethal.
“Shut your damn mouth and walk outta here before I put you in the dirt.”
Travis hesitated, his sneer wobbling for the first time. He pressed his palm to his jaw, blood still slicking his chin.
Tommy’s warmth was gone. The jokes, the easygoing charm he always carried—it had evaporated, stripped clean away, leaving only something cold, precise, and terrifyingly efficient.
You knew Tommy went to the army years ago. But knowing it in theory was different from seeing it. And somehow it was worse than watching Joel fight. Because Joel’s violence was raw, impulsive, fire blazing out of control. Tommy’s? It was surgical. Deliberate.
Travis flinched, just slightly, like some part of him recognized it too. He backed off a step, hands raised half-heartedly.
He started to turn, stepping away as if he was finally leaving. The tension in the bar seemed to ease—like the fight had burned out.
And then he lunged.
Before you could even react, Travis’s hand shot out, clamping around your arm with a grip so fierce it made your breath choke in your throat. He yanked you forward, jerking you off balance and into the sharp reek of sweat and blood and stale whiskey radiating off him.
A jolt of white-hot fear spiked through your chest, cutting through the lingering adrenaline. You twisted instinctively, shoving against him, but his hold was iron-tight.
His breath was foul and hot against your ear as he leaned in, voice low and dripping with venom, just for you:
“Bet Miller’s been real shaky these days. Can’t keep his head straight without those little pills he’s been poppin’. Poor bastard’s got more crutches than a hospital.”
Your breath hitched, rage surging molten-hot and dizzying up your spine.
Tommy moved first. He shoved Travis with such brutal force the floorboards groaned, sending him staggering backward. “Get your hands off her!”
Joel was there a heartbeat later—closer, faster, fiercer than you’d ever seen him. His hand clamped around your arm and dragged you back into him again.
You heard his breath—ragged, dangerous, alive. His grip on you was bruising, but you clung back anyway, because he felt like the only safe thing in the room.
The fear clawing through you sharpened into fury. You stepped forward, but didn’t fight against Joel’s hold this time, voice raw and shaking:
“Touch me again, and I swear to God I’ll put you through that table myself!”
Tommy moved forward. You couldn’t see his face, but you knew he was pissed to another level.
“Last chance,” Tommy said, his voice low enough to chill bone.
Travis’s smirk flickered, eyes darting between the brothers—then he took a slow, deliberate step back, bleeding and beaten but still carrying that reckless bravado.
“Good luck with that one, little lady. You’ll need it.”
The bar had gone dead quiet by the time he disaperred, all their eyes darting between you three and the smear of blood Travis left behind on the floor.
You didn’t want to see their faces. Didn’t want to think about the whispers that would follow. Instead, you grabbed Tommy’s jacket and your bag.
“Let’s go,” you said, voice steady despite the hammering in your chest. “Now.”
Joel glared toward the direction Travis slithered to like he could set it ablaze by sheer will. Tommy gave him a sharp shove between the shoulder blades, forcing him toward the exit. “You heard her. Out.”
Joel didn’t argue—not with words, at least. He stormed forward, boots pounding against the floorboards. Tommy followed close behind, muttering curses as he nodded stiffly at the bartender in apology. You closed your tab and threw two twenty dollar bills for the mess, then walked through the door after them.
The cool Austin night hit like a wave, sharp against the heat still coursing through your veins.
Outside, Joel was pacing on the cracked sidewalk, shoulders squared, fists clenched at his sides.
“Son of a bitch,” he snarled, his voice rough with barely contained fury. “I should’ve broken his goddamn face. Should’ve left him in the ground—”
“Joel,” Tommy held out a hand as if to stop him physically, “if you laid another hand on him and we’d be spendin’ the night in a cell. Be glad nothin’ escalated.”
“You didn’t hear him!” Joel turned on his brother, voice snapping loud enough to echo down the street. “You didn’t hear what he said about Sarah! About—”
Tommy’s face hardened, but he didn’t argue. He just clapped a firm hand on Joel’s shoulder, steering him roughly toward the parking lot, muttering words only for him.
You trailed behind them, your steps slower. Your breathing was shallow. The adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet.
You glanced down.
Your knuckles were split, the skin raw and torn in thin lines, smeared faintly red. Blood pricked along the edges, welling in tiny beads that you hadn’t even felt in the moment. They throbbed now.
God. You’d really hit him.
It didn’t even feel real. You’d never done that before. Never felt rage like that—blinding, protective. It scared you, almost as much as it relieved you.
But then, tucked behind the pain, a small, nagging thought settled quietly in the back of your mind—Travis’s whispers about Joel’s pills.
Medication.
You stared at Joel’s broad back, his shoulders tight and trembling with barely controlled anger. You filed away that whispered insult, the vulnerability it exposed.
There would be time to think about that later.
You slid into the backseat of Joel’s truck without a word, your hand tucked against your stomach. Joel slammed the driver’s door shut, muttering under his breath as he twisted the keys in the ignition. Tommy climbed into the passenger seat with a groan, slumping against the door like nothing else could keep him upright.
The headlights carved out long shadows across the empty streets as you rode. Your eyes flickered to Joel’s hand gripping the wheel—his own hand matching yours in the low light.
Tommy, half-sober and apparently the only one brave enough to break the silence, exhaled sharply and rubbed at his forehead.
“Alright,” he said slowly, drawing out the word, “Get home safe. I’ve had my share of family shit for the night.”
Joel grunted. “Go inside, Tommy.”
Tommy blinked at the clipped tone but obeyed, mumbling something about Maria and a hot shower as he climbed out. The passenger door shut with a dull thunk, and suddenly, it was just you and Joel.
You stared down at your lap, curling your good hand into the fabric of your jeans.
“Get in the front,”
“What?”
He twisted in his seat enough to give you a look that was impossible to argue with. “Front seat. Now.”
You blinked at him, thrown off. “It’s fine—”
“Front.”
You stared at him for a moment longer, lips parting, then huffed. You unbuckled, shoved open the door, and climbed out, slipping into the passenger seat. The warmth from where Tommy had been sitting still lingered faintly against the upholstery.
Joel didn’t say anything else at first. He just shifted the truck into drive and pulled away from the curb. But it didn’t take long for you to notice he wasn’t heading toward your house.
You frowned, glancing out the window. “Joel… this isn’t my street.”
“Know it ain’t,” he said curtly.
You shot him a look. “Where are we—?”
“My house,”
Your chest tightened. “ I don’t need any—”
“You do,” he snapped, eyes fixed firmly on the road. His grip on the wheel shifted, fingers flexing tight before relaxing.
You bristled. “I’m fine. Just take me home.”
That’s when Joel’s patience started to crack. His eyes cut toward you for the briefest second. “Fine?” His voice came thick with frustration. “You’re bleedin’ all over your damn hand and you call that fine?”
You shifted back against the seat, defensive. “It’s barely anything.”
He scoffed, shaking his head, and for the first time tonight, his words came spilling out.
“You ain’t got a damn clue what Travis is like,” Joel growled, his drawl cutting harder when his temper flared. “I told you to back off, and you went at him like you had somethin’ to prove. You think he wouldn’t have laid you out flat if he wanted to?”
You froze at that, blinking at him. “What?”
“Travis knows how to hurt people, bastard likes it too,” Joel ground out. His hands tightened on the wheel until the leather creaked faintly. “And if he’d wanted to, he’d have done it to you without breakin’ a sweat. You don’t mess with guys like that, you hear me?”
You stared at him, jaw slack for a beat, then sat up straighter, heat flashing in your chest. “Oh, so now you’re mad I defended you?”
“Yes.” he said sharply, “I’m mad you put yourself in that position in the first place.”
“I wasn’t gonna let him talk about you like that!”
“I don’t care what he said!” Joel barked back, voice booming in the cab. He caught himself, drawing a steadying breath, his tone dipping lower but no less intense. “I told you to stay put for a reason, but ‘course, you don’t listen.”
“Yeah?” Your voice sharpened. “And what, I was just supposed to sit there and let him rip you apart? Pretend I didn’t know what he was poking at?”
Joel didn’t answer you and it said more than anything he could’ve spat back.
The rest of the drive was quiet. It made your fingers twitch against your thigh. When he finally pulled into his driveway, his jaw was still clenched tight, the porch light spilling faint gold across the hood of his truck.
He killed the engine and climbed out without a word, and you followed.
Inside, the house was warm, lit soft by the glow of a single lamp in the living room. Sarah was curled on the couch in pajama shorts and an oversized T-shirt, a bowl of pretzels balanced precariously on her lap as she watched TV.
“Hey!” she said brightly, catching sight of her dad. “I didn’t know you’d be—”
“Baby,” Joel cut in gently, his voice shifting immediately to soft. “Go on to your room for me, alright?”
Sarah blinked, her gaze darting between him and you, then back again. “What? Why? I’m watchin’ something.”
Joel’s face didn’t change. He just fixed her with a look.
Sarah frowned, glancing at you, clearly trying to read the air. Whatever she saw in Joel’s face, though, must’ve done it. Her mouth shut. “...Okay,” she said slowly, sliding off the couch. She gave you one last look, brows pinched faintly, before disappearing down the hallway, crunching away.
The sound of her door clicking shut left the house steeped in quiet again.
Joel turned to you, his face set like stone. “Kitchen,” he said, jerking his head toward it.
You followed him in, settling at the table while he went straight to the cabinets above the sink. He moved with brisk, purposeful efficiency—grabbing antiseptic and a small tub of salve—and laid them out on the counter with sharp little clacks.
You watched him silently. He muttered to himself as he opened drawers, hunting for cotton pads. His grumbling was low half curses, half quiet complaints.
Finally, he turned back and set everything down in front of you, pulling a chair close. He sat, tugging your injured hand gently toward him, his brows were still drawn.
“Could’ve broken somethin’ swingin’ like that,” he muttered, unscrewing the antiseptic cap.
“Nice to see your bedside manner’s improved.”
Joel shot you a look but didn’t answer. He soaked a cotton pad and pressed it lightly to your knuckles. You hissed at the sting, and his jaw ticked.
“Serves you right,”
He was focused, his big hands gentle despite his gruffness, carefully dabbing away the faint blood before reaching for the salve. His brows furrowed deeper when you flinched again.
“You don’t have to babysit me,” you said softly.
He didn’t look up. “Clearly I do,” he shot back, quiet but sharp.
You watched him for another beat. His silence pressed at you, needling something curious in your chest until the words slipped out before you could stop them.
“Why were you quiet?”
Joel paused faintly. “What?”
You shifted slightly in your chair, leaning forward. “Back there. When Travis was talking down on you, you didn’t say a word. Not one.”
He glanced up at you briefly before going back to your hand. “Wasn’t worth it.”
You frowned. “But then he mentioned Sarah, and suddenly you’re ready to put him through a wall.”
Joel went still for half a second, the salve jar balanced loosely between his fingers. His face shuttered.
“‘Cause that’s my daughter.” he said bluntly. But then his face fell slightly “And anythin’ else don’t matter.”
You cocked your head, studying him closer.
“Does it not matter,” you asked softly, “or does it not matter when it's you?”
Joel’s hands froze mid-motion. His head jerked up sharply, his gaze snapping to yours. Startled. Sharp. Like a cornered animal.
“Stop,” he said suddenly, pulling his hand back from yours. “Don’t—don’t start playin’ therapist with me. We ain’t kids no more.”
Your brows arched, but you didn’t flinch at his tone. “I’m not,” you said quietly. “I’m just—”
“‘Nough,” he cut in, voice rougher now, his grip curling loosely into a fist on his thigh. He looked away, toward the counter. “Ain’t your damn job to pick apart my head.”
You studied him, heart tight in your chest. The tension in his shoulders, the way his face seemed carved out of restraint—it was familiar.
“Joel,” you said softly, careful. “I’m serious. I’m concerned. I know that was tough on you tonight—”
His jaw ticked. He didn’t look at you. “Well, stop bein’ concerned,” he bit out, low and harsh.
“I can’t just switch it off like that. I know what I said in Dallas, but I’m still allowed to care—”
“I don’t want you ‘round me,” he snapped suddenly, his voice louder now, rough with a kind of raw edge you’d never heard directed at you before.
It hit you like a slap.
“What?”
He turned then, his eyes unflinching, like he wanted the words to stick. “You heard me.”
“But—you brought me here.”
“I know,” his voice was ragged around the edges. He shoved back from his chair so hard it screeched against the floor. He loomed there for a moment, fists clenched at his sides, trembling.. “But every time I see you—every damn time you’re near me—God, it’s like poison.”
“That’s what you think?” you breathed, blinking hard.
Joel’s jaw clenched so tight you thought his teeth might crack. “That’s what you are,” he said, his voice rising, raw and guttural now. “You’re in my damn head, crawlin’ ‘round in there, and I can’t shut you out. And I hate it.”
“Joel—”
“You could’ve gotten yourself killed tonight. Doin’ stupid, reckless shit—throwin’ yourself in front of me like that—what the hell were you thinkin’?!”
“I was protecting you!”
“I don’t need you to protect me! I ain’t twenty anymore! I’ve grown! I’m a grown man.”
"If you don’t need my stupid ‘protection’, then maybe you should’ve just left me there, and let me take care of Travis since—!"
He moved before you could finish, his hand shooting out to grab your forearm—rough but not enough to hurt—and dragged you out of the kitchen.
“Joel!” you hissed, stumbling after him as he tugged you toward the back door.
He didn’t listen. He wrenched the door open, ushered you outside, and shut it hard behind him, the slam cracking through the quiet night air.
The backyard was bathed in moonlight, faint silver light spilling over the grass. The cicadas hummed loud in the distance, a constant drone beneath the pounding in your ears.
Joel spun on you, his chest rising and falling hard, his face flushed deep in the pale glow.
“You make me feel bad,” he snapped, voice hoarse and guttural. “Terrible. Y’know that?”
“Fuck you and your riddles. Say something that makes sense!” You snarl back, crossing your arms.
He raked a hand through his hair, gripping at the back of his neck like he was holding himself together by sheer force.
“Every idiotic decision you make,” he bit out, voice sharp. “Every stupid risk—it pisses me off because I care too damn much.”
“I know you care about me!” you threw back. “I’ve known that our entire lives. I want you to care about yourself, Joel!”
“Well, I don’t want to!” His voice cracked across the yard, startling even himself. “It don’t feel good. It feels like—like I’m losin’ my damn mind. I got my own shit, I don’t need you to fight my issues for me.”
You took a step closer, jabbing a finger at his chest. “And you think it feels good for me? Watching you sit there while someone rips you apart and you just—just take it? Like you think you deserve it?”
Joel’s jaw ticked, his chest rising hard. “I told you to leave it alone.”
“Care for yourself, Joel!” Your voice shook, sharp and loud. “You act like you’re nothing, like it doesn’t matter what people say to you. But it does! Why can’t you just fight for yourself for once?”
“You don’t understand—”
“Your right,” you cut him off, stepping in closer, close enough to see the silver of moonlight in his eyes. “I don’t understand. Because if anyone said half the things Travis said to me, I’d have flattened them without blinking. So why—why can’t you do that for yourself? Why aren’t you fighting for yourself, Joel?”
That stopped him.
His breath hitched sharply, and for a second, you thought you saw something break in his expression. His eyes darted from you to the grass at his feet, his fists curling and uncurling uselessly at his sides.
“Not everyone’s you,” he muttered finally, rough and uneven, like he hated the words even as he said them.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Joel’s jaw flexed, like he wanted to swallow the words back down, but they came anyway—low and jagged, spilling out from some deep, locked-away place.
“It means I ain’t like you,” he bit out. “You don’t back down. You don’t shut up even when you should. You walk into a room, and people just—demand shit. And the stupid thing is,” His voice rose sharply, edged with humorless amusement and frustration. “You don’t even gotta try. It’s in your blood.”
You blinked, instinctively stepping back, only for your shoulders to brush the cool siding of his house.
He didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he did, because he kept going, words spilling faster now, his chest heaving. He dragged a hand down his face, the movement jerky, angry, like he wanted to tear the words out of himself.
“Wanna know what’s in my blood?” he snapped again, quieter now but no less fierce. “Not bein’ able to talk like a normal person. Ain’t good at… hell, at anythin’ that ain’t swingin’ a hammer or bein’ a half decent dad to a little girl who deserves so much more. And I can’t…”
He trailed off, breath ragged and for a moment he just stared at you. Like he couldn’t believe he’d said as much as he had.
“...I can’t be unaffected like you. I’ve been a goddamn mess since Dallas. And then there’s you, jus’—” His gaze locked to yours, sharp and desperate. “Standin’ there like you got it all figured out. Like none of it touches you, while I can’t—can’t function.”
The air between you went heavy, taut. His breathing was loud in the quiet yard, chest rising and falling fast. His hands flexed at his sides like he didn’t know whether to hold or break something.
You stared at him, stunned. Your anger faltered—but it didn’t vanish.
“Joel…” Your voice was careful, uncertain, but steady. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”
He flinched almost imperceptibly, but didn’t look away.
“You think I’ve got it all figured out?” you pressed. “You think just because I made it big somewhere that I—” You broke off, shaking your head, frustrated heat burning in your chest. “Christ, Joel. You really think that of yourself?”
He tensed, jaw clenching hard, but said nothing.
Your pulse pounded in your ears. For a split second, you didn’t know if you wanted to hit him or—
Instead, slowly, you reached for him.
Your fingers brushed against his knuckles—the same ones he’d slammed into Travis’s face. His skin was raw and split, bruising darkly, and you felt him go rigid at the contact. But he didn’t pull away.
Gently, you turned his hand over, tracing your thumb across the broken skin like it was something sacred. “Joel…” you murmured, your voice trembling. “You’re better than I’ll ever be.”
He sucked in a sharp breath, his brow furrowing, lips parting faintly like he wanted to argue but couldn’t find the words.
“You care,” you whispered, softer now, your thumb sweeping over his callused palm. “You care so damn much it scares you. You’d take a beating for the people you love and still blame yourself if it wasn’t enough. You work yourself into the ground to make sure everyone else has a softer place to land, and then you call yourself a failure ‘cause you’re tired. I saw it then, I see it now.”
He glanced away sharply, like the words were too much. You stepped closer, still holding his hand, your other hand lifting tentatively to press against his chest. His heart thudded heavy beneath your palm, strong and fast.
“You think I don’t know you?” you whispered. “You’d drop everything to help Tommy. You’d bleed before you’d ever let Sarah cry herself to sleep. You’d fight an entire damn bar for me without a second thought. Hell, Joel—you just did.”
Joel’s lips parted like he was about to speak, but nothing came out. He exhaled sharply, his head dipping, eyes squeezed shut like he couldn’t bear it.
“You don’t have to be the most charismatic person in the room,” you said, firmer now. “You don’t have to be smartest man in the world. You don’t have to be anything but the person you are. And Joel?” Your other hand slid to his jaw, your thumb brushing rough stubble. His eyes opened, raw and aching.
“That man is enough. Enough for Sarah, Tommy, Lorraine, Rayomond, and whoever else you care about. You’re enough for me.”
Joel’s breathing was shallow, his brows pinched like he was fighting something deep in himself. His hand flexed in yours, and before you could think better of it, you lifted it higher.
You pressed your lips to his busted knuckles—soft, lingering.
The moment you felt his skin under your mouth, warm and rough and trembling faintly, your breath caught. God, what were you doing?
Joel went absolutely still. His breath hitched audibly, sharp in the quiet, and you felt the tension ripple through him like a wire pulled too tight. His fingers twitched against your lips, startled, before curling—slowly, almost desperately—around your hand, holding on.
You didn’t pull back. Couldn’t.
“You’re better than you let yourself believe,” you murmured against his skin, voice barely steady. The words were too intimate to take back.
He swallowed hard, his free hand curling into a fist at his side before lifting—hesitant—to hover near your cheek, like he wanted to touch you but didn’t trust himself to. His voice came out low, rough as gravel.
“Don’t say shit like that,” he rasped.
You tilted your head up, eyes locked on his. “Why not?”
Joel’s gaze burned into yours, a war of restraint flickering behind it. “’Cause,” he muttered, his voice even lower now, “I don’t know if I can stop myself from...”
He paused, then leaned in slow—like he was giving you time, like every inch forward was a question he wasn’t sure you’d let him finish asking.
His breath fanned against your lips, and your heart pounded so loud you could barely hear the rumble of a nearby car.
Every rational thought screamed at you to pull back—but your feet stayed rooted, your chest heaving as the air between you crackled.
Your gaze dropped to his mouth before flicking back up. His did the same.
For a split second, it felt inevitable—like gravity was pulling you both in.
But then Joel froze. His jaw clenched, his breath sharp as he dragged in a shaky inhale, and instead of closing that last fraction of space, his forehead pressing against yours, tight, almost pained.
“Christ,” he rasped, like he hated himself for stopping.
Joel’s face dipped lower, then, without another word, he buried himself against the crook of your neck.
His arms wrapped around you so tightly it nearly stole your breath, his hands gripping your back like he was terrified you’d vanish.
It was a hug. A bone-deep, desperate hug.
Your arms came up slowly, instinctively, looping around his broad shoulders. His shirt was soft under your fingers. You held him back just as fiercely, feeling the scrape of his stubble against your skin.
“You really believe that?”
Your throat tightened. You nodded, eyes slipping shut.
“I don’t believe it,” you whispered, steady despite the hitch in your breath. “I know it.”
Joel let out a rough laugh against your neck, choked and disbelieving. But it caught halfway, twisting into something closer to a shiver. His arms clutched you even closer, so tight you could feel his heart hammering against your ribs in sync with your own.
His breath stirred against your skin, warm and trembling. Then he murmured something—so faint you almost missed it entirely, words muffled where his mouth brushed your neck.
You stilled. “What?”
Joel’s grip flexed slightly at your back, like he regretted saying anything.
His voice came again, lower, rougher: “Say it again.”
You leaned back just enough to look at him. “Say what?”
His eyes lifted to meet yours, dark and weighted, and for a second you swore he looked the same as he had all those years ago. When he’d sat in your room after Kaia’s latest fight, staring down at his knuckles, shoulders slumped in defeat.
“Say what you know about me,” he rasped now, his voice hoarse in the night air.
Your chest ached. God, he didn’t even know how much it gutted you—seeing him like this again, carrying that same quiet wreckage he had when you were both so young.
Back then, you hadn’t known what to do. You’d just done the first thing that came to you.
The thing you knew would bring him comfort the fastest. Something you hadn’t dare do in thirteen years.
You pulled back from the hug, your hands sliding gently up to cup his face. Joel’s brows drew together, like he thought you were stepping away. His arms loosened slightly around you.
Instead, you rose and pressed your lips softly to his temple.
“Loyal,” you whispered against his skin.
Joel went rigid, breath stuttering, his entire body coiling tight like he didn’t know how to handle it. His grip on you faltered, fingers curling helplessly against your back.
Before he could speak, you kissed his other temple.
“Steadfast.”
Memories flitted across his face.
You saw it—the recognition dawning in him. He remembered this. He remembered you doing this, all those years ago, when you’d sat on your bed, holding his face in your hands, kissing away every jagged piece she’d left behind.
He’d been younger then, but the look he gave you now was the same. Pained. Fragile.
“Strong.”
His eyes shut. You could feel his breath hitch against you. His hands hovering at your waist, unsure. His mouth opened like he was about to protest, but then you kissed his cheekbone.
“Patient.”
Joel’s jaw flexed, his voice barely audible. “I’ve grown out of this…”
But you ignored him. “Brave.” You kissed the curve of his cheek again, slower this time.
Your lips brushed the tip of his nose. “Selfless.”
Joel made a sound low in his chest, almost like a groan. “Stop,” he murmured, but it came out thin, weak, like he didn’t mean it.
You didn’t stop. You kissed the line of his jaw, lingering there for a moment, your breath warm against his skin. “Worthy.”
Joel flinched, like the word hit somewhere deep he wasn’t ready for. His hands came up suddenly, framing your face now, not pushing you away but holding you there, like he didn’t know whether to pull you closer or beg you to quit.
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your thumbs stroking his stubbled jaw. “You hear me?” you whispered.
He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. His eyes glistened faintly in the moonlight.
“I hear you,” he rasped, though his voice cracked halfway through.
You kissed the corner of his mouth—not quite his lips, just shy of it. “Good.”
He leaned back just slightly, enough to look at you, and for the first time since you’d started, he didn’t seem like he could hold himself together. His jaw trembled faintly, his brows pulling low, like the very act of staying steady was costing him.
“You still remember that ol’ trick?” His voice was quiet. Too quiet.
A soft smile curved your lips, aching and fond. “I remember everything about you, Joel.”
Then you tugged him back in, easing him forward until his chest pressed against yours again. His arms went back around you instantly.
You nestled into him, your cheek to his shoulder, and he buried his face in your hair. His breath shuddered out against you, hot and uneven.
“C’mere,” you whispered softly, like he wasn’t already crushing you against him. “It’s alright.”
Under the stars, in the quiet hum of cicadas and distant Austin streets, you just hugged him. Joel Miller, who had weathered hell and never asked for a thing back. Joel Miller, who still looked like that kid who was lanky and awkward in school. Joel Miller, who always stood in the corner of parties cause he never knew what to say and thought that people didn’t expect a good conversation out of him anyway.
For the first time in a long, long while, Joel let himself be supported. Let his weight be cared by another person instead just himself. Let his body be held.
And he held back, beneath the stars, like the world might right itself if he never let go.
Omg guys. For the first time in YEARS, we can fit a fic into a post. About time smh
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Daryl’s reckless behavior on a supply run nearly gets him killed, pushing you to remind him how to stay humble. Little did you know, his attitude was hiding something much deeper that only you could break through.
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Mommy Kink ⋮ Smut ⋮ Body Worship ⋮ Cunnilingus ⋮ Edging ⋮ Teasing ⋮ Hurt/Comfort ⋮ Aftercare ⋮ Language
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7.799 ⋮ 𝐒𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: late S5 & early S6 ⋮ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Fem!Reader
You leaned against the porch, one of the few spots in Alexandria that didn’t make you want to rip your hair out. It all felt too damn clean sometimes, too fake even. Here, it was easy to forget how the world had gone to shit, but... Daryl? He never let himself forget. He was walking around by the gate, looking like an animal waiting for a fight, and you knew why...
Rick and a few others were getting ready for a run—another trip outside the safe walls to scavenge for supplies. But more than that, it was an excuse for Daryl to escape the suffocation of Alexandria. He’d rather be out there with the walkers than in here, playing pretend.
"Daryl," you called out, and he stopped pacing and turned to face you, his eyes narrowing like he was already preparing for a lecture from you.
"What?" He grunted, sounding as defensive as ever. He was always on alert these days, and it was only getting worse since you arrived in Alexandria.
"Listen," you started, stepping down from the porch and running toward him as he prepared to leave. "I know you hate this place, and I understand; I really do, but you need to keep your head on straight out there. You’re not just out there for yourself. You’ve got Rick, Glenn, and Michonne with you today. You fuck anything up; they could get hurt too. Please, just be careful."
He looked away, scuffing his boot against the ground like a stubborn child who didn’t want to hear what you were saying. "Ain’t no damn kid. Can handle myself," he growled back at you.
You sighed, running a hand through your hair. This wasn’t the first time you’d had this conversation, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last. "You might be able to handle yourself, sure, and we all know that you are more than capable of doing that, but that doesn’t mean you can act reckless. You need to listen to Rick, do what he says, and stop acting like a damn brat. You keep pulling this shit, and one of these days, it’s gonna bite you in the ass. Literally."
Daryl clenched his jaw and scoffed, and for a moment, you thought he might actually argue with you. But then he just shook his head. "Yer done now?"
"No, Daryl, I’m not done," you snapped back, feeling your frustration grow and almost boil over. "I’m tired of watching you do this bullshit, okay? We’re all trying to make this work, and you’re out there acting like you’ve got a death wish. We’ve lost too many people already, and I’m not about to lose you or anyone else because you couldn’t keep your damn self in check."
For a second, you saw something like vulnerability, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. He looked away again, like he was trying to block out your words, not wanting to listen to you.
"Just... think about what I said, okay?" You said, the tone in your voice softening slightly. You didn’t want to push him too hard, but you couldn’t just let this slide again all the time. "I’m not trying to piss you off, Daryl. I just don’t want to see you get hurt. We all need you to come back. I... I need you to come back."
He didn’t say anything; he just gave you a nod before finally turning away. But as you watched him walk toward Rick, you couldn’t ignore the feeling that something bad was going to happen on this run.
Rick was already waiting by the gate, his hands on his hips as he looked around Alexandria. He seemed to be tired, but when he saw you approaching as well, he gave you a small smile.
"Did you talk to him?" Rick asked, his voice whispering, so only you could hear.
"Yeah," you replied, glancing over at Daryl, who was busy playing around with his knife. "But you know how he is. Stubborn as hell."
Rick laughed a little, but there was no real humor in it. "Yeah. Isn't that the truth? Don’t worry, I'll keep an eye on him while we’re out there, alright? If he does something stupid..."
"You'll make sure he doesn’t," you interrupted, not needing him to finish the sentence.
"Alright. Got it. We’ll be back before you know it," Rick said, louder now and turning to the gate as it opened, and Glenn arrived with the car. "We’re heading out. Stay close, keep quiet, and don’t take any unnecessary risks. We get what we need, and we get back. That's it."
You watched as Daryl took his crossbow and walked with Rick and the others over to the truck. You were worried, sure, but you forced yourself to stay calm. This was Daryl Dixon, after all. He was tough, he was resourceful, and he’d been through far worse than this. But still, there was that uncomfortable feeling in the back of your mind, the one that told you things weren’t going to go smoothly today.
Rick took Daryl aside in the meantime. "Listen, Daryl. We stick to the plan, and we get back without any extra bullshit. You got that?"
Daryl glared at Rick but didn’t say anything. You knew that look; it was the one that said he was going to do what he wanted anyway.
With that, Rick and the others—Glenn and Michonne, in this case—headed out, leaving you in Alexandria with the rest of the group.
You turned away, heading back to the house, but your thoughts were still with Daryl. You just hoped he’d listen to you for once, or rather, Rick. Because if he didn’t, you weren’t sure you’d be able to forgive him—or yourself—if something went wrong.
The truck stopped at the side of a parking lot some time later. Abandoned cars were standing around all over the place, with their windows shattered and rotting corpses still sitting in some of them. It was a graveyard. Rick turned off the engine and looked over to the building, his face already showing that things were about to get rough.
"This place is full of walkers," Rick mumbled, looking around the area. "Okay… We get in, we get out. No fucking around. Got it?"
Everyone nodded, even Daryl, though the look in his eyes told a different story. Alexandria was killing him slowly, suffocating him with its safety and daily routine, and one could see he was just waiting to break free, to remind himself what it felt like to be out there again, in the real world, and not living in an illusion.
"Stick together," Rick continued, his eyes narrowing at Daryl like he could read his mind. "We’re hitting that grocery store, grabbing what we can, and getting the hell out. Nothing else, no bullshit."
Daryl grunted in response, his hand tightening around his crossbow. He wasn’t making any promises; that was clear enough, but at least he wasn’t outright showing it. That would have to be good enough. The four of them got out of the truck, their weapons ready, and slowly made their way toward the store. It looked like it had been raided a few times already, but Rick had heard from Aaron that a shipment had been left behind in the storage rooms—lots of canned food, water, and even medicine inside the small pharmacy of the store, locked up in the back, just waiting to be taken. Easy, if they played it safe.
Of course, playing it safe had not been Daryl’s way of doing it lately, not when his blood was boiling, and especially not since the prison, Terminus, and the other hell everyone went through. And especially not ever since Alexandria.
They went through the side entrance, which was once for the people that had worked there, the glass doors hanging off their hinges, and one could easily guess how most of the walkers got into the store in the first place, apart from those walkers that’ve died inside while scavenging. The inside of the store was pure chaos, with broken shelves, rotten food, and other empty products all across the floor. They moved quietly as Rick led the way, his Colt Python out and ready as always, Glenn close behind with his knife drawn, and Michonne with her sword, while Daryl was at the end, pointing his crossbow around as well. They soon made it to the back of the store, where the stockroom doors were, without drawing any attention so far.
"Alright," Rick whispered, motioning for the others to cover him. "Glenn and I will try to open the door. Michonne, watch our backs. Daryl, you—"
But before Rick could finish, Daryl was already moving. He didn’t like waiting, didn’t like standing around while others decided what to do, or having to wait for a plan. Without a word, he went off to the right, disappearing down one of the side aisles, his crossbow at the ready.
"Daryl!" Rick hissed, but there was no stopping him.
"Shit," Glenn grumbled in a bit of annoyance and panic, his eyes looking at Rick. "Where the hell is he going? What is he doing?"
Rick shook his head in frustration. "Just... just stay here," he ordered before walking after Daryl, cursing to himself with every step.
Daryl moved fast, his crossbow raised as he approached the loading dock at the back of the store from another side. He could hear the sounds of walkers moving behind the metal door, but this was exactly what he was looking for. He shoved the door open with a grunt, with the door making a noise that could be heard all throughout the whole store.
The walkers inside turned at the sound, and they immediately moved forward, their arms outstretched.
"C’mon, ya ugly bastards," Daryl mumbled, the first bolt killing the nearest walker in an instant. The walker fell to the ground, but the others kept coming.
He reloaded quickly, but just as he was about to fire again, a hand grabbed his shoulder, pulling him off balance. He hadn’t noticed the few other walkers, hidden in an open employee restroom nearby, their fingers grabbing his vest with their teeth only inches away from his face.
"Fuck!" Daryl growled, kicking the walker in front of him back and grabbing his knife. But he soon stumbled, falling down to the floor with the two of them on top of him. The impact knocked the knife from his hands, letting it slide across the floor, just out of reach, as he struggled to push the walkers off.
Then, just as the walkers’ teeth were about to bite into his flesh, several gunshots could be heard. Daryl gasped for breath, shoving the dead off him as he got to his feet, his heart racing while he looked over at Rick standing in the doorway with his Colt Python.
"You stupid son of a bitch," Rick said, lowering the gun. "What the hell were you even thinking?"
Daryl wiped the blood from his face, glaring at Rick but not saying a single word. He didn’t need to—he knew he’d fucked up, and Rick certainly knew it too.
But Rick didn’t wait for an explanation. "We need to hurry. Get your damn ass back to the truck. Now!"
For now, Daryl didn’t argue. He grabbed his crossbow and knife, putting it over his shoulder as he moved past Rick and over to Glenn and Michonne. He could feel Rick’s eyes on his back, judging him, and it took everything in him not to lash out. But he knew Rick was right. He’d been reckless, and it had nearly cost him his life. Not only that, but the supply run failed with the other walkers in the front of the store now moving toward the storage room.
Once outside, Daryl couldn’t ignore the thought that he’d fucked up more than just the run. He’d broken the trust, not just with Rick but with you. And he knew he’d have to face the consequences when he got back.
The sun was starting to set when you saw Rick and the others coming through the gate. You’d been waiting, walking around Alexandria, trying to distract yourself. But the deal had been clear—Rick would bring Daryl back in one piece and tell you every detail. But the moment you caught sight of Rick, you knew something had gone wrong. It was written all over his face, as was the fact that they had no supplies with them.
"Rick," you called out, running over to him.
He looked up at you, nodding and narrowing his eyes. You hated that look. It meant bad news, and you were tired of bad news.
"What happened?" You demanded as he walked next to you. "Where’s Daryl?"
"He’s fine," Rick said, holding up a hand to calm you down, though it didn’t do shit for your nerves. "I don't know where he is right now. Jumped right out of the truck. Physically, he’s okay. But, hell, it was close. Too close. Again."
Your stomach dropped at his words. This was getting out of hand. "What do you mean, 'close'?"
Rick rubbed the back of his neck, looking away for a moment. "We were in that store Aaron told us about, wanting to get the supplies. Daryl decided to go off on his own, like he always does lately. Didn’t wait for us as a backup, just did his own thing. Not even telling us that there was an easier way and that he has seen it. Next thing I know, he’s nearly got two walkers biting into his damn neck."
"Are you fucking kidding me?" You asked, your hands balling into fists at your sides. "I told him—hell, we both told him so many times—not to pull that lone wolf bullshit anymore! And he still did it? I can’t fucking believe it!"
Rick nodded. "Yeah. Same old Daryl, too stubborn for his own good. I got there in time, but if I hadn’t... well, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now."
You sucked in a breath, trying to calm the rage inside you. But it was hard—damn hard—when you pictured Daryl almost getting himself killed because he couldn’t follow simple instructions. "What the hell is wrong with him, Rick? Why does he keep doing this shit? Is Alexandria that bad for him? I mean, yeah, we all aren’t used to this... illusion, but hell, we’re at least trying to make the best of it! All of us!"
Rick sighed, leaning against the porch railing once you both arrived at the house. "I don’t think it’s only about Alexandria, not entirely. But yeah, it’s too controlled, too... fake. So he goes out there, trying to prove he’s still... still who he was out there. But it’s not like none of us tries the exact same thing. We all do. Or did."
You shook your head in frustration. "I get it; I do. But we can’t keep going on like this. He’s going to get himself killed—or worse, get someone else hurt. I’m fucking done sitting around, hoping he’ll pull his head out of his damn ass!"
Rick looked at you with a small smile. "By now I was thinking the same thing on the way back. We’ve tried to talk sense into him, but he isn’t listening. He’s too stubborn."
"That’s it," you finally said. "I’m handling this. If he won’t listen to you, maybe he’ll finally listen to me. But one way or another, this shit stops today, I swear."
Rick’s eyebrows moved up in surprise before he nodded slowly. "You sure? I don’t think you should push him into a corner."
You smirked, but it was more due to annoyance than amusement. "Oh, I’m sure. He’s going to learn today that there’s more than one way to get his damn ass in line. Trust me, Rick. Otherwise… Otherwise, I just don’t know what to do anymore."
Rick laughed a little and shook his head. "Alright then. Just don’t go too hard on him. And you must remember that it takes time. With… all of this."
You waved him off, already halfway down the steps of the porch. "He’ll be fine, Rick."
As you headed toward the garage, where you knew Daryl was probably working on his bike, your mind was already racing with what you were going to say. This wasn’t just about Daryl acting like a reckless asshole—this was about keeping him and the others alive, keeping him from throwing away everything you’d fought so hard for in this new world, with the rest of the group.
The moment you stepped into the garage, he barely looked your way, too focused on tightening a bolt that didn’t even need any more tightening. But you weren’t about to let him ignore you, not after what Rick had told you.
"Daryl," you started, but he only grunted in response, and that was about it—just a damn grunt, like he couldn’t be bothered to reply with words. And it pissed you off how he could be so nonchalant after nearly getting himself killed.
"Look at me," you snapped, stepping closer to him. "I said... Look at me, Dixon."
He paused, his hand stilling on the wrench, before finally looking into your eyes with a scoff.
"You think you can just go off on your own and do whatever the fuck you want? Well, guess what, Daryl? You almost got your damn throat ripped out today. And for what? Because you couldn’t listen? Because you’re too stubborn to accept that you’re part of a community now, and not some lone wolf out there in the woods with a group he helps out every now and then?" You said, crossing your arms over your chest.
"Ain’t like that," he mumbled, but it didn’t really sound like he was trying to defend himself.
"Bullshit!" You shot back, stepping even closer until you were right in his face, close enough to see the way his eyes widened slightly. "It’s exactly like that, and you know it. And for what? To prove something? To whom? You ain’t gotta prove anything to me, Daryl. And certainly not our group. But you do owe it to us to stop acting like a fucking idiot!"
He turned away from you, but you weren’t done yet. "This isn’t just about you anymore, Dixon. Every time you pull this shit, you put everyone at risk. Everyone! You get bit, we lose a member of this group. A member of our damn family! You die, and we all suffer! Do you even get that? Or are you that stuck with your own damn head up your ass that you can’t see that?"
"Ain’t need ya shittin’ on me," he growled, his voice quiet, but you caught something like guilt in it. "Can handle my ass."
"Clearly," you snapped at him with sarcasm. "Because you handled yourself so well today that Rick had to pull your ass out of a walker’s mouth. Real smooth, Daryl! Real fucking smooth!"
He flinched at that, his eyes narrowing as he turned back to face you. "Ain’t like I needed any damn help."
You didn’t back down, though. You were way past that. "And that’s the problem, Daryl. You think that you don’t need anyone. But guess what? You do. You need us, and we need you. So stop acting like an asshole and start thinking about what you’re doing to everyone else."
For a second, you thought he might lash out. But instead, he just looked at you—really looked at you—like he was trying to figure something out. "Why ya care s’ much?" He finally asked.
You huffed, rolling your eyes. "Because I give a shit, you damn idiot. Because I... care about you more than anyone else here even knows, and I’m not about to watch you throw your life away over some macho bullshit, or whatever you’re trying to act like. You think I want to lose you? You think any of us do?"
He stared at you. "Ain’t tryna make shit harder," he muttered, looking down at the ground, shrugging his shoulders. "Jus’... can’t stand it ‘ere sometimes. Ain’t me ‘round ‘ere."
"Who you are isn’t some reckless idiot who doesn’t give a damn about anyone else. Who you are is someone who’s saved more lives than you can count, someone who’s part of a family now. And yeah, maybe it’s different here and maybe it’s hard, but that doesn’t give you the right to check out whenever you feel like it, as if this community is a fucking hotel!"
He didn’t say anything; he just kept looking at you with those blue, searching eyes, like he was waiting for you to give him something—some kind of direction.
You took a deep breath. "Daryl, you need to stop this shit. You need to stop before you get yourself killed. And if you won’t listen to Rick, then you’ll damn well listen to me. Got it?"
"Yeah," he said, almost whispering. "Got it."
"Good," you said. "Because this stops now. You’re done running off, done putting yourself at risk for no damn reason. From now on, you listen, just like before. We’re all a big team, Daryl, and we still are despite everything. Understand?"
"Yeah… Do ya still lo—" He started but stopped himself from speaking any further. "Are ya mad?"
"What? No, I’m not mad," you answered, stepping back to leave, wanting to give him some space. "But I’m hurt and disappointed."
Daryl sat there for a long time after you left. He gritted his teeth, and his fists were clenched, but it wasn’t anger. It was guilt. Shame even. All he knew was that he’d fucked up.
"Stupid, stupid fuckin’ idiot," he mumbled to himself, running a hand through his hair while he could still hear your voice in his head. "Fuckin’ piece o' shit. Can’t even keep yer damn head straight."
He felt like a fool, like a stubborn kid who’d just been put in his place. But it wasn’t just the anger that stuck with him—it was the look in your eyes, the pain and fear of what could’ve happened to him.
"Gotta make this right," he grumbled, now walking around the garage. "Ain’t gonna let her think I’m some reckless asshole who don’t care ‘bout nothin’." He rubbed the back of his neck. "She’s right… Been actin’ like a damn idiot. But… shit, need t’ prove I ain’t just some fuckup."
He knew you’d left him alone on purpose, letting him think about it, just like you’ve done several times before. But this time, he wasn’t going to sit here and wait for you to come back. He had a plan—a rather half-baked plan, but it was all he had. He needed to show you how much you meant to him and how much he needed you.
"Fuck, she’s gonna kill me," he sighed, shaking his head as he made his way out of the garage. And he knew exactly where and in what house he was going to find you.
You were already half asleep, lying on the floor on a mattress, when you felt someone being there—before you even opened your eyes. It was Daryl, of course, kneeling over you as he carefully pulled the sheets back.
"What the hell are you doing, Dixon?" You mumbled, still groggy. "Leave me alone."
He didn’t answer right away; he just pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then another, moving down your arm, his lips barely touching your skin. It was slow on purpose, like he was trying to worship every inch of you to make up for all the stupid shit he’d done. And it was working, even if it pissed you off that he thought he could just... seduce his way out of this.
"Daryl," you warned, but your voice was weak due to the way his strong, big hands were now sliding down your sides to your waist.
"‘M sorry," he whispered, before he kissed the sensitive spot on your neck. "Fucked it up, I know that. But need ya to know... I ain’t a fool. I need ya, more than ya fuckin’ know."
You wanted to stay mad, to shove him away from you and tell him to get his shit together, but his touch—God, it was like he knew exactly what he was doing, like he was taking away your anger with every kiss and every touch of his hands. And when he put his head lower, kissing along your ribs after he pulled up your shirt, you felt almost frustrated.
"Daryl," you breathed out as a warning again, but he didn’t stop. He slid his hands further up your shirt, pulling it over your head as he kissed down your ribs, his fingers grabbing your body like he was trying to show you that he was still alive.
"Need ya," he mumbled against your skin, his voice sounding almost desperate. "Need ya t’ know I ain’t takin’ this for granted."
"Daryl, stop…" You started, but your words were cut off by a gasp as he found that spot just above your waist, his lips kissing you harder, and his teeth softly biting your skin. You felt a shiver run through you, and hell, you hated how much you wanted this, how much you wanted him to keep going.
"I’ll stop if ya want me to, I swear," he whispered, but he didn’t stop, not really. His hands slid down, undoing your pants and wanting to slide them down, which made you stop breathing for a moment.
You were looking at him, your eyes narrowing. "You think you can just—" You started, but then he shut you up—kissing you hard and long, cutting off your words. And fuck, if it didn’t make your whole body shiver with need.
"Can’t help it," he muttered against your lips, his voice a little shaky, like he was losing control. "Can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout ya, ‘bout how much I need ya."
"You think this makes up for what you did? For your reckless behavior?" You asked, shaking your head slightly.
"Nah," he admitted. "Gotta show ya somehow. Gotta show ya how much I fuckin’ care."
You grabbed his wrists, pulling his hands away from your pants, even though you were already aching for him. "You don’t get to touch me like that," you said. "Not until I say so."
He swallowed hard, his breath stopping as he nodded, his eyes wide. "Please," he whispered, looking up at you and waiting for permission.
"Please what?" You demanded, tightening your grip on his wrists. "You think you can just come in here and expect me to forgive you? After everything?"
"Nah," he stammered, his eyes looking down to the floor again. "But… I need ya. I need ya t’ see that I can make it right."
"You wanna make it right, Daryl?" You asked again. "Then you’re gonna do exactly what I say, like I said."
"Yeah," he answered, his body almost trembling with the need to make you forgive him. "I’ll do whatever ya want."
You let go of his wrists, letting them fall back to his sides. "Take off your clothes," you ordered, the tone in your voice leaving no room for argument.
He hesitated for just a second, but then he started to stand up and get out of his clothes, his hands shaking as he got out of his shirt, then his pants, and the rest, until he was standing there, naked and vulnerable before you.
"Now get back on your knees," you demanded, watching as his eyes widened.
He dropped to his knees, waiting for your next command. And fuck, if that didn’t send a rush of power straight through you.
You stood over him, your hand reaching out to grab his hair, pulling his head back so he was forced to look up at you. "Look at me."
And he did. He slowly looked up in shame.
"You don’t get to play the lone wolf out there," you continued, stepping closer, your hand grabbing his chin, moving his head up further. "Not anymore. You almost got yourself killed."
"I know," he muttered. "‘M sorry..."
He wanted—no, he needed—to show you how he felt about his mistakes, and he was ready to do it on his knees if that’s what you demanded.
You let go of him, letting him fall forward, as you lay back down onto the mattress. "Show me," you simply said.
And he did—God, he did... He kissed every inch of you, his lips moving lower, his hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you might disappear, and he held onto you like you were the only person able to keep him safe.
He didn’t need to be told twice—he knew what he had to do to make things right.
You leaned back on the mattress, spreading your legs just enough to invite him closer, and watched his hands shake a little as they slid up your thighs.
"Yes," he whispered quietly. He was trying to be tough, but you could see through it. The man was already lost in you, in the need to make you feel good to make up for his earlier bullshit.
No, he couldn’t keep his hands off you; the way he now nearly ripped off the rest of your clothes was almost urgent.
"Goddamn," he whispered, his eyes wide and hungry as he took in the sight of you. "So fuckin’ beautiful."
His hands were trembling as he reached for your bra, fumbling with it before finally getting it off. He slid it off your shoulders, throwing it over to your pants on the floor, his eyes never leaving your breasts.
Daryl’s mouth went dry as he leaned in, his lips stopping just above one nipple. "Can’t believe yer lettin’ me touch ya like this," he whispered, more to himself than to you. Then he closed his mouth around your nipple, his tongue moving over it, making you gasp.
He sucked and licked, using his teeth just a little, sliding them lightly against it, while his other hand was pinching and rolling the other.
"Fuck, Daryl," you groaned, your hands moving through his hair, holding him close as he worshiped your breasts like they were the most important things in the world. "Don’t stop."
He growled against your skin and kept going; he kept sucking, licking, and teasing until your nipples were swollen and hard, sensitive to every little touch.
He soon pulled back, a line of spit connecting his mouth to your nipple before it broke, and he greedily licked over it once more. His eyes were full with need, his breathing heavy as he looked up at you, like he was waiting for permission to keep going.
"You’re going to be a good boy and keep worshipping me?" You asked, your voice teasing and commanding him at the same time.
"Yeah," he whispered. "Please… Need t’…"
"Then do it," you ordered, and that was all the encouragement he needed.
Daryl’s hands moved lower, sliding down your sides, moving along your hips before coming to a stop between your legs. His fingers brushed against your pussy, finding you already wet and wanting, and he let out a growl.
He started slowly, almost with hesitation, like he was worshipping at some holy altar. His lips brushed over the inside of your thighs, soft at first, but when you grabbed his hair again, he got the message. His mouth found your pussy the moment he ripped off your panties, and it was as if a switch flipped.
Daryl buried his face between your legs, his tongue working desperately, like he couldn’t get enough of you. You let out a moan, your hand tightening in his hair, guiding him but also keeping him under your control.
"Fuck, Daryl," you breathed out. "Just like that."
And he couldn’t stop, even if he wanted to. Every part of him was focused on you—on the taste of you, the way you trembled when he hit just the right spot. He was completely at your mercy, with the need to prove himself to make you proud.
You could feel him moan against you and how he was getting lost in it, in you. You knew he was desperate for more, desperate for any sign that he was doing good and that you’d forgive him. But you weren’t about to make it easy for him. Not yet, at least.
You pulled back slightly, just enough to get him away from you, and he looked up at you, his lips wet and parted, already missing the taste of you. "Please," he growled out, and you could see the need to do more, to have more of you.
"You keep listening to me. You understand?" You asked, caressing his head gently.
"Yeah," he stammered and nodded in return.
You pushed his head back down, with his tongue slipping inside your pussy almost immediately, like he was trying to eat out every bit of forgiveness he could get.
And fuck, did it feel good. The way he was eating out your pussy, every little move of his tongue, the way he sucked on your clit just hard enough to make you see stars—it was like he was made for this, made to worship you.
"Fuck, don’… don’ make me stop," he growled out in between. He was trembling now, hands still gripping your hips tightly, his eyes wide with something that seemed close to panic, like he couldn’t stand being away from you for even a second.
But you leaned down, grabbing his chin, forcing him to look at you. "You want to make this right? You wait until I’m ready."
He nodded quickly, swallowing hard, his eyes pleading without a word and barely holding it together. He was ready to do anything you asked, to wait as long as you wanted him to, just for a chance to taste you again.
"Good boy," you moaned, suddenly pulling him up to kiss you, tasting yourself on his lips. He kissed you like he was starved for it, holding on for dear life.
And you could feel how hard he was—the desperate twitching of his already leaking cock against your thigh—but you weren’t done teasing him yet. "You’re doing so good, Daryl. Go on now."
"Yes, mommy," he whimpered, the word coming out of his mouth before he could even stop it.
"What did you just call me?" You asked in shock and froze.
Daryl’s eyes widened in shock and panic. "Didn’t mean t’ say that," he said, his voice trembling. "I jus’—"
"Say it again," you commanded, cutting him off. "Say it."
He swallowed hard, his eyes looking around as if searching for an escape, but he knew he couldn’t hide from you. "Yes, mommy," he whispered quietly, a shiver running through him as he said the word again.
But you didn’t miss the way his eyes dropped to the floor. "Good boy," you simply answered. "Go on…"
He didn’t hesitate, his hands following the curves of your body again, his lips following close behind. He kissed down your neck, in between your breasts, along your stomach as he moved lower, his hands soon enough sliding up your thighs and over your pussy.
"Shit," he mumbled, his eyes widening as he realized just how ready you were for him. "Yer so fuckin’ wet."
He didn’t say anything else, too focused on what he was doing. His fingers moved through your wet folds, teasing you until you were trembling with need, and he circled your clit with his thumb slowly on purpose, watching your face for every little reaction.
And one moan—that was all he needed. He leaned in, his mouth replacing his fingers, his tongue sliding over your clit, licking and sucking it gently all over. He didn’t rush, didn’t hurry, and took his time.
"Fuck, Daryl," you moaned, your fingers gripping his hair, holding him in place as he devoured you. "That’s it… don’t stop."
He didn’t need to be told twice. He kept going, kept licking, sucking, and teasing until you were right on the edge and close to coming.
The control he was giving you made you feel powerful, and hell, if that wasn’t the hottest thing you’d ever experienced.
"Please, mommy," he begged. "Lemme make ya cum now."
"Keep going," you commanded, feeling yourself getting closer due to his words. "Don’t stop. Oh, fuck…"
He obeyed, and when you finally came, you gasped and moaned, your body arching and trembling under the force of it. But as soon as you began to come down from your orgasm, you noticed how he started to get more aggressive, his hands gripping your hips harder. He pulled back slightly, his eyes burning into yours as he moved back up.
"Wanna fuck ya," he growled almost primal, grabbing his cock and pushing it against your pussy.
But you shoved him back. "Not so fast," you said. "You’re going to do it my way."
He looked at you with frustration and desperation. "But… I need ya," he said, his voice cracking a little bit. "Please!"
You didn’t give in. Instead, you watched as he tried to hold himself back. "If you want more, you’re going to have to do it my way, Daryl. How many times do I have to tell you?"
"Yeah, ‘kay," he murmured and nodded, his voice trembling.
"Not yet," you said, wrapping your hand around his shaft. The hardness of his cock was pulsing against your hand, and you enjoyed the power it gave you. "You’re going to wait a little longer."
Daryl’s breath hitched, his fingers digging into the mattress as he tried to control himself. "Please," he begged, his voice raw and desperate. "Need it."
You only smiled, slowly stroking him, your movements maddeningly slow. "You want more?" You teased, leaning closer to him. "You want me to keep going? To make you cum already as well?"
He nodded quickly. "Yes! Please, mommy. Can’t take it no more!"
You took your time, each move up and down his shaft, making him moan and writhe.
"Fuck, don’ stop," he groaned. "Please, I can’t—"
"Hush now," you interrupted, squeezing his cock. "You’re going to wait until I say so. If you want to be a good boy, you’ll follow my instructions."
Daryl’s cock was coated in his pre-cum and throbbing in your hand, and every time you squeezed just a little harder, he would shiver, his voice breaking into pleas and whimpers.
"Please… ‘M so close," he whimpered. "Can’t hold back much longer."
You looked down at him, smirking, and then you jerked him faster and harder, bringing him right to the edge. His body was tense and almost painfully trying to hold off his orgasm.
"Daryl," you said softly, your hand driving him mad. "I want you to beg for it. Just a little bit more."
His pleas turned into desperate murmurs as he struggled with himself. "Please… Need t’… Jus’ let me... Oh fuck!"
With a final pump, you brought him right to the very edge again, feeling his cock throbbing against your palm. Then, just when you could see he was about to break, you pulled back, stopping altogether.
Daryl let out a whimper, his eyes desperate. "Fuck, please… Need it."
You leaned in close, kissing his neck. "Not yet. I want you to really feel it, to know how much you need me."
"Please," he begged again. "Please..."
"Tell me how much you need it," you smiled at him.
He swallowed hard, his voice cracking as he spoke. "Need it so bad, mommy, please... Need t’ cum for ya. Need ya..."
You gave him one final, hard stroke, and then you stopped again, making him groan and tremble over you, the muscles in his arms tensing up painfully hard. "Good boy," you whispered, finally giving him permission to slide into your pussy, just not all the way.
"No further," you said. "Just the tip. Hold it back."
He groaned, his hands gripping the sheets next to you on the mattress. "Please," he begged, his voice breaking. "Lemme fuck ya..."
You ignored his pleas, your hand still pumping up and down his shaft. "Say it," you commanded. "Say you’re my good boy, Daryl."
"‘M yer good boy," he mumbled, closing his eyes in embarrassment.
Finally, when you could see the look on his face—the way he was practically begging to come—you leaned in. "You want it now?"
"Yeah," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Please, mommy..."
His cock was pulsing, the tip pressing into you just enough to make him groan but not enough to give him what he wanted.
You watched as a sudden tear rolled down his cheek—a single, small, and tiny drop. The sight of it—so rare for someone like Daryl—made you widen your eyes. You could see the complete surrender—the way he was completely at your mercy.
Without warning, you pushed against him, taking him all the way in, and made him cry out, his body shuddering as he filled you up and feeling your pussy stretch around his cock. The look of shock and ecstasy on his face was too much, even for you. His eyes widened, his lips parting slightly, and his cock was pulsing inside you, his body trembling uncontrollably.
"Fuck! Fuck…"
And the moment you took him in fully, he came hard inside of you with a loud groan, his body trying to push in as deep as possible as he reached his orgasm, while you held him close, feeling the last of his cum filling you up as he finished.
You soon lay there, your body still tingling, but Daryl, on the other hand, was a mess after he quickly pulled out of you. Now his walls were coming back up, and he was doing his best to act like he didn’t need a damn thing from you.
He was trying to play it cool, turning his face away, still shaking a little bit. "Jus’… gotta go," he mumbled, trying to shove you away. "Don’ need ya all up in m’ shit now."
"Oh, come on. You can’t be serious," you smirked, running a finger teasingly down his chest.
He glared at you, trying to push you away once more. "‘M fine. Jus’ leave me ‘lone," he grumbled.
"Look at you, all tough and cold again. But you were begging for it only a minute ago." You let your hand move over his skin, feeling his muscles twitch. "And now you’re just going to be an ass about it? Not a chance."
He froze as you touched him. "Shut up," he snapped. "Don’t need yer damn pity."
You rolled your eyes, leaning in close. "Pity? This isn’t pity, Daryl."
He tried to pull away again, but you held him close, your hands moving up to his chin. You tilted his head so he had no choice but to look at you.
"Seriously?" You said with a smile. "You’re going to act like a brat now? After everything?" You moved closer, teasing him with a kiss on his lips.
Daryl’s breath stopped for a second, and you felt him shudder under your touch. "Fuck off," he muttered, but it was sounding rather weak, almost as if he was trying to convince himself more than you.
You laughed, cupping his chin more firmly. "Make me. Or... maybe you really are just a brat who needs to be put in his place all over again."
He shivered as he fought with himself. "No… Don’ need this," he mumbled, but it was clear he was losing the battle against himself. His voice was getting quieter, and he knew that he was failing miserably.
Then, you finally met his lips with yours. It was a slow, gentle kiss, with you wanting to give him reassurance. He moaned against them, the sound full of desperation.
When you pulled back, you saw how his eyes were wide, and he suddenly nuzzled up against you, his face buried in your neck, his body trembling as if he was trying to hold onto whatever was left of his defenses.
"‘M so sorry," he murmured against your skin, his voice breaking. "Didn’ mean t’... I jus’—"
You ran your fingers through his hair, cuddling him closer as he clung to you. "Quiet," you whispered, putting your lips against his forehead. "It’s okay."
He wrapped his arms around you, his grip a little rough as if he was afraid you might slip away. "I fucked up," he said. "Almos’ got m’self killed an’ hurt ya. ‘M so damn sorry."
You held him close, his body pressed against yours. "I know," you said softly. "But you’re still alive, Daryl."
But the moment of calm was ruined when Daryl’s body tensed up again, with him starting to sob violently.
"Shit," he choked out, tears rolling down his cheeks. "‘M such a fuckin’ asshole. Messed everythin’ up. Could’ve died an’—"
You shushed him, holding him even tighter, pressing kisses to his temples. You didn’t say much, letting your actions speak louder than any words even could.
He kept mumbling apologies, his sobs so intense that they shook his whole body. "Ain’t good ‘nough. ‘M worthless. Jus’ a useless piece o’ shit," he sobbed further, his voice cracking.
You gently cupped his face again, lifting it so you could look into his wet eyes. Slowly, you wiped the tears away with your thumbs, kissing his cheeks where the tears had been rolling down.
"Hush," you whispered softly. "You’re not a useless piece of shit. You’re not worthless. You made a mistake, but you’re here, and you’re alive. That’s what matters."
He needed to hear that you weren’t disappointed and that you still loved him despite everything.
Daryl looked up at you, his eyes all red and swollen, but his sobbing began to calm down. And as he finally started to relax, his grip on you softened, but he didn’t let go. He was still clinging to you, needing you to remind him that he was loved and that he was enough.
"Thanks," he whispered quietly. "For… everythin’."
You smiled to yourself, playing with his hair. "Anytime," you murmured, pressing another soft kiss to the top of his head.
You didn’t need to say anything more; your arms around him were enough to help him find his way back to feeling okay. The walls he’d built were finally down, and for now, he was just Daryl—raw and in need of someone to help him piece himself back together.
blurb - Regret and shame wash over you the moment you slip out of Joel’s bed. Shocked and frozen in doubt, you scramble to contain the damage—but how do you fix something when Joel’s presence lingers in every touch, every glance, reminding you of what you can’t undo?
Word Count: 19.8 k
Lying had gotten you far.
In New York, it was currency. You’d wielded it like a scalpel: clean, precise, always with a goal in mind. A raise, a meeting, a job, a better seat at the table. Lies could build ladders in that city. Your smile could bend a truth into something profitable.
And you were good at it. No—great at it.
You’d learned young. One of your best? NYU, sophomore year. The communal fridge.
You’d been broke. Really broke. Twenty-dollar-a-week, stealing coffee-shop napkins broke. You worked a campus job that paid in peanuts and free printer access, and you lived off of instant noodles and pride. You’d gotten into a rhythm with it—half of a packet for lunch, half for dinner. Rationed like gold.
Until the latter half started disappearing.
At first, you thought you were slipping. Miscounting. Maybe a roommate grabbed one. But then it happened again. And again. Until there was no denying it: someone was stealing your dinner. Literally taking food from your mouth.
You caught the guy fast—some smug jackass freshman trying to rush a frat. He mumbled something about saving cash, offered a shrug, and then laughed in your face. Told you to fuck off. Said it wasn’t a big deal.
So you made it one.
You didn’t confront him again. You didn’t tell your RA. You didn’t escalate it.
You lied. Said he had mono.
You only said it once. Whispered it to your roommate while brushing your teeth. By lunch, the dorm was buzzing. By dinner, no one would sit next to him. And when someone from the frat asked him straight up, he panicked and said, “It’s not mono, it’s just chlamydia!”
Chlamydia.
He disappeared from every shared space within a week. Your dinner were safe.
You’d been proud of that one. Deserved. Harmless, almost. Justice, but clever.
But this? This wasn’t harmless. This wasn’t some clever lie in a college dorm that ended with noodles and petty victory.
This was Joel Miller—Joel—his face caught in the soft gray of morning, half-lit by the strip of dawn peeking through a cracked hotel curtain. His arm was draped low around your waist, like a belt. Loose enough to fall off. But not loose enough to stop strangling your thoughts.
Your mouth tasted like stale whiskey and regret. Your head throbbed in heavy, echoing pulses.
Stupid alcohol.
Your body ached—hips sore, thighs bruised, lower back twisted into some weird angle you didn’t remember going into.
Stupid you.
You shifted, moving slowly as you propped yourself up on your elbow, careful not to wake him. The bedsheets tugged across your skin, the fabric warm and rough. You didn’t want to think about how it felt last night. You didn’t want to remember how it felt to pull his name from your mouth.
But you did. You remembered everything.
The argument. The yelling. The kissing. The fuck—
No, you’d rather not remember that.
Clothes were the first thing you noticed.. On your side of the bed, his jeans, boxers, and shirt lay crumpled in a trail that told a story your body still hadn’t fully processed. One of your heels had been kicked halfway across the room.
And on the nightstand, a torn-open condom wrapper. You released a breath so sharp and heavy it left you dizzy.
Thank God.
But panic curled up like smoke in the back of your throat the moment your brain finally caught up to your body. It slithered behind your ribs and sank its claws into your spine. Cold and sharp and paralyzing.
You had sex with Joel. You had angry, dirty sex with Joel.
That fact, that sentence, just those seven words, split your mind clean in two.
Joel’s mouth had been on your throat, your chest, lower. His teeth scraping just shy of bruising, hands gripping like he didn’t know how to stop. Like he didn’t want to.
You’d let him. Pushed and dragged him down to your thighs and gripped his hair. You remembered saying things—awful things, filthy things—words that would echo in your skull for the next ten years.
And Joel had said worse.
“You got me this fuckin’ hard and I haven’t even been inside you yet.”
“I warned you. I said I’d make you shut up.”
“Eyes on me. You don’t get to hide.”
You had. You had stared right back at him—into those dark, wild eyes—as he fucked you stupid and made you scream.
You still felt it. The way his breath huffed against your skin as he fucked you with his tounge like he had a point to prove. The slight burn of beard scruff on your thighs. The press of his calluses against your hips.
Oh God. Your stomach flipped. What the fuck did you do?
You moved quickly—too quickly—jolting an inch away like his touch had turned to acid. The sheet slipped off your shoulders as you rolled to the edge of the bed, heart thundering.
Joel stirred behind you, still buried halfway in sleep. He mumbled something, voice hoarse and low, face half-smushed into the pillow.
You didn’t catch the words. Didn’t want to. You sat on the edge of the mattress, your bare feet curling on the carpet. Your back was stiff, shoulders hunched. Like if you folded small enough, none of it would be real.
You’d done a lot of stupid things in your life. A lot.
Lying. Scheming. Negotiating your way around people like stepping over stones in a river.
But this? This was Olympic-level dumb. Because it wasn’t just anyone. It was Joel.
Your worst nightmare and your closest proximity to everything you left behind. The man you spent your entire life sparring with. Arguing, snapping, circling. The man who looked at you like you were a problem he never figured out how to solve—and last night, you’d let him try.
You glanced over your shoulder.
He was still asleep. Dark hair mussed against the pillow. The curve of his back carved against the sheets. Broad, tan shoulders littered with tiny scars and tension. His hand twitched slightly where it had once rested on your waist. Like his body hadn’t caught up to the fact that you were gone.
It made you angry. So fucking angry.
How could he sleep like that? After the things he said? After the things you did? How could he lay there, untouched, like his entire soul didn’t feel scraped raw?
You pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes. You couldn’t look at anything else. “God, what the fuck is wrong with me,”
Because you were the one who crossed the line with him. You were the one who kissed him back, who moaned when he bit your collarbone, who had gripped his hair and pulled him closer.
Joel shifted again, a low murmur barely audible. You caught one word. Your name.
Spoken like a sigh. Like an afterthought. Your heart dropped into your stomach. You wanted to scream. To wake him up and demand why the hell he did that. To slap him sober and get your anwers.
But you didn’t.
You knew the second he woke up, everything would be different. He’d pull away. He’d go cold. He’d put up those walls.
And you’d become the thing he regretted.
His brother thought that about you already; you couldn’t handle another Miller thinking about you like that.
Tommy. Tommy. Oh fuck. Fuck.
You’d fucked his brother.
While he was out. While he was probably pacing outside, furious and heartbroken and thinking you were the most manipulative person he’d ever met.
You stood up and moved like you were wading through wet cement, mind racing a million miles per hour.
Joel murmured again behind you—your name, again—but this time it didn’t sound like a dream. It sounded like a warning. Like you had about thirty seconds before the room filled with silence and shame and questions you couldn’t answer.
You reached for your dress, still bunched around your waist. It stuck slightly to your skin, sweat-damp and wrinkled, the zipper half-undone.
Your panties were torn in the corner of the room. Actually torn. One strap dangled from the hem of the sheets like a flag of surrender, fabric stretched and snapped where Joel had grabbed it. You pressed your lips together as you picked it up.
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about the way he groaned your name. Don’t think about how it felt when he buried his face between your thighs like he hadn’t eaten in days.
Don’t think about how badly you wanted him to stay there forever. Just get out.
You shoved your straps over your shoulders and yanked it down roughly over your thighs. Your zipper caught halfway up, and you swore under your breath, tugging at it with shaking hands. You grabbed your heels from opposite corners of the room—one lodged behind the dresser, the other beneath the desk where you’d knocked it in a haze of desperation.
You didn’t look in the mirror. You already knew what you’d see.
A woman who’d thrown gasoline on a bonfire and now stood crying at the ashes.
Your fingers grazed your key card on the table. You stared at it for a second. Just one second.
It glinted under the bedside lamp—innocent, silent, plastic. Your name was printed neatly across the top, like a welcome mat. Like the universe had personally handed you this hotel and said: Here. Ruin your life inside this one.
You grabbed it. Clutched it like a blade. Behind you, the sheets rustled. A shift. A sigh.
Your heart stopped. Joel stirred, chest rising beneath the tangled mess of blankets. His hand reached for the empty space where your body used to be, less slow and aimless.
Your name again. Louder this time. More aware. More alert. More panicked.
You didn’t turn around. Didn’t breathe. You just moved.
You yanked the door open, the hinges letting out a squeal that sounded like a scream, and you bolted through it like a thief. Not bothering to close it gently. Not caring if it woke him up fully now.
Just three steps to the right, and the keycard was in front of you before you even processed it. You slammed it into the lock. It blinked red once—fuck—then green.
The door swung open, and you tumbled inside, heart clawing at your ribs like it wanted out.
You threw the lock. The latch. The extra bolt. You pressed your back to the wood.
And then you breathed. A long, shaking, too-loud exhale.
Guilt. It hit like a flood. A punch to the stomach. Heavy, swampy, sticky. Crawling up your spine like a cold sweat.
Your heels clattered behind you as you rushed to the bathroom. The mirror caught a flash of you as you passed—bare legs, dress halfway zipped, and bruised lips—and it made you flinch.
You turned the water on full blast, scalding, steam rising immediately. The sound filled the silence.
You stripped—tore your dress off, flung it into the corner. The zipper caught your skin on the way down, but you didn’t care, yanking it free.
Your panties were flung to another side of the room. You left them there, like evidence at a crime scene. You stepped into the shower and collapsed against the tile.
The heat hit you all at once, sharp and blinding, but you welcomed it. Maybe it could melt the memory off. You violently scrubbed your arms. Your thighs. Your stomach.
His hands had been there. His mouth. God, his mouth. You could still feel it between your legs. Still feel his voice growling against your skin.
You bit down a sob and kept scrubbing. Hard. Like it might undo everything. And then—
Your hand drifted lower. Slowly. Hesitantly.
Down past your stomach, past the stinging ache blooming deep in your stomach, until your fingers hovered where he’d been inside you. Where he’d made you fall apart so hard and fast you barely recognized the person clawing at him in the dark.
You weren’t turned on—you were checking. You had to be sure.
There was no blood. No tenderness of too much force or too little care. The only bruises were tiny dots which were no doubt hickies. Your fingers brushed gently along the inside of your thigh, searching, trembling.
You didn’t feel anything. No tears. No irritation. Nothing sharp or foreign.
Your breath started coming faster. Because you couldn’t stop replaying it—how fast he’d taken his pants off, how he went away for a second and came back, the wrapper on the nightstand this morning. You saw it. You know you saw it.
But you hadn’t actually seen him put it on. Not with your own eyes. It was all too fast, too much. He was angry, and you were drunk. Fast. Careless. Hot.
He hadn’t asked. You hadn’t checked. You pressed your palm to your lower belly like that would do something. Like it might answer the question buzzing under your skin.
Your throat tightened.
“Oh my God,” you whispered.
Your knees buckled slightly under the spray, but you caught yourself on the wall. Chest heaving. Fingers twitching. The steam clouded your vision, and you blinked it away furiously, refusing to let the tears fall.
You scrubbed again. Down there. Rougher now. Not sensual. Not careful. Just—desperate. Like you could wash out the memory. The risk. The thought of some microscopic mistake that could change everything.
This wasn’t you. You didn’t do this. You were the one who made lists, who carried ibuprofen and backups in your purse, who scheduled annual exams like religion. You weren’t careless.
And when you did hook up, you made sure it was consensual. You didn’t fuck anyone drunk, you didn’t fuck drunk.
But last night? You didn’t just let it happen—you fucking sprinted toward it. Even through the fight, through the grief of Tommy, you let Joel touch you like that. Gave him parts of you you’d barely given to anyone else.
And now? Now you didn’t even know if he used the damn condom right.
Your teeth clenched. You doubled over in the shower, one arm braced against the wall, the other gripping your abdomen like you could hold yourself together if you just held yourself hard enough.
You wanted to crawl out of your own skin. You wanted to time travel. Undo it. Say no. Say wait. Say anything that didn’t end with his mouth on your skin and your dress shoved up around your waist.
You were cracked open. Raw. Rattled down to the bones.
You stepped out of the shower trembling. Your skin was scrubbed pink, raw in places, and still you didn’t feel clean. Water dripped down your arms in streaks. You stared at yourself in the mirror, droplets racing down the curve of your jaw, past the hollow of your neck, down the bruising along your collarbone.
A bite mark, faded red at the edges. You winced, turned your face away, and reached for the towel like maybe the fabric would protect you
You dried off slowly. Carefully. Each motion deliberate. Robotic.
Once dressed, you didn’t feel better. Wrapped in lounge pants and a baggy T-shirt you barely remembered packing. The cotton stuck to your damp skin, clinging to the backs of your knees as you curled onto the bed.
Your hands still shook. You checked the time on your wall.
1:02 p.m.
“Shit,” you whispered.
The world had kept going. No matter how much of yours had collapsed.
You snatched up your phone off the dresser, hands clammy, fingers trembling as you woke it up. You scrolled through your notifications. Nothing. No missed calls. No texts. No voicemails.
Not from Tommy. Not from your dad.
Your stomach twisted. You’d driven him away. Both of them.
The memory hit like a punch—your dad’s voice, low and disapproving over the phone. Quiet. Careful. Trying to diffuse a situation you knew you were wrong in but didn’t want to listen to.
And Tommy. God. Your thumb pressed the call button.
One ring. Two. Three. Straight to voicemail.
You held the phone to your ear like it might change something. Like you could will him to care again just by not hanging up.
“Please,” you whispered. “Tommy, please pick up…”
But all you got was his stupid voicemail he still had from thirteen years ago.
“Yo, yo, yo, this is Tommy! I ain’t ‘round at the moment—leave somethin’ good.”
The beep came like a slap. You didn’t say anything. Just ended the call and let the phone drop into your lap.
And that was it. That was the moment your composure shattered completely.
A sob tore from your throat—raw, messy, loud. No pretty cinematic crying. Just broken sounds in a hotel room. You curled in on yourself, arms around your knees, forehead pressed to the tops of them.
You’d burned every bridge in a single fucking weekend. Your father, your friend, your… whatever Joel was. You had no one left to reach for. No one who would listen, much less understand.
You stayed like that for a while—long enough for your sobs to slow into hiccups, for your breath to even out into shallow gulps.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Your phone vibrated near your head. You blinked at it, dazed.
[TOMMY]
Your heart damn near fell out of your ass. You sprang up from the bed so fast that it almost slipped out of your hands. But you caught it. Hit ‘Accept’.
“Hello?” Tommy’s voice was wary. Quiet. Hoarse, like he hadn’t spoken all day.
He didn’t respond right away. You could hear the faint hum of wind or traffic. He was outside.
You didn’t know what more to say. What could you say?
Yeah, your brother and I had a hate-fueled hotel hookup while you were God knows where after I detonated your trust like a bomb?
Yeah. That’d go over great. So instead, you said the only thing that mattered.
“I miss you.”
That was the first crack in the dam.
“I miss you so much, Tommy. I fucked up—I know I did. I thought I was right. But I just made everything worse. And then last night, I just—God, I was so angry, and I did something dumb.”
You didn’t say at who. But your voice broke there, like you couldn’t hold the weight of everything else.
The silence on the other end was long. Not cold. Not cruel. But long in that specific way that told you how hard he was holding it together. How carefully he was choosing not to speak—because if he did...
“I thought I could do it,” you whispered, weaker now. “I knew the deal could work, Tommy. That it could be something good. For you, for Joel—for all of us. I just… I panicked. I didn’t know how to get you both to see it, and I—” You stopped, dragging your hand down your face. “I know that’s not an excuse. I know it’s not enough.”
Another pause. Longer, this time.
You could picture him standing outside somewhere, maybe with his hands on his hips, or his arms crossed, jaw clenched in a way that kept from exploding. Kept him from saying stupid..
You closed your eyes.
“I’m sorry I broke your trust.”
It came out like a confession. Like a sin carved into the soles of your feet.
Tommy had always been the one who stuck around. Through every harebrained scheme, every late-night call, every chaotic fallout you dragged him through.
You remembered being eighteen and hellbent on climbing the school roof after graduation, and Tommy had followed you up the fire escape without question—laughing the whole time, even after he fell on the shingles and bruised his ribs.
He was always there. Every time you fucked up—he forgave you.
Without hesitation. Until now.
“Tommy?” you called quietly.
“I know you’re sorry,” he finally spoke. Steady. “I just don’t think I can forgive you this time.”
The words dropped like bricks straight through your stomach. You stopped breathing.
“Not yet,” he added, after a second. “I just… I can’t.”
You sat in silence, your heart folding in on itself.
“I followed you ‘cause I believed you,” Tommy said, voice scratchy, like it hurt to talk. “You lied to my face. Just… just so easily. Like it meant nothin’ to you.”
You stood up, pacing in a slow circle, like movement could help you outpace the pain building up in your chest.
“I didn’t mean to,” you said, voice hoarse. “I swear I didn’t—”
“You did,” he interrupted..
You stopped moving.
“You did,” he repeated. “And when it happened, and when I was alone, I kept thinkin’ about every time I said ‘okay’ throughout our lives. Every time I said, ‘It’s fine, you didn’t mean to,’ when you dragged me into somethin’ dumb or reckless or dangerous. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe I just kept tellin’ you it was okay until you thought it always would be.”
“No,” you said, shaking your head hard. “That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not,” he admitted. “But it feels true right now.”
That part broke something in you. He was right. You had leaned on him like a safety net. Like a guarantee. Because Tommy always forgave you.
“I didn’t mean to lose you,” you whispered, tears stinging your eyes again.
“I know,” he said softly. “But sometimes meanin’ to do better and doin’ better ain’t the same thing.”
You sank onto the edge of the bed like the wind had been knocked out of you. “I miss you,” you said again. Quieter this time. Just a ghost of the girl you’d been the night before.
Tommy sighed.
“I miss you too,” he said. “But I need time.”
You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “Okay.”
He didn’t cut the call. Neither did you.
You sat there together in the static—separated by walls, maybe a decade’s worth of choices—and just breathed through the hurt.
Eventually, he spoke again.
“I gotta go,” he said. “We’re gonna have dinner. All of us. But… just take care of yourself, alright?”
“I will,” you said, trying not to cry. “You too.”
The line went dead.
And for the first time in your life, Tommy Miller had hung up on you first.
❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜
This was awkward.
Not the, I sent a text to the wrong person, awkward. Or the, I waved at someone who wasn’t waving at me, awkward.
This was the kind of awkwardness that crawled under your skin. The kind that made the air feel thick. Slow. Hot.
You sat in the corner booth of a dimly lit Korean BBQ place with Tommy and Joel. The sizzle of food filled the air around you, almost comforting, even in this situation.
You're wearing your nicest blouse and your most peacekeeping smile. Determined to be good. Polite. Easy. The version of you that could win back years of friendship with charm and spicy pork belly.
But Tommy was a damn robot.
He sat across from you, silently turning slices of bulgogi with metal tongs, not looking up. Not smiling. Not laughing. Just methodically flipping meat like it was the only thing keeping his mind occupied.
You sipped your soju. “You ever been here before?” you asked gently.
He grunted. “Yeah.”
“Oh. Well… it’s my first time.”
Another grunt.
You forced a smile. “I like it. The grill’s cool.”
He finally looked up at you. “You’ve never had Korean barbecue?”
“I’ve had takeout,” you said, grabbing a piece of lettuce with your chopsticks. “Just… never the full experience. With the banchan and the grill and—”
Tommy’s eyes drifted away from you, and whatever smile that might had been building on his face faltered. He blinked. Straightened a little.
You squeezed your eyes shut. God, you just wanted to ignore his presence for one night, try to work on you and Tommy. But your traitorous eyes followed Tommy’s gaze.
Joel. He looked like hell.
Slouched low in the booth, he looked like the weight of the day—or the year—was dragging him down. His shirt was wrinkled, soft, and faded blue one. It was the one with a bleach stain shaped like a question mark near the hem. His hair was a mess. His eyes were worse—bloodshot, heavy-lidded, like he hadn’t blinked since you left his bed.
He didn’t look at you. Didn’t have to. Because you could still feel him.
The scrape of his stubble behind your knees. The heat of his mouth along your jaw. The ghost of his breath at the base of your spine. All of it still clinging to you like second skin.
You took a longer sip of soju.
“Y’look like hell,” Tommy muttered, half to Joel, half to the grill.
Your leg twitched. Your spine straightened on instinct. Like he’d aimed it at you instead.
Joel didn’t answer at first. Just took a slow drink, eyes fixed on something far off—maybe the bottle, maybe his own thoughts. Then a grunt. Low and unreadable.
Tommy’s gaze bounced between you both. Once. Sharp. Like he was already smelling the tension.
But he didn’t say a word.
“Big day tomorrow,” you said too brightly, forcing a smile. “Finally heading home.”
Joel made a sound. Another grunt. Dismissive and ugly.
You tried not to look. Truly. But your eyes betrayed you again, dragging upward like they had a mind of their own to meet his challenge.
His whole body curled inward, like he was preparing to snap. The muscle in his jaw ticked. You saw it—knew that look, that build of pressure behind his eyes. He was about to say something. Something cruel.
You braced for it. Clink.
He dropped his chopsticks hard onto the table. “Some of us ain’t in a rush to get back,” he muttered, voice rough
Your stomach dropped.
“What that supposed to mean?” Tommy frowned, eyes narrowing.
Joel didn’t look at you when he answered. Didn’t need to. You were already knew his true meaning..
“Just sayin’. Some folks already halfway gone. I think they never really showed up to begin with.”
The air thinned. Your pulse thudded in your ears. You held the glass tighter than necessary, fingers going white. Tommy let out a short, hollow laugh, like his brother’s cryptic messages were the most amusing part of the day.
You didn’t let yourself hesitate. “It means nothing,” you snapped, sharp and thin. “Ignore him.”
Joel’s voice was a low warning. “Don’t speak for me.”
“Oh my God,” you hissed, leaning in, every nerve in your body sparking. “Really? You wanna do this now?”
His booth creaked as he shifted to face you, full-on, eyes finally meeting yours—and Christ, they were tired. Angry. Ache buried so deep behind them it almost made you want to comfort him.
Almost.
“You brought it up,” he said.
“I mentioned going home,” you bit back, voice tight, “not—” You cut yourself off. The rest jammed behind your teeth.
Not the way you left this morning.
Tommy leaned back, visibly caught between confusion and alarm. “Okay… y’all wanna loop me in here, or are we just speakin’ in goddamn riddles?”
You turned to him fast, planting your palm on the table, trying to summon steadiness.
“He’s—he’s tired.” you said.
Joel scoffed. “That what we’re callin’ it now?”
You felt the tension coil in your ribs, like a spring wound too far. Your pulse was thundering at the base of your throat, and your fingernails pressed little crescent moons into your palms under the table.
Tommy glanced between you both. His brow was drawn.
Joel stared down at the grill like he was trying to sear you into the metal. You could feel him beside you—radiating with his own barely concealed rage.
You could’ve thrown the water in his face. It would’ve felt good.
Don’t. Don’t take the bait.
Instead—you breathed. One count in. One count out.
You turned to Tommy. Looked him in the eye. “I know this trip hasn’t gone the way you wanted,” you said gently. “But I want you to know—I’m sorry and trying.”
That caught him off guard.
Joel paused.
“I’m trying to be better,” you continued, voice steady. “For the project. For the company. For us—all three of us. And if that means I have to eat a little pride and swallow a few hits without biting back, I will.” Your eyes slid to Joel. “Even when it’s really tempting.”
His lip twitched. A flicker of shock. A flicker of something else. Something raw. Bruised.
You turned back to Tommy.
“I’m not here to fight,” you said simply. “Not anymore.”
A silence fell between the three of you. Tommy blinked. Leaned back in his seat a little, studying you.
Then Joel. Then you again.
“Guess y’all… change overnight,” he said, slow and careful, like he was trying to dissect the situation.
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. If you did, your voice would crack right down the middle and spill out every secret you were trying so hard to keep.
So you smiled again—small, hollow. Then you picked up your chopsticks and started eating again like nothing had happened. Like your heart wasn’t sitting upside down on the tabletop between your water and your lettuce.
The meal continued in strange, awkward silence.
Tommy occasionally poked at his grill plate, eyes flicking between the two of you. His brows stayed pinched like he couldn’t quite figure out what was wrong, but knew something was. Joel said nothing. Barely touched his food. And you—you kept smiling. Nodding. Forcing little hums of acknowledgment every time Tommy spoke.
You ignored the ache in your stomach. The way Joel’s knee bumped your leg under the table and didn’t move.
And when the bill came, you moved first.
Before anyone else could blink, you were stacking the Styrofoam boxes, shoving paper napkins inside, sealing lids that didn’t want to seal. Tommy had said to leave it, that he had it covered—but you needed the task. Needed the motion, the illusion of control.
So you carried that takeout bag. Like it was proof you could still do something right.
Outside, the Dallas evening clung to your skin—thick and breathless. The kind of heat that turned your clothes damp. Humidity wrapped around your throat like a too-tight scarf, but still you breathed through it.
Streetlights blinked in a lazy rhythm above. The sidewalk buzzed faintly beneath your boots, alive with construction and the thrum of late traffic. Somewhere across the street, a group of strangers laughed—loud and sharp. A siren followed it, shrill and distant, like a needle dragged across a record.
Joel reached back and pulled out a cigarette like he’d been waiting for this. You caught the flick of that lighter. That quick, practiced spark. The flare of orange as it lit. Smoke curled upward.
You hated when he smoked.
The smell always hit first. Then the taste, bitter and acrid in the air. The way it stuck to his skin like armor. The way he used it—always—to push distance between himself and everyone else.
But you didn’t say a word.
Because saying something would mean looking at him.
And looking at him would mean admitting just how much you’d been affected by him, even though you wanted to act indifferent in front of him.
It was Tommy who broke the silence.
“Joel,” he muttered, tone taut. “Put it out.”
Joel didn’t glance over. Just brought the cigarette back to his lips, took another slow drag. “No.”
“I mean it.”
Joel exhaled, sharp and deliberate. A cloud of smoke slipped from the corner of his mouth. “You don’t get to tell me what to do tonight Tommy.”
It hit like a slap. Quiet, but with weight.
Tommy’s eyes narrowed. Jaw flexed. For a second, you thought he might go there. His whole body tilted like he was straining against something invisible, some invisible line only brothers knew how to toe.
But then he just huffed. Said something under his breath that sounded like a curse and shook his head hard—like he could shake off the disappointment too.
The walk back to the hotel was maybe four blocks.
It felt like forty.
You moved too fast with your feet carrying you on autopilot. Eyes fixed ahead—past pulsing neon signage, past the staggering hum of Dallas nightlife. The skyline glinted above, dark towers crowned in corporate light. The Reunion Tower blinked slow and blue in the distance, like an unblinking eye.
This should’ve felt like a win.
Conference done.
A successful pitch delivered.
But every step felt heavier than the last—like your own body had turned against you.
Like marching back to your own wake.
Your heels tapped rhythmically, hollow against the concrete. Joel walked somewhere behind, his boots heavier. Tommy was a step ahead of you, like maybe if he stayed far enough, whatever was going on wouldn’t affect his mood.
At the corner, the red neon of a CVS blinked into view.
Tommy slowed first. You noticed before he spoke. His steps faltered, eyes drifting toward the storefront.
He stopped in front of the glass, squinting inside like he expected to find treasure instead of travel-size toothpaste and expired protein bars.
“Let’s go in,” he said.
You blinked. “Why?”
Tommy shrugged. “Wanna get somethin’ for Maria and Kevin. Maybe a trinket. Somethin’ dumb that says Dallas on it.”
It came out before you could stop it—a soft smile, the affection in your voice when you said, “Of course. Whatever you want.”
Too fast. Too gentle.
Joel scoffed behind you both, low and bitter. “It’s late, Tommy. They ain’t gonna have shit ‘cept beef jerky and condoms.”
Tommy didn’t flinch. Just looked at him.
“It’s fine, Joel,” you said, voice clipped now, fingers tightening on the takeout bag still dangling from your hand.
He opened his mouth like he was going to argue. Maybe about the time. Maybe just for the sake of it.
You didn’t let him. “Tommy wants to go,” you added—now sweet as syrup.
Joel’s jaw ticked.
His eyes dropped to the fresh cigarette burning slow between his fingers—barely smoked, barely touched. He muttered something under his breath. You couldn’t make it out, but the tone said enough.
He crushed it beneath his boot, the hiss of ash and ember vanishing into the sidewalk.
You pushed open the CVS door.
Inside, the store was fluorescent-bright and eerie in its stillness. Light music. No chatter. The low mechanical hum of a soda fridge in the back. An elderly woman at the register lifted her hand in a warm wave as you stepped in, her voice soft.
“Evenin’, folks.”
You smiled politely, and nodded. “Evening, ma’am.”
Tommy gave her a wink and a wave, already heading toward a rack of souvenir mugs shaped like tiny cowboy boots.
Joel peeled off without a word, disappearing down the first aisle to the left.
You stood for a second.
You wanted to follow Tommy. You really did. Wanted to stay in his orbit. But you didn’t want to smother him. Not when things still felt so fragile, like glass balanced on its edge.
So you turned.
Walked slow.
Let yourself drift between aisles.
First it was sunglasses. Then snacks. Then candy in bright wrappers that looked tired and melted under the lights. You skimmed your hand across the dusty shelves, trying to keep your legs moving. Trying not to think about the weight of Joel’s stare on the back of your neck when you were walking outside. Trying not to remember the hotel bed. The way his hands had gripped your hips like a man possessed.
You didn’t mean to end up near the pharmacy.
You weren’t even sure how you got there—whether your feet had carried you on instinct or if your mind had gone somewhere else entirely and just let your body follow. Either way, you were suddenly beneath the fluorescent glare of that sterile corner of the store, where the air felt colder and the lighting too sharp.
The handle of the takeout bag crinkled in your grip as your fingers tightened, white-knuckled now. It hung heavy at your side. The weight of it had meaning. Anchoring you to the moment. Keeping you from running.
Slowly, you stepped into the aisle.
It was quiet here. Quieter than it should’ve been. Separate from the rest of the store, as if this section lived in a silence reserved for happiness or groans.
The shelves were too neat. Lined with soft, pretty colors—baby blues, muted pinks, sterile whites. Little boxes sat in uniform rows, all stamped with polite, clinical language.
One-Step. Early Response. Over 99% Accurate. Results in Minutes.
You read the same words over and over again. Not really absorbing them. Just floating above them, watching yourself process it all from somewhere outside your own body.
Your mouth was dry.
Your throat closed in a tight swallow.
You didn’t want to be here. You didn’t want to even consider this, much less acknowledge it as something worth worrying about. But your brain wouldn’t stop running, and now your body had followed. Some small part of you—some panicked, primal reflex—needed relief.
You’d seen the open condom wrapper on Joel’s side table this morning. You knew it had been used.
But still…
What if it had broken?
What if it slipped?
What if he took it off?
What if you guys went a second time and he forgot to get a new one?
And what if—
Your stomach dropped.
Right. The bigger problem, which you didn’t think was possible at this moment, but it was.
You hadn’t been taking your birth control.
Not since the move and the endless cardboard boxes. You kept telling yourself you’d set up an appointment, that you’d refill the prescription, that you’d get around to it once things calmed down.
They never did.
Now you really wished you had.
You reached for a box.
Your hand shook as you pulled it off the shelf, the cardboard slightly too light in your palm.
You turned it over. Read the back once. Then again.
The words might as well have been in another language.
You were staring, but you weren’t seeing. Your vision blurred at the edges, the instructions smeared into blocks of meaningless text. Your pulse throbbed in your ears, loud and erratic, like it was trying to outpace your own thoughts.
You imagined Tommy’s face if he found out what you were doing right now. Found out what you’d done. You thought of your dad.
That weight—of guilt, of shame, of what if—pressed down so hard your knees locked.
A sound. It pulled you out of your thoughts and froze you.
It was guttural. Like someone had been punched in the stomach. Like someone choking on their own breath. You didn’t turn immediately. Gravity warped around you like the world had narrowed into a single, focused point.
When you finally looked up, Joel was standing at the end of the aisle.
He didn’t move or speak.
He just stared.
Not at you, not yet. At the box in your hand.
His face was stone.
No—worse.
He looked wrecked.
Like he’d just watched a car crash happen in front of him and couldn’t do a goddamn thing to stop it. Or like he was the one behind the wheel. The blood had drained from his face. His mouth was parted, but no sound came out. The vein in his temple twitched, once, twice.
His jaw flexed, hard enough to crack enamel.
The silence that scared you more than anything.
Because Joel had a thousand versions of angry.
You’d seen every one of them.
The tight-lipped kind. The sarcastic kind. The hot, fast, loud kind.
But this?
This wasn’t anger.
This was the pause before the earth splits open. The silence between two tectonic plates just before they rip apart.
Your fingers squeezed around the box without meaning to. A sharp crinkle of cardboard broke the stillness between you, and Joel’s eyes finally rose to meet yours.
The look on his face knocked the air from your lungs.
He looked gutted. Not confused. Not curious. Not even furious.
Gutted.
And instantly, everything inside you crumbled.
“Shit,” you breathed, voice tight, panicked.
You snapped your hand back, like the box had burned you. It slipped from your grasp and skidded across the shelf, knocking a couple of ovulation kits loose as it went tumbling sideways. Plastic clattered across metal. The sound echoed in the silence like a fire alarm.
His didn’t flinch as his eyes didn’t follow the box. They stayed on you. Pinning you to the spot.
Every part of him was charged—his body locked up with tension like you were the event horizon of some black hole, and he was being pulled into a collapse he couldn’t stop.
You couldn’t stay there.
You turned. Walked fast. Nearly stumbled as you turned the corner.
The takeout bag thudded against your thigh with each step, the greasy scent turning your stomach now. You cut across the main aisle, moving without aim, just trying to put distance between your body and that look on Joel’s face. Your footsteps echoed louder than they should have. One squeaked on the linoleum and you flinched.
But another pair of footsteps followed.
You wanted to scream at him. Tell him to fuck off, to give you space, to leave it alone.
But Tommy would hear.
Tommy, who had no idea about any of this.
Tommy, who was already sniffing something strange between you and Joel.
You couldn’t afford to make him suspicious. Not when everything still clung together with duct tape.
So you didn’t scream. Didn’t look back. Didn’t let Joel see that your hands were shaking.
Instead, you found Tommy.
He was at the front of the store now, standing by the register with a little souvenir snow globe in one hand and a pack of bubble gum in the other. His shoulders were loose, relaxed.
You approached, plastering on a smile so wide it hurt. Joel stopped just a step behind you—close enough for his breath to fan your neck. At least, that’s what it felt like. You knew he was hovering by the concern plastered on the lady’s eyes, which flickered between you and whatever expression Joel had on his face.
Tommy raised an eyebrow. “Find anythin’ you want?”
“Nope,” you said quickly. Bright. Too bright. “All good. Just window shopping.”
Tommy’s gaze lingered for a second too long. But he didn’t question it. Just turned back to the cashier, chatting politely with the woman as she rang him up.
You stood beside him. Joel stood behind.
You didn’t turn around.
The transaction finished. The receipt printed with a cheerful ding. Tommy thanked the lady, pocketed his gum, and grabbed the bagged globe.
You held the takeout tighter.
As soon as the glass doors opened again and the night air rushed in, Joel lit another cigarette.
Immediately. Like he needed it just to stand straight.
The flame from his lighter glowed like a spotlight between you.
Tommy took a few steps ahead, glancing up at the dark buildings as the wind picked up slightly, brushing his jacket. The streetlamp light bounced off puddles on the sidewalk, flickering with each passing car.
“Sky’s lookin’ gloomy,” he commented, a hand in his pocket as he slowed at a crosswalk to glance at the intersecting street signs. “Think we’re in for some rain tonight.”
“Fittin’,” Joel muttered behind you. Smoke curled higher into the air.
Your heart thudded too hard, pacing like it knew something you didn’t.
The three of you walked in a slow line—Tommy a few paces ahead, checking signs and the way forward. You lingered behind him. Joel, several steps behind you, the sound of his boots scuffing against the wet sidewalk louder than anything else. You kept your chin tucked, your fingers curled tight around the bag, like you were gripping it for dear life.
The cigarette smoke drifted forward, curling at your back like it wanted to trace your spine. Like how he’d touched you.
Your phone buzzed.
You flinched, hope bubbling in your throat before you could even stop it.
Dad. It had to be your dad. Please be your Dad. Please.
You curled your fingers around the phone and thumbed the screen open, breath catching in your throat as your eyes landed on the ID.
[JOEL]
Your stomach bottomed out.
You slammed the phone shut instinctively, like it had burned you. Your eyes snapped straight ahead, to Tommy’s back. He was whistling low under his breath, oblivious.
Behind you, Joel swore under his breath.
Buzz. Buzz.
Two more messages.
Your jaw tightened so hard it ached.
You wanted to throw the phone into the street. Right through the windshield of a passing taxi. Or better yet—whip it at Joel’s face and scream at him in a voice loud enough to make the whole city stop.
Instead, you clicked the screen open. Angled low. Read quickly.
[3 New Message: JOEL]
[JOEL]: We need to talk.
[JOEL]: Don’t ignore me.
[JOEL]: Why were you looking at those tests?
You felt the words slam into your chest like a blunt weapon.
They came too fast—like he was texting each one with the speed of his heartbeat.
Your pulse surged hot in your ears. You gripped your phone tighter, knuckles white, and fired back before you could stop yourself:
[YOU]: Shut up.
[YOU]: Not now.
You didn’t even look behind you.
You could feel him back there, pacing his steps to yours like a slow-building thunderstorm.
And it pissed you off.
Because he didn’t get to ask you things like that. Not when you could barely cope with what you did since you left your self-respect behind on the floor.
[JOEL]: This ain’t a fucking game.
[JOEL]: You don’t get to act like I’m invisible now.
Your grip tightened on your phone. The sidewalks blurred. You blinked hard, focused on the crosswalk signal ahead.
Tommy turned to look at something.
[JOEL]: Say something. Anything.
You stopped walking again, just for a beat, right before the streetlight changed. Tommy took two more steps before realizing you were straggling. He turned back, a look of concern you haven’t seen in hours etched on his face.
“You good?”
You nodded fast. “Yeah—yeah, just checking something.”
Tommy didn’t question it. Just turned again, muttering something about late-night traffic as he kept going.
Buzz.
[JOEL]: You can’t just pretend this didn’t happen.
You didn’t even hesitate this time.
[YOU]: What do you want me to do??
[YOU]: Hold you, kiss you?
[YOU]: Talk about our feelings in a circle?
[YOU]: Yeah, we’re really good at that.
There was a long pause after that one.
You waited. Held your breath.
Counted the seconds like maybe you were measuring something else. Distance. The damage done.
Buzz.
[JOEL]: You don’t know what you’re talking about.
[JOEL]: You don’t know shit about how I feel.
You nearly stopped walking.
It was from shock. Confusion. How do you even begin to understand Joel and his feelings? You sucked at it for years, how were you going to do it now? Especially now.
Your thumbs hovered.
[YOU]: Then say it.
You walked against that cracked stretch of sidewalk, traffic whispering past and Tommy half a block ahead. A sign glowing warm at the corner. Joel lingering behind you like some living shadow.
You waited. Waited.
Buzz.
[JOEL]: Don’t do that.
[JOEL]: Don’t twist shit onto me.
Your breath caught.
It was deflection. His specialty. He couldn’t say it—whatever it was—because that meant explaining why the hell he kissed you in the first place.
So instead—he turned the attention from himself. Jabbed back.
Buzz.
You barely had time to look before another came in.
Buzz.
You stepped off the curb behind Tommy, heels clicking against the concrete crosswalk. Dallas traffic hummed nearby, headlights streaking by in blurs of gold and blue. The city was a breathing thing—neon, glass, and exhaust. But you weren’t looking at the skyline.
You glanced at the side of the parked car you were passing—just a beat of reflex.
And there he was.
Reflected clean in the chrome trim of a black SUV.
His shoulders were hunched. Head bowed as he walked. The cigarette dangling from his mouth twitched with every breath, trembling like it knew it didn’t belong there.
He looked like he was seconds from combusting.
His fingers were flying over the keys, fast and angry, thumbs slamming each button like he was trying to beat the alphabet into submission. His mouth was moving—muttering something you couldn’t hear—and the driver sitting inside the car gave him a sidelong look of concern, and he looked like Joel was about to punch his window and rob him.
[JOEL]: You don’t get to walk around like nothing happened.
[JOEL]: Or that I’m some mistake you wanna wash off in a fucking hotel shower.
You flinched.
Because you had rubbed him off your skin—scrubbed until your thighs were pink and the air turned cold even though your body was on fire.
But that wasn’t the goddamn point.
He didn’t get to say that. Not like this. Not out in the open, armed with pride and that same steel-plated stubbornness he always wore when he wanted to probe without being probed.
You kept walking.
Didn’t respond.
And that infuriated him.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
[JOEL]: You ain’t gonna say nothing?
[JOEL]: That it?
[JOEL]: After all that talk last night.
[JOEL]: All that moaning. All that—
You spun so fast before you could finish the text that you nearly clipped Tommy’s elbow.
You looked right at him. Locked eyes like a sniper. That fake-smile still glued to your face, lashes fluttering like you were in a damn toothpaste commercial. But your eyes—
Your eyes burned.
Flat. Icy. Murderous.
You didn’t have to say a single word.
He felt it. That look of yours could’ve stripped paint off the side of the truck. Could’ve iced the fucking sun. It told him everything he needed to know.
You were about to scream at Joel when Tommy looked over in surprise, already lifting a hand like he was about to ask what’s wrong, but you turned that bright, sunny smile on him before he could.
“Hey,” you chirped, voice way too high. “I think I saw a gift shop up the block. Wanna check?”
Tommy blinked at you. “What—now? I jus’… I jus’ got somethin’.”
“Sure,” you said, breezy. “But I just thought about my dad… and you know he went to that funeral. Might be nice to get him something.”
Tommy’s eyes softened at the mention of the funeral. There was no doubt Raymond mentioned it to him.
“Uh… alright,” he said slowly, dragging the word out as he turned a different way. “Sure.”
You didn’t even check if Joel was still behind you. You could feel him there, radiating tension. And when you turned your phone upside down in your pocket you could sense his frustration crackling in the air like static.
Good. Let him sit in it.
But of course, Joel wasn’t finished. He never was.
When you stepped into the small storefront—a cheesy gift boutique with a neon cactus in the window and a radio playing the most popular R&B songs of the year—Joel came in last, shoulders stiff. You didn’t look at him. You drifted down one of the sides, Tommy down the other. Joel hovered.
But the moment you got distracted reading a postcard rack near the register?
Your phone buzzed again. Just one.
You shouldn’t have looked. You knew you shouldn’t have looked. But you did.
[JOEL]: You gonna tell Tommy?
Your throat closed.
That was the line he shouldn’t have crossed.
You spun, just enough to glance down the aisle. Joel was watching you from a few feet away, his eyes hard and unreadable.
You typed without breathing.
[YOU]: Don’t you dare put that out there.
[JOEL]: You think I want to?
[JOEL]: Jesus, you think I’m proud of this?
That one sliced deep.
You swallowed, hard. Something cold wrapped around your lungs. You typed with shaking fingers.
[YOU]: Then why did you do it?
No answer. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Still no answer.
Joel stood there like a statue. A breakdown barely contained. His phone was still in his hand—but no movement. No thumbs typing. Just… him. Staring at his phone like the question punched him in the gut.
You swallowed and turned away.
Instead, you focused on a rack near the register. Cheap trinkets—shot glasses shaped like cowboy boots, tiny jars of pecan honey, plastic snowglobes with “Dallas” carved across the bottom in gold lettering. You found a keychain. A worn bronze one that said Home is where your people are.
You held it for a second. Then headed to the cashier and quietly paid.
Tommy was already waiting by the door, bouncing the bag with Kevin’s gift in one hand. He didn’t look mad anymore, but he wasn’t relaxed either. You didn’t blame him. He was trying. You were trying. Things like this took time.
Joel followed like he saw a ghost.
When you all walked out of the store, the air had turned colder. You tugged your jacket tighter, your arm brushing Tommy’s once, and then you stepped ahead—faster. The hotel lights glimmered up ahead like a finish line. You zeroed in on them.
Your phone buzzed.
Again. And again. And again.
You didn’t check. Just kept walking faster. You didn’t have it in you to read whatever Joel was saying now. Not on a street corner. Not in front of Tommy. Not with your chest still stinging and your head pounding from the war that never stopped.
The elevator ride was silent. Like speaking was an unspoken rule.
Tommy stood against the far wall, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his bag slung carelessly in one hand. He looked relaxed. Joel stood to your right, just far enough that your arms wouldn’t brush, but not far enough to ignore.
You felt him like heat. Like static. Like gravity that only pulled in one direction—toward him.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket again. You didn’t look.
The elevator hummed as it climbed. Every passing floor made the space feel smaller, tighter. The walls closed in, the air thickened, and your breath started coming shorter.
When the doors finally dinged open, Tommy clapped a hand against his thigh, too loud in the confined space.
“Alright,” he said, all forced cheer. “Let’s pack it up. Check-out’s at nine. Meet down here at eight?”
“Yeah,” you said, too quickly. Your voice pitched unnaturally high, like someone had pulled the string too tight on a puppet.
Tommy’s keycard flashed green with no issue. He gave you a short wave and disappeared behind his door without a second thought.
You reached your own room a second later. Joel passed behind you on his way to his, the faint shift of air enough to make you stiffen.
Your keycard was still buried in your jacket pocket.
Shit.
You fumbled for it, fingers clumsy, the weight of him too close behind you. You could hear his footsteps slow. Could feel his attention. He wasn’t trying to hide it.
You swallowed. Tried again.
The card slipped.
You bent to grab it—and when you straightened, Joel was still standing there, maybe three paces behind, but definitely closer.
His keycard was already in his hand. But he hadn’t moved.
He looked at you.
You turned to your door again. Swiped the card.
The light blinked red. Denied. God. Of course.
You tried again. Slower this time.
Still red.
Your chest squeezed tight.
Behind you, Joel shifted. The faint creak of worn leather. You knew he was going to open his mouth.
“I’ve got it,” you said quickly, too loud, too sharp.
Your voice echoed in the hallway.
On the third try, the light finally turned green. You slipped inside so fast you nearly dropped the card again.
Before he could say anything, you pulled the door shut behind you. Hard.
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding and leaned back against the door. Eyes closed. Chest pounding.
It didn’t last long.
You pushed off the door, moved to the mini fridge, and tucked the untouched takeout inside like it was a fragile offering. Then, you turned to your bags.
Packing gave you something to do. A distraction. You folded the clothes you barely wore. Zipped the toiletries. Tossed your heels into the suitcase with more force than necessary. Checked under the bed. Cleared the bathroom. Organized your duffel bag with all your chargers.
Every few minutes?
Buzz. Buzz.
By the time you finally clicked the lock on your luggage and set it by the door, your phone had lit up with eighteen unread messages.
You collapsed backward onto the bed after changing, limbs aching. Head spinning.
You told yourself not to check them. You already knew what they would say.
But your hand moved anyway. You turned your phone over. Clicked it on.
Eighteen text bubbles. All from Joel.
You didn’t breathe as you read them.
[JOEL]: This what you do?
[JOEL]: Sleep with someone then pretend they’re not there?
[JOEL]: Running off like your ashamed to be in the same fucking room?
[JOEL]: Hell, I get it, you regret it.
[JOEL]: But guess what? It happened.
[JOEL]: I ain’t gonna tell Tommy, that what you’re scared of?
[JOEL]: You wore that stunning fucking dress and looked me in the eye while we fucked
[JOEL]: So don’t turn around now and ice me out.
[JOEL]: If it was a mistake, fine.
[JOEL]: Say it.
[JOEL]: Be a fucking adult and say it.
[JOEL]: Just stop making me feel like I’m some goddamn disease you’re tryna scrub off.
[JOEL]: I ain’t sleeping.
[JOEL]: I ain’t breathing right.
[JOEL]: My fucking chest hurts.
[JOEL]: You win, alright?
[JOEL]: That what you wanted?
[JOEL]: You win.
You stared at the last one the longest.
He just let you know you won.
And somehow… that felt worse.
Your throat burned. You rubbed your palm over your chest, as if that would calm the wild, uneven pounding. The silence made everything louder inside your head.
You typed. Then erased. Then typed again.
You didn’t even know what you wanted to say.
What would you say?
That he wasn’t just sex?
That he meant something?
That maybe it wasn’t supposed to happen but now it had, you couldn’t stop thinking about it—about him?
No.
Because if you said that—
He’d know.
He’d have power.
He’d break you wide open.
And worse?
You weren’t even sure he wanted you. Not for real. He was mad because you were icing him out, not because he cared for you like that. Not Joel, never Joel.
You shut your phone off again.
You climbed into the cold sheets, curling your knees into your chest.
Determined to sleep him off.
❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜
The hotel lobby buzzed with the low, chaotic hum of too many people pretending they weren’t exhausted.
Faux-leather chairs groaned under fidgeting executives. Rolling suitcases clicked over tile like ticking clocks. Keycards clattered into a return bin near the front desk—sharp, careless sounds, like poker chips being tossed at the end of a losing hand. Somewhere, a child was crying. Somewhere else, someone’s espresso was burning.
You sat alone on a narrow bench near the wall, posture composed to the point of defiance. One leg crossed over the other. Shoulders back. Face neutral. Your duffel rested by your feet, suitcase tucked neatly to your right. You looked like someone waiting for a car service.
But really, you were waiting for the Millers.
God help you.
Your phone was in your hand, thumb sweeping across the screen—not aimlessly, not idly, but in a loop you’d already memorized. You were rereading Tommy’s last message for the third time.
[TOMMY]: I’m heading down.
Simple. On time. Predictable.
A blessing, really.
You exhaled. Adjusted your grip on the phone like the message might change. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw movement—a dark shape approaching, footsteps echoing against the marble floor.
You looked up.
Not Tommy.
Zane.
Shit.
He materialized smirking, sun-touched, and vaguely damp-looking, as if even the air here didn’t want to touch him for long. The navy suit was wrinkled at the shoulders, collar limp, tie absent. His sunglasses were perched on top of his head, crooked and performative, like a child playing businessman.
One designer duffel bag slung over his shoulder, loud and unnecessary. Like everything about him.
You didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Just watched him slow when he saw you—like he couldn’t believe his luck. His face shifted into a shit-eating grin.
“Well, well,” he drawled, voice slick. “Look who’s all packed and polished. Surprised your boyfriend let you out of his sight.”
You blinked, finally. Once.
“Surprised you showed your face,” you said, voice flat as glass.
Zane chuckled under his breath like you’d said something clever. “What? You worried he’s gonna tackle me again? Jesus. What is it with those Miller guys? One looks like he’s an energized puppy, and the other looks like he smells like dust.”
Your gaze sharpened. Just slightly.
“Don’t talk about them,” you said, controlled and laced with frost.
He shrugged, hands lifted in mock surrender. “Just sayin’. Tommy’s got the edge of a butter knife. And Joel? Christ. I’ve seen stray cat with more dignity.”
Your fingers curled around your phone.
“And yet,” you said sweetly—too sweetly—“neither of them spent the weekend icing their side and ego because they couldn’t handle a woman telling them no.”
Zane’s smile twitched. Brief. Fragile.
He stepped in anyway. Close enough to make your skin crawl. His breath warm and sour—like bad coffee, old cigarettes, and unchecked resentment.
“Sure,” he sneered. “Keep telling yourself that. But I saw the way you looked at me at the mixer—before your caveman linebacker tried to play white knight. If I’d slid my hand two inches lower, you wouldn’t’ve stopped me.”
You stood.
Slowly.
Deliberately. Zane barely had time to step back before—
A sound.
Low. Guttural. Like a chain being dragged across concrete.
You didn’t have to look up to see who it was.
Jowl was behind Zane, towering over him. Lips curled. Chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted a block. His shoulders were tight, broad under his jacket, one hand clenched like he was deciding whether it’d be worth getting arrested.
He looked pale—color gone from beneath the stubble on his jaw, skin tight over the bones of his face. His lips were pressed into a thin, bloodless line. A muscle twitched in his cheek.
Zane blanched a little.
Joel didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.
The look in his eyes was enough.
Pure fury. Muzzled by restraint. But you saw the crack. The way his nostrils flared. The vein in his neck.
He was this close.
Even though you swore you wouldn’t talk to him, you wouldn’t rub harder on the wound that was you and him, you moved. It was instinct.
You stood there, right into the space between them, chest to chest with Joel before he could make good on whatever storm was building behind his eyes. Your palm hit his sternum, fingers splayed—warm through the cotton of his shirt, but rising fast with his ragged breath.
“Don’t,” you said. Low. Commanding.
His eyes snapped to yours. Sharp. Black and wild with fire.
You didn’t blink. You didn’t look at Zane. You didn’t dare.
Instead, your voice dropped to a whisper, just loud enough for the two of you to hear:
“He’s not worth it, Joel.”
That did it.
Joel’s nostrils flared. His jaw locked.
And Zane—Zane actually flinched. You didn’t even look at him, but you could feel it. The silence snapped like a rubber band. His weight shifted behind you. He made a sound—some half-scoff, half-gag.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
“Zane!”
You looked over to who the voice was. Daniel stood there with the rest of his team, looking slightly irritated. “Let’s go.”
Zane didn’t argue this time.
Didn’t throw out another smartass remark. Just turned and stomped away like a sulking teenager, shoes squeaking against the polished tile. Daniel lingered, catching your eye. He looked concerned, hesitant.
Your shoulders tensed.
But you gave the smallest shake of your head. Don’t.
Daniel sighed, nodded once, and followed after Zane.
And just like that—the lobby felt still again. Airless. Like the eye of a storm had passed.
Only then did you realize your hand was still pressed to Joel’s chest.
You tore it away like he’d burned you.
Joel didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just looked at you.
He looked stunned.
He was still standing too close, broad shoulders cutting you off from the rest of the room, eyes boring into yours with a quiet ache. Something he sure as hell would never say out loud.
You turned away before he could see the regret blooming in your face. Before your fingers could curl into fists at your sides. Before you could scream into the air that this was not how things were supposed to go.
The elevator chimed.
Tommy emerged from the silver doors with two bags slung over his shoulders and his suitcase wobbling behind him. A massive tote strained at the seams in his hand, packed full of random souvenirs that clacked and shifted with each step. Perched proudly on his head: the most idiotic hat you’d ever seen.
Bright yellow.
Blue lettering.
S.U.C.K.I.T.
You blinked.
He had a gleeful little smile for himself.
You almost said something. Almost made a joke about the world’s most unfortunate acronym.
But your mouth just… closed again.
It didn’t feel right.
Not with your status with Tommy. Would he even appreciate a joke coming from you?
So instead, you looked down at your feet. Focused on the duffel by your side. Your fingers flexed slightly.
“I checked us out already,” you said, voice steady. “They just need the keycards.”
Tommy nodded. “Thanks.”
Joel didn’t say anything. Just moved past you and fished in his pocket, pulling out the little envelope with the card inside. Tommy followed him back to the front desk, and you stayed rooted by your bag, hugging your arms across your chest.
When they returned, the three of you started the slow trek through the lobby, past the spinning doors, down the concrete ramp to the parking garage. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The company van waited at the far end with three empty seats that suddenly felt like death row.
You didn’t wait for either of them.
You moved toward the back of the van first, hauling your own suitcase into the trunk. It thunked as it hit the rubber mat, sliding into place. You tossed your duffel on top of it and rounded to the other side before either man could say a word.
It was easier that way. Less help means less eye contact means less risk.
You turned and took one look at the side doors.
One look at the front passenger seat.
You hesitated.
It was a bad idea. A terrible one.
Because if you sat there, Joel would be right next to you. Shoulder to shoulder. Close enough to see you swallow. Close enough to hear every hitch in your breath. Close enough to notice every time you turned your head just to avoid looking at him.
But if you sat in the back…
He could still watch you. Still see you.
And you’d never know.
You didn’t want to be watched. Not by him. Not when you couldn’t defend yourself with words or glare him into a corner. You wanted to see it coming.
A shadow moved in your peripheral vision. Tommy had come up beside you, brushing one of his curls out of his face as he glanced toward the doors.
“Which seat?” he asked.
You blinked. Then you looked at the front passenger door again. Swallowed hard once.
“The one I came in.”
Tommy paused. Studied you. He nodded.
“Alright.”
You climbed in. Slid into the seat. Curled toward the window. Tommy got into the back. His CVS bag rustled as he shoved it beside him. The door slammed shut behind him. And then—
The driver’s side opened. Joel climbed in. You didn’t look at him.
But you heard the shift in his breath. The quiet clench of his jaw. The scrape of the keys in the ignition. And then he paused—a brief, furious pause—before he finally pulled the seatbelt across his chest and clicked it into place.
The engine roared to life. Nobody said a word.
The van pulled out of the garage and into the humid haze of early morning. The city passed by in blurs of brick and neon. You kept your eyes on the road, even though Joel’s presence pressed into your right side like a migraine waiting to bloom.
You could feel him glance at you once. Maybe twice. But you didn’t turn your head.
You kept your arms folded, your knees tucked in, your cheek pressed to the cool window. The silence yawned between the three of you. Long. Thick.
And somewhere in the back seat, Tommy shifted in his chair and muttered something under his breath. The van rolled on.
Flat, open highway stretched ahead, flanked by nothing but brittle fields and long fences that ran like afterthoughts across the horizon. The sky was an endless sheet of pale gray, clouds heavy with something not quite rain, not quite mercy.
The silence had lasted for miles. Nearly two hours.
Joel’s hands were still clamped on the wheel. Tight. White-knuckled. His wrists flexed slightly with every bump in the road, the worn muscle under his flannel shirt twitching from time to time. His eyes, though—red-rimmed. Dull. Shadowed.
He was blinking more. Head nodding forward a fraction, then snapping up like someone yanked a string tied to his spine.
You watched from the corner of your eye. Subtle. Another slow blink. Another slackening of the jaw.
Shit.
You turned toward him slightly, your voice soft. Too soft.
“…Hey.”
He didn’t react. You cleared your throat and tried again, gently. “Joel…? You want me to drive for a bit?”
That got his attention.
His head snapped up. Shoulders jerked like someone had dumped a bucket of cold water over him. His eyes flashed over to you, almost suspiciously—like he hadn’t realized you could still speak to him.
“‘M fine,” he muttered.
That voice. Low. Defensive. Back in the shell. Right. Of course.
You hummed softly. Noncommittal. “Alright.”
You turned your head back toward the road, watching the thin line of asphalt divide endlessly into two lanes of nothing.
Behind you, Tommy had stretched out across the second row of seats, one arm draped over his stomach, the other lazily curled under his head. His S.U.C.K.I.T. hat was pulled low over his face like a blindfold.
It was back to just the hum of tires against the road and the occasional wheeze of the air conditioning unit.
Until—
VROOOOOOOM.
A red Ford shot past in the left lane like a damn missile—too fast, too close, horn screaming as it cut across the front of the van with inches to spare.
The whole vehicle shuddered, rattling under the sudden gust of wind pressure.
“Shit—!”
Janked yanked the wheel hard—too hard. The tires shrieked like they’d been skinned, the whole van jerking violently to the side.
His foot slammed the brake—fast, brutal, like he was trying to crush it through the floor. Your seatbelt yanked across your collarbone so fast it seared. You gasped, hand shooting up to grab the overhead handle just to keep yourself from slamming through the window.
“Jesus Christ!”
Tommy’s voice yelped out as his body went flying forward, crashing into the floor with a string of curses and a muffled groan.
The van stuttered to a crawl in a mess of jerky stops. The silence that followed was louder than any words—buzzing with adrenaline and fear.
Joel’s hands were locked on the wheel, knuckles bone-white, tendons standing out like wires. His mouth twisted, voice raw and shredded.
“Stupid son of a bitch!” Joel barked, slamming his palm against the steering wheel. “Dumbass motherfucker! Who taught you how to drive—your goddamn feet?!”
His voice cracked on the last word, rage tumbling out in hoarse, furious bursts, like his body couldn’t keep up with how pissed off he was. He jabbed a hand toward the windshield—wild, sharp, like he might actually hurl something through it—toward the tiny red blur already vanishing down the road.
“You got a fuckin’ death wish?! You blind, cocksuckin’ piece of shit—you coulda killed us!”
Your lungs still hadn’t caught up. The ringing in your ears made the world feel underwater. You slowly peeled your seatbelt away from your neck—fingers shaking—revealing the red line already blooming against your skin.
Tommy groaned somewhere behind you.
“The fuck, Joel?!” he barked, pushing himself up with a wince, hat crooked on his head. “You tryin’ to kill us or just yourself?”
Joel didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
He was breathing hard—heaving, actually, like he’d just run through fire and hadn’t figured out if he made it out alive.
You stared at him. Noticed the sweat at his temple. The pale cast to his skin beneath the stubble. The tremble in his left hand.
Tommy looked at you, then back at his brother. He saw it. The half-lidded eyes. The sagging of Joel’s shoulders. The twitch in his jaw.
“…You didn’t sleep last night.”
Joel’s head snapped toward him. “I did.”
“Bullshit.”
“I said—”
“I don’t care what you said.” Tommy's voice went firm; all the previous times he had ignored everything had gone like dust in the wind. “You nearly slammed us into the goddamn Jersey Walls. Pull. Over.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not, Joel.”
The van had started moving again, but Joel didn’t floor it like before. The wheel turned with stiff jerks. His posture screamed tension.
“Find a rest stop,” Tommy continued in an uncharacteristically steel voice. “Five minutes. Ten. You switch with one of us. Or I swear to God, I’ll start bitchin’ loud enough to make you stop jus’ to shut me up.”
Joel didn’t answer. But his lips pressed into a razor line. The kind that usually meant violence or compliance. One or the other.
Behind you, Tommy muttered, “Dumbass,” under his breath and dropped into the seat again. The hat stayed off.
You exhaled slowly. Your hands were still shaking.
The tires hissed across gravel as Joel finally swerved into a lone rest stop tucked off the rural highway. The building was squat, beige, and baking under the strong morning sun. A row of crooked vending machines lined the wall. Two picnic tables sat warped under a tree that looked more dead than alive.
He threw the van into park.
You barely waited for the engine to settle before popping the passenger door and stepping out into the heat. The wind was dry. Thin. It sucked every drop of moisture from your throat the second you inhaled.
Tommy got out with a curse, slamming the back door a little harder than necessary. Joel didn’t move right away.
You caught the way he lingered behind the wheel, knuckles still pressed pale against the leather. His chest rose once. Then again. Slower. More controlled. Like he was steadying himself.
Finally, he opened the door. He stepped out with all the grace of a dead man, squinting at the sky as if even the light was too loud.
You didn’t say anything. No one did.
The silence had calcified somewhere between that near-crash and the relentless miles that followed. Now it hung heavy as you all wandered in different directions, like castaways taking inventory of their wreckage.
Tommy stalked toward the vending machines, muttering something about needing water or a root beer or maybe both. He didn’t look back.
Joel leaned against the van’s side, one boot braced on the tire, arms crossed—more from exhaustion than defiance.
You just stood for a second, fingers twitching at your sides. Then you made a show of looking around.Maps. Trees. A faded plaque about pioneer trails.
You moved toward the stand of pamphlets like it was a coincidence. A detour. Your legs carried you a little closer to Joel. Not too close. Just near.
Then you wandered off toward a wooden bench, brushing your hand against a brittle bush as you passed it. Two steps closer.
You crouched by a row of pebbles, faked interest in a small patch of wildflowers pushing through the dirt. Two steps closer.
Joel didn’t say a word. Didn’t even look at you.
So you stood there, arms folded, eyes fixed on a crooked parking sign like it might explain what the hell you were doing.
You didn’t want to talk to him. You didn’t like him right now. But you couldn’t help it.
You were still watching him. Still making sure he didn’t keel over and die from whatever haunted mess he was turning into.
Because you hated that he could be such an asshole and still pull at you. Still wrap himself around your nerves with just a look, a breath, the broken thing inside him that echoed to the broken thing inside you.
You took a half step closer.
“You done hoverin’?” Joel growled.
You slowly turned. He was looking at you now—barely—but enough. His eyes were sunken, the skin beneath them hollowed out from what was clearly more than just a sleepless night.
He looked like hell. You wanted to hate him for it. But your stomach just knotted instead.
“Hovering? I’m just admiring the foliage.” You tried to play off.
He gave a soft, humorless scoff. “Sure you are.”
You stepped closer. Just a little. This close, you could see the sweat at his temples, the way his mouth tugged downward even in rest. His jaw ticked once. His shoulders sagged.
“You look like you’re about to pass out,” you muttered.
“I’m fine,” he said automatically. Flat. Reflexive.
“You’re not.”
Joel didn’t answer. His eyes had gone sharp again, but it was defensive now. Guarded in that way you recognized—the way he looked when he wanted to say something real and refused to.
He didn’t want to fight. Not really. But he didn’t know how else to talk to you anymore.
“You’re not,” you repeated, quieter. “You didn’t sleep last night, did you?”
He scoffed again. “Stop.”
“What?”
“Just… just stop pretendin’ you give a shit.”
That froze you. Joel still didn’t look at you. His eyes stayed glued to the gravel, fingers curling around his own wrist where it hung between his knees. His breathing had gone shallow. A little quicker now.
You blinked. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He looked up at you then—finally. Eyes bloodshot and glassy, but lit with something sharp. Defensive. Caged. Tired in a way that didn’t just sit in his bones—it screamed out of them.
“Means don’t act like you care right now,” he snapped. “It’s fuckin’ annoyin’. You didn’t care last night, you don’t care this mornin’, so quit playin’ Florence Nightingale just ‘cause I look a lil’tired.”
You stared at him. Jaw slack.
“Jesus,” you said, a laugh catching in your throat. “Are you serious right now?”
Joel ran a hand down his face, like he could rub you and your voice off his skin. “Just—leave it.”
“No, I won’t. You wanna throw jabs, fine, but don’t put your hang-ups on me like I made you show up lookin’ like shit. You’re tired, Joel. That’s it. I offered to help. That’s all I was doing.”
“You offered like you pitied me.”
You took a step closer. “Maybe I do pity you.” That caught him. You could see it in the flicker behind his eyes. “Because you don’t even know how to let someone care about you without twisting it into some kind of insult. You’re your own worst fucking enemy.”
“I don’t need a goddamn lecture—”
“No? Then what do you need, Joel?” You threw your hands out. “Want me to disappear? Want me to walk around the rest of our lives like you're not even here? 'Cause I’ve done a pretty fucking good job of that so far.”
He flinched at that. Eyes narrowing—but he didn’t interrupt. He couldn’t.
“And you—” you went on, pointing a finger after you looked around for Tommy before dropping your voice to a whisper, “you are the one who kissed me. You are the one who pushed all this into motion. And now you’re looking at me like I’m the bad one for coping with it.”
His shoulders rose and fell, chest tight with shallow breaths. He didn’t look angry anymore. Just… off. You faltered. There was something wrong.
Joel’s face had gone gray—sickly, waxy under the late morning light. Sweat clung to his temples, and his eyes weren’t right. Glazed. Slow.
“I didn’t ask you to help me,” he rasped, voice thin as paper.
“And yet, here I am—trying.” You crossed your arms, but the bite in your tone was weakening. “God, I don’t even know why.”
He blinked once. Then again, slower this time. And suddenly—he swayed.
“Joel?”
He staggered back. Boot skidding against the gravel. One hand flew up, clamping over his mouth as he turned sharply on his heel.
“Joel!”
He didn’t respond—just stumbled blindly past the picnic tables, across the cracked concrete, until he collapsed against a crooked bush and retched.
The sound of it—the violence of it—punched the air out of your lungs. You were already running.
“Shit. Shit!”
He dropped to one knee, body convulsing with each wave. One hand braced against the ground, the other clawing at the wooden post beside him like it might stop the world from tilting. You slowed as you approached, breath coming fast.
“Joel—”
“Get away,” he rasped, voice raw and wet, like it hurt just to speak.
“No.” You crouched beside him anyway. “Fuck that. You’re sick—”
“I’m fine,” he snapped—then gagged mid-word, doubling over with another heave.
You reached out without thinking. A steady hand to his back, trying to ground him. He flinched. Shoved you off hard enough to make you stumble back in the dirt.
But you didn’t leave. You came right back.
“Jesus, Joel, you’re sick,” you muttered, eyes scanning his face—his flushed skin, the sheen of sweat, the tremble in his arms. “You can barely stand.”
He coughed and spat weakly into the weeds. “Go away.”
“I’m not leaving you like this.”
His head tilted, just enough to glance up at you—just enough for you to see the sharp glint of something darker in his eye.
“You already did once,” he muttered.
That one landed. Right in your ribs.
You swallowed hard. Jaw tight. Hands shaking, not from guilt—but from the goddamn timing of it. Because he was sick. Fading fast. And still swinging at you with whatever sharp thing he had left.
You didn’t answer. Because he looked worse now—slumped against the post, lips pale, arms trembling under his own weight.
You cupped your hands around your mouth and turned toward where Tommy went. “Tommy!”
No answer. You turned back to Joel, who had slumped against the wood post now, breathing hard through his nose.
“Tommy, get your ass over here!” you shouted again, louder.
And then—you heard him. Sprinting.
“What?” he shouted from the vending machines. “What’s going on?”
“Joel’s sick—like really sick—”
Tommy was there in a flash. He crouched low beside his brother and the mess beside him. His eyes raked over the state of Joel.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered. “You look like death, man.”
“Thanks,” Joel slurred.
You pressed the back of your hand against Joel's forehead to get his temperature, which he swatted away. “He’s burning up,” you added.
“I told you we needed to stop.” Tommy huffed. “Christ, Joel.”
You stood again, stepping back, letting Tommy take the lead now—but your eyes didn’t leave Joel. Not for a second. He wouldn’t look at either of you. His eyes were on the dirt. Distant. Ashamed.
Tommy exhaled hard. “That’s it. We’re findin’ the nearest motel. We’re not drivin’ another inch.”
Joel didn’t argue. And that scared you more than anything. Because Joel never didn’t argue.
The walk back to the van was stiff with silence.
Joel leaned heavy on Tommy the whole way, trying to act like he didn’t need it. His boots dragged across the cracked gravel. You hovered behind, close enough to catch him if he dropped. You wanted to help. But you also didn’t want to touch him again—not after the way he shoved you off, not with everything unsaid between you.
When you reached the van, Tommy popped the back doors open.
“You,” he nodded at you. “back seat. Joel’s gonna lie down. You take care of him.”
You pointed to yourself. “Me?”
“Unless you want him barfin’ all over himself. I’d rather not have to clean that out of the floor mats.”
Joel groaned behind him. “I can sit up.”
“No.” Tommy shook his head. “You had your chance. You almost got us killed on I-35. Back. Seat.”
Joel made a noise that could only be described as an offended sick man’s grunt.
But Tommy was already grabbing his arm again, helping him shed his jacket. Joel nearly tripped over his own boot as Tommy guided him toward the van’s wide back seat.
Your mouth opened, closed. You didn’t want to climb back there. Not next to him. Not after—
But Tommy’s eyes snapped to yours. “Please.”
You swallowed. Nodded. Fine. For Tommy.
Joel sagged into the seat with a breathless huff, his head hitting the back window with a muted thump. He was pale. Sweaty. Even more flushed than before. His curls were sticking to his forehead. He looked miserable.
“Move,” you said softly, inching inside. “Scoot toward the window.”
He rolled his head toward you. “I’m not—”
“Don’t start,” you warned.
He grumbled under his breath, but shifted enough for you to squeeze in. You kept your body close, but your knees tucked under you slightly, avoiding his legs. Joel was big, and the seat wasn’t. You tried to keep the distance, but it was impossible. He kept slouching closer, like his body was unconsciously pulling him into you.
You gently tugged him by the sleeve. “Sit up straighter.”
“Don’t boss me…”
You shifted again. Joel’s body resisted you like a petulant child’s, but he didn’t stop you. Eventually, you got him into a better position—his head tilted toward the inside of the van, his side leaned against you just enough to keep him upright.
Outside, the air smelled like warm dust and fried oil. Tommy finally got in, shut the driver’s side door hard, and muttered something to himself as he pulled out of the rest stop.
“Road maps said there’s a place ‘bout ten miles,” he announced. “Ain’t fancy, but they got AC and beds. That’s all we need.”
Joel groaned softly from beside you, like he’d heard every word and resented each syllable. You sighed. “You good?”
“No.”
“Great.”
He shifted, groaning as he pulled at the collar of his flannel. “I’m burnin’ up.”
“No shit, I said that.” You reached out, tugging the back of the flannel a little to let in the breeze from the cracked window. “That’s what being sick feels like.”
“I’m not—”
“If you say ‘not sick,’ I swear to God—”
He leaned heavier into you, almost like he was hiding in plain sight. You let it happen. Only because Tommy said so.
But still—your hand moved without thinking. Pressed to the back of Joel’s clammy neck. He winced at first. Then melted. Just barely.
“Where is this place?” you asked quietly, eyes fixed on the distant road sign blurring past.
Tommy glanced into the rearview mirror. “Closest one’s back toward Dallas. Thirty minutes. No tellin’ if the next stretch has anythin’, and I’d rather not risk it with Joel lookin’ like he’s one cough away from dyin’.”
You shifted, catching Joel as he started to sag sideways.
“Hey—hey,” you said, gripping his shoulder. “Sit up. You’re—don’t fall on me.”
Too late.
Joel slumped against your side, dragging his dead weight across the bench seat. You froze. For a split second, the angle of your body meant gravity nearly took you both—your back halfway tilted onto the seat, Joel draped across you like a furnace in jeans.
“Jesus, Joel,” you hissed, trying to maneuver him upright again. “You’re gonna crush me.” He grunted. You huffed back, holding him up with one arm awkwardly wrapped around his shoulders. “You’re literally falling over.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” you snapped. You were getting real tired of those two words, and one more time hearing them would make you punch them out of his vocabulary. He didn’t argue this time. Just went quiet. And heavier.
Your grip tightened around him as he tilted again—this time more listless than before. His breathing was uneven now, lips parted, eyes fluttering halfway open before sliding shut again.
Your stomach clenched. You looked down at him, at the hot flush crawling up his neck, the way his hands were loose and useless in his lap. This was the kind of exhaustion that made your throat close up.
You hesitated. Then said, soft but steady: “Do you… do you want to lie down?”
His eyes cracked open. “What?”
“On me,” you added quickly. “So you’re not just dead-weighting me every five seconds.”
He blinked at you, looking vaguely insulted. “I’m not layin’ on you.”
“You already are, dumbass.”
His mouth twitched like he wanted to argue—but instead, he looked away, like he was embarrassed to even be considering it. You didn’t give him time to pretend.
You reached for the crumpled jacket Tommy’d discarded earlier and balled it into a makeshift pillow. You scooted down on the bench a bit, knees bent, and patted your thighs like this wasn’t the worst idea you’d ever had.
“You’re gonna be miserable in another thirty minutes,” you said softly. “Just lie down.”
Joel stared at you. And for a second—just a flicker—you thought he might say something.
But instead, he grunted, dragged himself into motion, and laid down. Slowly. Awkwardly. His legs didn’t quite fit across the backseat, so one leg folded. The other dangled toward the floor. His arm curled over his chest. The other tucked near your thigh.
His head landed on your lap. Heavy. Warm. Trusting. Your hands hovered. Then—without thinking—you reached out.
You brushed the damp strands of hair from his forehead. Your fingers curled, threading through the curls at his temple.
He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. He just exhaled. A slow, long breath like air leaving a balloon. His body eased into you like it had been waiting for permission. You looked down at him.
Joel Miller. Sharp-edged. Stubborn. Half-feral. Sleeping in your lap like a cat.
Your hand kept moving, softer now. Just nails through his hair. Not because he asked for it. Not because he needed it. Because you didn’t know how to not do it.
The van rumbled along the highway. The world outside was a wash of dusk and yellow grass. The AC kicked on again, blasting cool air through the van.
Tommy didn’t say anything. Just kept driving. Joel shifted once, then stilled.
Tires humming over the pavement. The sun was bleeding bright blue into the sky now. It should’ve been peaceful.
But your chest was a war zone. Joel’s head rested heavy against your thigh. His face—always tense, always guarded—was finally soft. Relaxed. Like someone had taken the sharpness out of him and replaced it with sleep.
And you couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop thinking.
Why the fuck did you sleep with this man?
Your hand had stilled somewhere in his hair, fingers caught in the curl behind his ear.
You hated him. He hated you. That wasn’t hyperbole. It was muscle memory. Years of dodging jabs, hurling sarcastic grenades across dinner tables, matching each other cut for cut. You two were gasoline and fire.
And yet—you slept with him.
That wasn’t the real question, though. The real question was why you kissed him back?
You blinked down at him. Swallowed hard.
That moment in the hotel room—after the fight, after all the yelling—it had been electric. Unforgiving. He’d kissed you like he was angry with himself for wanting to. Like he was trying to shut you up and devour you all at once.
And you let him. More than let him. You wanted it. Needed it to smother the feelings that plagued you.
And you still had no idea what that meant. The jolt of the brakes pulled you from your spiral.
Tommy sighed up front, voice strained and tired. “I’ll get the room. Shouldn’t take long.”
You nodded. He grabbed his wallet and opened the door, boots hitting pavement with a dull thud. Then it was just you and Joel.
Still asleep. Still warm. Still tangled in things you didn’t have the courage to say.
Your knee had gone a little numb beneath the weight of him, but you didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your hand hovered over his shoulder, not sure what to do with itself anymore. A shift. Joel stirred.
It started in his chest—one breath sharper than the rest. Then his shoulders twitched, his jaw clenched. His lashes fluttered and his brow furrowed. He jerked slightly, like someone waking up from a bad dream, and sat up—
Fast. Too fast. You instinctively reached out, grabbing his arm and pulling him back down before he could fully rise.
“Hey—no. Just stay here.”
His eyes were still foggy, squinting like the light had punched him in the face. His voice was a rasp. “What… where—?”
“Motel. Tommy’s gettin’ a room,” you murmured.
Joel’s gaze bounced around the van, breathing still uneven. Then it landed on you.
Then your lap. Then back to your face. He immediately tried to sit up again. And you immediately pulled again—harder this time.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
He bristled, but his body betrayed him—sagging with fatigue. His limbs were uncoordinated, shoulders hunched and shaking from the effort of just waking up. The flush in his cheeks hadn’t left.
He looked at you with a heatless glare. “Gettin’ real tired of you bossin’ me around.”
“Good,” you said sharply. “Means you’re alive.”
Joel groaned low in his throat and rubbed at his eyes. “Jesus. My head…”
“Yeah, no shit. Maybe don’t drive a company van while running on zero sleep and a fever next time.”
Joel leaned back slightly—off your lap, just enough to perch on the edge of the seat again. But he didn’t pull away fully. Didn’t get up. He stared at the motel sign through the windshield, jaw ticking.
“You gonna keep motherin’ me, or we good?”
You swallowed. “We’re good.”
The silence that followed was louder than shouting. And when the driver’s side door finally opened again—Tommy returning with a key card and a bag of ice from the machine out front—it was like a curtain dropping.
The spell broke. You sat straighter. Joel leaned away. The distance between you felt deliberate, like a wound both of you refused to look at.
Tommy opened the sliding door. “One room. Two queens.”
He tossed the card into your lap.
You exited the van first, the motel keycard still clutched in your hand. Joel followed behind, sluggish, every other step a barely-managed effort. Tommy had a hand under his elbow, guiding him without a word.
The motel was cleaner than it should’ve been. Still smelled faintly like mildew and cheap detergent, but the windows weren’t cracked, and the lobby hadn’t been condemned. By rural Texas standards, it might as well have been a five-star resort.
The three of you trudged up a narrow outdoor stairwell. The second floor walkway creaked beneath your sneakers as you made your way down, keycard sliding into the slot with a soft beep.
The door opened.
It wasn’t much. Two queen beds. Beige walls. A dark green carpet that looked like it hadn’t been updated since ’91. A single microwave and an ancient TV bolted to the dresser.
But it was warm. And quiet. And, most importantly, Joel could lay down.
You stepped aside and let the Millers in. Tommy directed Joel straight to the bed nearest the window while you hovered by the small table, your bag still slung over your shoulder.
“Okay,” Tommy said, hands on his hips. “You and me’ll take that one.” He gestured to the other bed, near the bathroom.
You nodded. Didn’t even hesitate. Joel didn’t say anything. Just dropped down onto the mattress with a quiet grunt, hand pressed to his stomach.
Tommy rolled his eyes and muttered, “Drama queen.”
And that was the start of it. The day blurred after that—became something soft and strange, like a montage you weren’t totally present for.
You and Tommy, tiptoeing around each other while working like some awkwardly synced duo. Joel did his duty of periodically filling up the toilet with his vomit. You waited every time with a soaked rag.
Tommy dug through the motel vending machine and brought back bottled water and crackers. You forced Joel to drink three full cups before letting him lie back down.
Later, Tommy put on the news with the volume low. You sat at the table after digging around in the van for a shirt for Joel, tossing it to him before he could complain about his own sweat-drenched flannel.
Eventually, Joel passed out again. This time without vomiting. This time without shaking. By nightfall, the worst of it seemed behind him.
But sleep never came for you. Tommy knocked out like a light, snoring softly as he curled under the motel blanket on the edge of the shared bed. You lay beside him, turned toward the wall, hands curled tight under your pillow, eyes wide open.
Everything was too loud. The hum of the AC. The highway just outside. Your own heartbeat, stuttering against your ribs like it had lost the tempo.
The room felt like it was shrinking. You stared at the water-stained ceiling, every inch of your body humming with unspent energy. Sleep wasn’t coming. Not tonight. Probably not ever again.
You shifted slowly, inch by inch, trying not to wake Tommy. He was curled up on his side, one arm under the pillow, the other sprawled toward the edge of the mattress. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, his stupid S.U.C.K.I.T. hat tossed onto the nightstand.
Carefully, you swung your legs out from under the covers. Your bare feet met the motel carpet. Cold. Stiff. You winced. Then stood.
You moved slow—deliberate—like the room might catch you if you moved too fast. Sneakers by the door. Hoodie already on. You tugged it tighter around yourself, zipping it halfway up as you tiptoed across the tile entry.
Just a walk. Nothing dramatic. Just a few minutes. The moment your fingers touched the doorknob—
“…You goin’ somewhere?”
You froze. The voice was barely more than a rasp. You turned. Joel was propped up on one elbow in the opposite bed, his hair wild and flattened on one side, eyes barely open but locked onto you like a hawk. He looked less wrecked. Still a little clammy in the low light of the bedside lamp, but better.
Your lips parted, but nothing came out. Instead, you lifted one shoulder. A shrug. A silent what?
He didn’t answer right away. Just blinked. Swallowed like it hurt. You turned back to the door. But his voice came again, softer now—scraping along the inside of your ribs.
“Can’t sleep.” He added, more for himself than to you. You didn’t look at him.
The silence stretched. You rested your hand on the knob. Gripped it.
“Just a walk,” you said. Voice low. “Clearing my head.”
Joel didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. You looked over your shoulder. He was still watching you.
The shadows played along his cheekbones. His lashes were darker in the motel light, and there was something… fragile about the way he lay there.
It made your chest ache in a way you weren’t prepared for. “You want anything from the vending machine?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
Joel blinked. Then slowly shook his head. You nodded once, reached for the door again—
“Hey.”
CLIFFHANGER. Again, Tumblr is testing my patience with this 1000 block limit thing. But hey, it is what is it.
You can head over to a03 and control F and find your spot in the story. IMPORTANT plots happen in the end that of this chapter.
The day tumblr ups the limit is the day that I'll thrive.
blurb - The road to Dallas isn’t long, but it wears on you in ways you didn’t expect. Cramped seats, too few stops, and too many unspoken things hanging heavy in the air. The physical discomfort is one thing—but it’s the quiet misunderstandings, the silences between you and Joel, that threaten to undo everything you’ve worked so hard to build.
Word Count: 21.3 k
3:07 AM.
The clock on the microwave blinked like it was daring you to blink back. You didn’t.
You were already dressed, already packed. Suitcase by the bedroom door, duffel bag zipped and leaning against it. Nothing left to do. Nowhere to go. Just waiting.
The living room was dim, lit only by a single lamp in the corner that buzzed faintly when the fridge kicked on. You sat on the couch in complete stillness, elbows on your knees, hands wrapped around a travel mug you weren’t even drinking from anymore.
You weren’t tired. You’d passed tired around eleven.
Now you were something else—wired, maybe. Stretched too thin to sleep but too thick with nerves to move.
Ever since your panic attack, Aspen had been curling up at your feet like she normally would for your dad. It used to make you roll your eyes when your dad would melt about it, but now, the lack of her presence sank a hole in your chest.
She was with Maria. You’d walked her over around six, kissed her head, handed over her leash and her food, made a thousand overbearing comments about her favorite treats, how she liked to be tucked in. Maria had smiled and said she had it covered. Still, the house felt emptier without Aspen’s quiet breathing in the corner.
You exhaled, slow and shallow, and glanced at your phone.
No new texts. Tommy and Joel weren’t coming until 4:15, and Tommy had made it clear:
[TOMMY]: Don’t stay up all night like a maniac, get some sleep.
[TOMMY]: We’ll honk when we’re out front.
Sure, okay. And pigs might fly you to Dallas.
You stood, finally, when the silence started crawling too deep under your skin. Walked over to the window and peeled back the curtain just enough to peek out.
Pitch black.
Austin slept. All the houses lined up in stillness, like a row of quiet secrets. The porch light from across the street glowed faintly down the street, the only sign of life other than yours.
You dragged a hand through your hair. Still over an hour to go.
The quiet kept pressing in, like the night had its hands on your shoulders, trying to sink you into stillness. But your nerves wouldn’t cooperate. They buzzed like a current under your skin, itchy and sharp. There was too much waiting, too much thinking.
Too much of you.
The version of you that used to walk into rooms like you owned them was buried under this one—this twitchy, overthinking thing in a faded hoodie and perfectly curled hair, too put together to look anxious but too wired to sit still.
You drummed your fingers on your knee.
Stopped. Then did it again.
Your gaze flicked toward the door, like Joel and Tommy might appear early just to spare you from yourself. But of course they didn’t. Tommy was probably still asleep. Joel might be up, but he was probably just wandering his own home.
You stood. Again. Paced a little.
3:23 AM. Christ.
You passed the hallway mirror and caught your reflection. Hair done, makeup fresh, blazer hanging on the chair like a soldier at the ready. Your lipstick was a touch too bold for 3 AM, but it made you feel sharp. Sharp was good. Sharp was safe.
You exhaled. “Get a grip.”
Michelle had quickly sent everything after you signed the contract. VIP access. Priority reservations at the restaurants that didn’t take walk-ins. A gold-tier schedule with all the bells and whistles.
The tools you used to have, now cleaned and polished and slid back into your hands.
Of course, you didn’t need them. You were good without them. Anyone with half a brain and some hustle could market a floor plan or a rebrand. But you weren’t just anyone. And some high-end tools never hurt.
Joel hadn’t asked questions when a glossy hotel keycard was suddenly pressed into his palm. Didn’t even blink when you rattled off your conference schedule in a planning meeting and casually slid in the name of a steakhouse you guys had no business affording.
Tommy, however, had opinions.
He lingered after that same planning meeting, watching you clack at your keyboard with arms folded and mouth pinched like a southern dad who found weed in his kid’s sock drawer.
“She did all this?”
You didn’t even look up. “Michelle? Yeah.”
“Hm.” He shifted his weight, one hand bracing his hip. “You told me she collects souls.”
“I never said that,” you replied, raising a finger without glancing away. “But… we managed to work it out.”
“Work it out?”
“Work it out,” you said again, flat and heavy, like a paperweight on your tongue.
He made a face. “Alright. I’ll leave you to that.” Then, softer—because Tommy never really left anything fully alone—“I just hope you didn’t do anythin’ stupid.”
Right. Stupid.
You agreed to re-enter the lion’s den you just managed to escape, but sure, nothing dumb about that.
You abandoned the hallway and headed into your dad’s room. He wasn’t here, of course. But at least you had free rein to look around. You pulled open drawers. Rearranged a stack of books he never finished. Smoothed out the blanket. It was all pointless, but it kept you from banging your head against the wall.
You just didn’t want to sit still anymore.
Didn’t want to replay that look on Tommy’s face.
Your fingertips grazed the spine of a book—"The Power Broker." Heavy. Dry. He’d bought it during that brief post-retirement phase where he wanted to be “well-read” and not just “well-opinioned.” He only made it a third of the way through. The bookmark, a faded photo of you from eighth grade, was still stuck somewhere in the 400s. You closed it carefully.
A pause stretched. The room was too still. The air too quiet.
You swallowed hard and exhaled like it hurt.
Nope. You needed to move.
Back to the living room. You stood in front of the window and looked out into the dark like you expected headlights to bloom out of the distance early, like the universe might throw you a bone and put you out of your pacing misery.
Nothing. You checked the time.
3:35 AM.
It hadn’t even been fifteen minutes.
You blew out a breath and dragged a hand down your face. Then made a noise. Something like a growl.
Alright. Fine. If you couldn’t sit still, at least you could be productive.
You went to your room and flicked on the light. You looked at your suitcase, ippered, labeled, everything checked so you wouldn’t lose your mind. You’d packed it three days ago and repacked it twice since. Your carry-on sat beside it, open, neat, filled with your laptop, a folder of documents, cords, gum, and some more gum again.
Eventually, you wandered to the closet.
Your work clothes hung in an orderly row. You wanted to come back to a clean home. Nothing that would cause you to rage if things went to shit in Dallas.
Which it won’t. You need to stop thinking like that.
You stepped out of your room just as a low rumble rolled across the sky like it had a score to settle. The windows vibrated faintly in their frames, thunder tumbling somewhere out over the hills. You paused mid-step, glanced toward the living room windows, and scowled up at the charcoal sky.
“Of course,” you muttered. “Storm’s gotta come now.”
The universe had impeccable timing.
Rain hadn’t started yet, but you knew it would. Just in time to make the highway a slippery mess, the windshield wipers go haywire, and your hair rebels against every ounce of product you’d packed.
You grabbed the throw blanket off the couch and flopped down hard, groaning dramatically into the cushions. “Conference of the year, and I get thunder, insomnia, and dread as my pre-party.”
Aspen wasn’t there to answer with a sigh or a nudge of her cold nose, and that made the silence worse somehow.
You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling like it had answers. It didn’t.
Your hand found your phone, half buried under the throw. You picked it up and turned it over, already knowing what you were doing was dumb.
Your thumb hovered over your call log. A few missed spam calls. One from your dad earlier in the week. You tapped his name, just for a second.
It was earlier in Seattle. He’d still be asleep. Or talking with Raymond. Or deep in a Sudoku spiral with three fingers of beer.
You locked the screen. Then unlocked it again and pulled up your messages.
Your eyes skimmed the threads until they landed on the one you absolutely knew you’d end up in.
[JOEL]
You clicked it. Your last message from yesterday read:
[YOU]: Tell your brother if he forgets the hotel vouchers I’m making him sleep in the truck bed.
He had replied with:
[JOEL]: He says he’s bringing a blanket so go ahead.
You smiled. Just a little. Your fingers hovered again, then flew with a new text.
[YOU]: If this storm ruins my hair, I’m suing you.
It took him exactly nineteen seconds to reply.
[JOEL]: That’s not how lawsuits work.
[YOU]: I’ll find a way. This is Texas; someone’s cousin’s neighbor is a lawyer.
Three dots appeared.
[JOEL]: I’m leaving soon to get Tommy. He’s said he was to get the last of the some papers.
[YOU]: Shouldn’t he already have that done?
[JOEL]: He said he knew you would say that.
[YOU]: Got a sixth sense for this type of stuff.
Another pause. You stared at the screen. Then, without really planning it, you tapped the call button.
You didn’t even think about what you were going to say until you heard the dial tone. He picked up on the second ring.
“Thought you were tryin’ to sue me.”
His voice was scratchy. Sleep-rough or just Joel-rough—you couldn’t tell. Probably both.
“You wish. You’d be broke and irritated.” You settled deeper into the couch, draping the blanket over your legs. “Didn’t feel like texting.”
“That obvious?”
You checked the clock and almost cried when you saw it was 4. “It’s 4 AM and we’re texting about hair and papers. Felt like a phone call moment.”
A soft exhale came through the line. You could practically hear the shrug in it. “Fair.”
A beat passed. It wasn’t awkward. Just that usual quiet.
You could hear the faint shuffle of fabric on his end. Maybe he was still getting dressed. Maybe leaning against something.
“You said you were on your way soon?” you asked, voice softer now.
“Ten minutes out,” he said. “Tommy’s wranglin’ the last of his shit. He’s mad ‘cause I told him he’s not bringin’ that damn old cooler.”
“The one that smells like gasoline?”
“That’s the one.”
You smiled.
“You alright?” he asked suddenly.
“Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?”
He paused, and you could practically feel the look he was giving you. The raised brow. The slight tilt of his head. It was if he was giving you a you-know-why look, “‘Cause the last time you called me—”
“I’m fine. Really.” You cut in, and softened your voice just a little. “Just bored.”
He didn’t say anything at first. Just breathed like he wasn’t sure whether to believe you. Eventually: “You sleep?”
“Did you?”
“Nah.” A rustle came through the phone like he was scratching the back of his neck. “Dropped off Sarah at Maria’s and… just couldn’t after that.”
You smiled faintly into the dark. “Maria’s gonna have a full house, huh? I dropped Aspen off earlier too.”
“Oh yeah, I saw her.” His voice picked up—lighter, unguarded in that small way you’d learned only dogs and Sarah could pull out. “She came trottin’ up like she owned the damn porch. Tail goin’. Whole thing.”
Your grin widened. “You pet her properly?”
“‘Course I did.”
“Not on the top of her head like some kind of animal—you did it behind the ear?”
“Right behind the left one,” he said, a little smug. “Got it the first time.”
“She melt?”
“Like butter on hot toast.”
You laughed, throwing your arm over your eyes. “You’re strange, Miller.”
“You’re the one who made it weird,” he countered, but there was no heat. Just that dry, almost-affectionate drawl he only slipped into when he forgot the years of hate.
For a while, neither of you said anything. The silence hung comfortable this time. Just the sound of low breathing on both ends. A small yawn from him. The sound of rain starting to spit lightly against your window.
Then Joel cleared his throat.
“Tommy just texted,” he said. “Said he’s ready.”
You shifted upright on the couch. “Are you driving the company van?”
There was a pause.
Then: “Unfortunately.”
You bit your lip, already grinning. “You bringing the matching shirt to really sell the look?”
His sigh was long and very, very tired. “Goodbye.”
“Oh, come on,” you teased. “Put a clipboard in your hand and headphones in your ear, and you’ll look like a contractor from central casting.”
He made a vague grunt that definitely sounded like he was flipping you off through the phone.
You kept going. “Joel, seriously. You could be the poster boy for ‘Man Who Asks If You’ve Tried Turning It Off and On Again.’”
He didn’t answer.
“Joel?”
Click.
He ended the call.
You burst out laughing, the sound echoing in your quiet house. Even the storm outside couldn’t quite dull your mood now. Swing your legs off the couch and stand, you made it back to your room to your suitcase. You grabbed your duffel checked your phone again, and finally slipped your charger in the outside pocket.
Just in time for your screen to light up with a new message from Joel:
[JOEL]: Hope the storm destroys your hair.
You snorted, typing back:
[YOU]: Hope you spill coffee on your dashboard, Mr. Company Van.
Smug and satisfied, you tucked your phone into your shorts pocket and wandered over to the front door. You didn’t open it, just stood in the narrow entryway, leaning one shoulder against the wall while you stared through the sidelight window.
You checked your phone again to play a small game. Something with bubbles. It was enough to keep you distracted while you waited for Joel.
That’s when you saw it. The van.
Big. White. Corporate logo slapped on the side in a font that screamed 1998 PowerPoint presentation. Joel had parked right at the curb, headlights cutting through the heavy curtain of rain now lashing the street. Wipers thumped in rhythm, struggling to keep up.
You reached for the doorknob—
Your phone buzzed again.
[JOEL]: Stay inside.
Your hand froze, and frowned at the screen, brows knitting.
The driver’s door opened, and Joel jumped out. Rain immediately drenched him, his shirt with the company logo soaking through in seconds. Guess he took your advice after all. He jogged up the sidewalk, his boots slapping against the wet concrete.
You swung open the door just before he knocked.
Joel paused and blinked at you like you were the strange part of this whole thing. Then his eyes raked over you—hair curled, makeup set, lips glossed, and still in your pajamas: an oversized tee and cotton shorts.
He blinked again. “Why the hell do you look like you’re about to walk a red carpet?”
You folded your arms across your chest. “And why the hell are you acting like I can’t take pride in my appearance?”
“It's four in the damn mornin’.”
“You’re wearing a shirt that says Property of Miller & Miller Construction like it’s a fashion choice. Let’s not get picky.”
He narrowed his eyes at you. “What exactly are you wearin’? Pajamas from the ‘high-maintenance Barbie’ line?”
“Don't hate just 'cause I look better sleep-deprived than you do,” you fired back, stepping aside.
Joel grunted and brushed past you. Before you could protest, he bent down and hauled up your massive suitcase and overstuffed duffel like they weighed nothing.
You immediately followed after him. “Joel—hey, stop. I can carry my own stuff.”
He didn’t even slow down.
“Seriously. I’ve got it.”
“Sure you do,” he muttered, heading to the edge of the porch. “You’ll throw your back out and spend the whole damn conference lookin’ like a pissed-off shrimp.”
You scowled, huffing as you followed him. “I work out, thank you very much.”
“Yeah? What, jazzercise?”
“Oh my god, I’m gonna kill you.”
Joel ignored you. Rain sheeted off his shoulders as he trudged back to the van, opened the back, and loaded everything in like this was all part of some regular Tuesday. You just stood there on the porch, arms crossed tight, watching him like he was the downpour.
Once he slammed the doors shut, he turned back around, his hoodie now sticking to him like a second skin. He raised his voice over the patter of rain. “You comin’, or you just gonna stand there?”
You rolled your eyes but spun around and dashed back into the house. Your slippers slid slightly on the wood floors as you moved quickly, flipping off the lights one by one, checking the stove, even though you hadn’t used it, and finally stepping back into the foyer. You gave one last look around. Clean. Quiet. Ready.
You locked the front door behind you. Tested the knob twice, just to be sure. Then you ran.
Your hand gripped your phone like it might dissolve in the rain, the other covering your face. The downpour hit you sideways, needles of cold cutting through your legs, your arms, your soul.
Luckily, you made it to the van with your face mostly intact.
Wrenching the passenger door open, you hauled yourself up and into the vehicle in one slightly dramatic motion, immediately slamming the door shut behind you. It was blessedly warm inside. Dry. Smelled faintly like leather, rain, and Tommy’s cologne.
“Jesus,” you muttered, brushing rain from your hair. “That’s not rain. That’s punishment.”
You blinked and finally turned—and there was Tommy. Sitting in the back row of the company van like he’d gotten a full eight hours and done yoga at midnight. Hair slightly damp but styled, button-up layered neatly under his company-issued quarter-zip, a thermos already in his hand.
He gave you a wide, friendly smile that faltered. "Uh…why do you look like you're about to host a party?”
You narrowed your eyes just as Joel spoke. His voice was low, amused. “I asked the same thing.”
You shot him a look that could peel paint. “Wow, groundbreaking teamwork. Bet y’all practiced that little routine.”
Tommy chuckled, raising his hands in defense. “Just sayin’. Full face, curled hair, those little perfume cloud things you do—”
“I like to be ready,” you said flatly, turning in your seat to properly face them both. “Okay? You two show up in wet hoodies and three-year-old jeans, but I believe in preparation.”
Joel scoffed. “You believe in showin’ up prepared ‘fore a three-hour drive?”
You ignored him, pointing dramatically to your chest. “If I show up looking a mess, I feel a mess. And if I feel a mess, I present a mess. This is psychological.”
Tommy grinned. “You givin’ a speech or just convincin’ yourself?”
“Both.” You sniffed. “The presentation is the armor. You guys should take notes.”
Joel muttered, “You're lucky I didn’t wear the matching sweatpants.”
“You have the matching sweatpants?” Tommy cackled in the back.
“I did,” Joel muttered, buckling his seatbelt. “Sarah stole ‘em.”
You turned in your seat, finally securing your own belt as Joel started the van. “Smart girl.”
He grunted but didn’t argue. The van pulled forward, tires crunching through rain puddles as it rolled away from your neighborhood.
You leaned back into the seat, trying to melt into it—but your brain was still going a hundred miles an hour.
“What’s first on the schedule again?” Tommy asked from the back, already pulling out his phone.
You dug through your phone and opened the itinerary again, eyes skimming over the carefully color-coded agenda like it was gospel. “We check in, grab breakfast, and then prep for the evening mixer for the official mingling.”
Tommy leaned forward, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Minglin’, huh.”
You nodded. “Relationship-building. Getting people comfortable. Dropping hints about future projects. Basically, doing what I’m good at.”
“And where do we fit into this master plan of yours?” Tommy asked, brows raised, half-amused and half-wary.
You spun in your seat slightly, still half-twisted toward the back. “You,”—you pointed directly at Tommy—“are going to be charming. You’ll talk shop, pitch ideas, casually mention how your team’s been scaling in the last few months. You’re going to seem humble, but brilliant. Like Texas’s own goddamn Heath Ledger.”
Tommy’s grin widened. “Flatterin’.”
“Not done,” you said, raising a finger. Then you turned, slow and deliberate, to Joel. “And you—”
He shot you a glance, already suspicious. “Yeah?”
“You will shut up, stand there, and look handsome.”
Joel blinked. The corners of his mouth twitched like he wasn’t sure if you were insulting him or complimenting him.
“Handsome?” he echoed.
“That’s what got you? Not the fact I told you to shut up?” You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “I saw you working with Rita last month. You looked like you wanted to throat-punch her with a clipboard.”
Joel squinted, baffled. “Who the hell is Rita?”
You stared at him. “The lady we saw during the site reviews. The one who made our lives hell. The one who told you everything was outdated.”
He stared at the road. Blank as a brick wall.
“She wore all beige. Asked a million questions. Had the emotional warmth of a DMV printer.”
Still nothing.
You turned to Tommy, already exasperated. “Exactly why he doesn’t get to talk.”
“I am conversational,” Joel muttered, clearly offended now.
“Your mom doesn’t count, Joel.”
Tommy choked on his thermos coffee and tried to disguise it as a cough.
“I talk to plenty of people,” Joel said defensively, tightening his grip on the wheel. “I just don’t fake it.”
You huffed. “It’s not faking it, it’s… managing expectations. Finessing. You don’t walk into a room and gut people with your words.”
Joel glanced at you again. “You’re sayin’ I gut people?”
You gave him a deadpan look. “I’m saying you walk into conversations like they’re demolition sites.”
“I am the demo team,” he muttered under his breath.
You laughed. “Exactly.”
Tommy raised a hand. “Okay, okay. Let’s compromise. Joel can be the broodin’ one. The muscle. The mystery factor.”
“He’s not a Bond villain,” you said flatly.
“Could be,” Joel added, under his breath.
Tommy leaned back in his seat, shaking his head, amused. “Fine. He’ll just look intimidatin’ and dependable. Like the kind of man who can lift a support beam and drive your grandma to the pharmacy.”
Joel didn’t say anything, but you could feel his satisfaction radiating off him like steam.
You rolled your eyes. “He’s going to glare at people. I’m the one who has to convince the room we’re a credible team.”
“I built the team,” Joel argued.
“And I’m the one putting it on the map,” you shot back, your voice steady but not sharp—no venom this time, just fact.
Joel didn’t push it. He didn’t roll his eyes or toss back some smartass remark. He just gave a grunt, quiet and low in his throat, and settled deeper into the driver’s seat like that was that.
You leaned your head against the window, letting the glass cool your skin as the rain rolled across it in lazy streaks. Joel clicked on the indicator as he turned onto the highway. A soft yellow glow cut through the thick curtain of early dawn and mist.
Tommy sprawled out in the back seat, arms crossed, one foot resting on the opposite knee. His eyes were open, but his brain was clearly in sleep mode.
Joel adjusted the heat, then flicked on the defroster without a word. The van interior filled with a low mechanical hum, and the windows slowly started to clear. You tucked your legs up into the seat.
You reached into your pocket and pulled out a protein bar, peeling it slowly. “You want one?”
Joel glanced over, skeptical. “What kind?”
“Peanut butter chocolate.” You shook it gently like a bribe. “Tommy?”
Tommy let out a snore that was either real or sarcastic. Hard to tell.
Joel huffed through his nose. “Alright.”
You tossed it to his lap, and he caught it one-handed, unwrapping it with a casual flick. The way he did it irritated you a little, just because he made it look smooth. Like he always did. Like nothing rattled him.
“You didn’t even ask if I laced it,” you muttered.
“If you poisoned me, you’d never make it to Dallas. You're smarter than that.”
“Fair.”
He glanced at you again—sideways this time, longer—and there was something in his eyes. Not a glare. Not suspicion. Something quieter. Curious, maybe. Something he didn’t say out loud.
“You really think this thing will go smoothly?” he asked after a stretch of silence, his voice lower than before.
You let out a soft laugh. “No. But I think I’m ready when it doesn’t.”
Joel nodded, like that made sense to him.
It always surprised you how well he understood the subtext now. How he didn’t make you spell every damn thing out. There was a time when he would've assumed your confidence was arrogance. But now? You could tell he saw the difference.
And maybe he respected it.
“You know…” you began, tilting your head toward him, “If you wear the right shirt and don’t scowl too much, people will assume you’re competent. Even if you say nothing.”
Joel looked at you, deadpan. “You sayin’ I should let the button down speak for me?”
You grinned. “Exactly.”
“I’m startin’ to think that was your whole marketin’ strategy back in the day.”
You clicked your tongue. “No, my marketing strategy was to do the job better than everyone else and look good doing it.”
Joel muttered something under his breath about ego, but you ignored him.
Outside the windows, the highway opened up. The rain had softened, but the sky was still dark. The road stretched ahead in long, black ribbons—empty except for a few semi-trucks hauling God-knows-what into the night.
Tommy finally stirred. “Are we there yet?”
“You slept for eleven minutes,” you said.
“Well, they were a powerful eleven minutes,” he groaned, stretching dramatically.
“Go back to sleep,” Joel said immediately, eyes fixed on the road.
Tommy flopped dramatically against the window like a teenager, one arm over his eyes.
You rolled your eyes and leaned your cheek against the window. The storm outside had picked up. Rain now slid in sheets across the glass, wipers working overtime in long, fast arcs. The road ahead blurred into dark streaks and yellow lines, the tires humming over the wet asphalt.
The van felt warm and still somehow, despite the weather. Like a little bubble sealed away from everything else.
You fiddled with the air vent before reaching out to the console. One of Joel’s hands twitched slightly on the wheel when you did it—maybe out of habit—but he didn’t say anything. Just kept driving.
You flicked through the radio channels, each one more useless than the last.
White static. A half-muted sermon. A ranchera station with terrible reception. A grating pop remix. Someone who sounded like they were broadcasting from inside a trash can. Static again.
“Jesus,” you muttered, finally leaving it on something with soft jazz, even though it grated on your last nerve. “I know you’re not a singer, Joel, but you couldn’t at least have burned some CDs or something?”
He grunted. “You’re lucky the van even has a radio.”
You huffed and slumped back in your seat. “I miss your records.”
That got a small flicker of something in his expression. A glance your way, brief but surprised. Not mocking. Just quiet.
“You actually liked those?” he asked, almost skeptically.
You nodded, gaze still out the windshield. “You should have seen me before you came out of the shower. I was looking at each one and jotting in my mind which ones I should steal.”
Joel smirked. “Good taste is contagious.”
“I don’t know about that,” you teased. “I think you infected me.”
He chuckled under his breath. A small, genuine sound that didn’t usually find its way into conversations between the two of you.
“Still,” you added. “Wouldn’t kill you to pack the turntable next time. I’d pay money to see you try and wedge that into the van between the hard hats and blueprints.”
He actually let out a real laugh at that—low and scratchy and entirely too satisfying.
“Yeah,” he said after a moment, tone thoughtful. “Would be nice, though. That sound. Can’t really get it anywhere else.”
You nodded. “Even the hiss and the crackle. Especially the hiss and the crackle.”
Silence settled again, but it was a better kind of quiet. The kind that felt lived in. Natural.
“I’m sorry, shower?”
Ah, shit.
You turned back to Tommy, who was now hanging over Joel’s shoulder, clutching the back of his seat.
“Joel was… I mean, I was just…” You stammered. How could you spin this to save your—
“She slept over the night, and the next mornin’, ‘fore drivin’ her to work, I took a shower.”
Tommy’s mouth slid open. “You… slept under the same roof. Joel’s roof.”
“Yes, Tommy, we did. Don’t act like such a virgin.”
“Same bed?”
“Ye—”
“No!” You blurted out. You couldn’t look at Joel or you might sock him. “I slept on the couch. Nice couch.”
Tommy’s face was frozen in this horrific mix of betrayal and confusion, like his brain was trying to reboot but kept hitting a firewall labeled No Goddamn Way.
“Wait—what night? What day was this? And why—why am I just now hearin’ about it?” he demanded.
“It was nothing,” you said quickly, already wanting to punt Joel straight into the rain-slicked highway. “One night. Like… a little while ago. It wasn’t a thing.”
“I remember the night,” Joel said, unhelpfully. “You called at—what? Midnight? One?”
You kicked the glove box with the side of your foot. “Just focus on the road, yeah?”
Tommy looked between the two of you like he was trying to solve a murder. “So let me get this straight. You called my brother’s house. Let him pick you up. Slept there. Woke up. Took a shower. And then what, he made you coffee and kissed you on the forehead?”
“Oh my god, Tommy—no!” you lie, trying hard not to let your face heat. There had been too much touching. “There was no forehead kissing. Or touching. Or even talking. I was on the couch. He was… somewhere else.”
Joel grunted. “I was in my bed.”
Tommy immediately gagged. Loudly. Comically.
“Don’t do that,” you warned him. “Don’t act like you weren’t the one who convinced me to be nicer to him.”
“Yeah, nicer. Not—domestic.” He flailed a hand between you. “This is Joel! My brother. The same Joel who once said if you painted our lemonade stand pink, he’d go and live in the woods!”
“I stand by that,” Joel said under his breath.
You glared at both of them. “For the record, I wasn’t at his place for fun. I didn’t just call because I missed his sparkling conversation. It was… I was just having a rough night. I didn’t want to be alone.”
Tommy’s face softened almost instantly, the stubborn line in his jaw relaxing, like you’d cracked something open just by admitting it.
He let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Alright. I get that.”
You didn’t say thank you—didn’t need to. He just nodded once, understanding that lived between childhood forts and scraped knees and a million years of friendship. That was Tommy. He got you before you had to explain yourself, and usually long after you stopped trying.
But he still shook his head, muttering, “God, this is the worst timeline.”
You snorted. “I think it’s sweet,” you said, leaning your head back against the window, voice as dry as a Texas August. “You’re acting like my dad. You gonna walk me down the aisle if Joel proposes?”
Tommy shot up so fast he hit his head on the roof of the van.
Joel choked. Actually choked. Coughed into his shoulder like your words had launched a fist directly into his trachea.
You cackled. “I’m kidding! Jesus. You two are exhausting.”
Joel grunted like he was still recovering. “That the kinda thing you find funny?”
“I find you two funny,” you corrected. “Watching you both break over a joke is the most entertainment I’ve seen all morning.”
Joel muttered something under his breath. Tommy just sighed deeply, as if he were mimicking Joel.
He then flopped dramatically back into his seat, arms crossed. “Next time, just say you’re joinin’ a cult. It’ll be easier to digest.”
You grinned and looked out the window again, hiding the tiny smile crawling up the corner of your lips.
The road hummed beneath the tires, rhythmic and soft, like some low lullaby in the bones of the van. Rain still tapped the roof, but slower now—just a gentle percussion above your head. You blinked once. Twice.
And then, for the first time in hours, your body gave in.
You shifted in your seat, pulling the collar of your shirt to keep yourself warm, and let your eyes flutter shut. It wasn’t deep sleep—not with the van moving, not with Joel’s occasional sniffs and Tommy muttering to himself in the back—but it was enough. A doze, a pocket of quiet between stretches of nerves. You didn’t dream. Just floated.
You weren’t sure how long you were out when something stirred you—a shift in the air, a low voice. You blinked your eyes open slowly.
The van felt dimmer somehow, like the storm had brought a thick gray over the day. You glanced out the window, watching as the sprawl of empty highway gave way to vast stretches of forest. Pine and oak blurred past, thick and wet and green. Acres of it. You had no idea where you were, but it was beautiful in that sleepy, fog-covered way.
You turned slightly in your seat and looked behind you.
Tommy was sprawled across the middle row, one leg kicked out, quarter zip twisted halfway up his back. His mouth hung open just enough for the faintest snore to whistle out—one of those deep, mouth-breathing ones that screamed middle-aged-man exhaustion.
“Charming,” you murmured.
Joel didn’t glance over, but you caught the ghost of a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth.
“Sleep well?” he asked, hands still steady on the wheel.
You stretched, spine cracking. “I think so? How long was I out?”
“‘Bout an hour and a half.”
You blinked. “Really?”
“Mm-hmm. You were dead to the world. Thought I’d have to check for a pulse at one point.”
“That’s sweet. Were you gonna mouth-to-mouth me back to life?”
That earned you a sharp look, but his smirk widened a fraction.
“Not unless I had a mask.”
You grinned and turned your head back toward the window, watching a hawk trace the sky overhead. The rain had stopped, but the clouds still dragged low across the trees, like smoke drifting through the woods.
“It’s dark,” you murmured. “Like, unnaturally dark.”
“Storm pushed a lot of it in. Couldn’t see a damn thing for a while there. Had to slow to forty on a stretch back a ways.”
You hummed. “And I slept through it? Impressive.”
“You drooled a little,” Joel added, too casually.
You whipped your head toward him. “I did not.”
“I mean… not like a waterfall. But there was a little patch on your shirt.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re lying.”
“Can’t prove I’m not.”
“Can’t prove you are.”
Joel let out a low chuckle, one of those rare, gravel-soft ones. “That’s fair.”
The van fell quiet again. Companionable. Familiar. The kind of quiet that only came after years of history, even if half of it was spent bickering.
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. The way his hand rested on the wheel, fingers tapping to a rhythm only he could hear. The subtle crease between his brows, always there, like it was carved in place.
“How you holding up?” you asked.
He shrugged once. “I’m good. Tired.”
“Think we’ll hit the hotel before sunrise?”
“If we don’t stop for anything dumb.”
You rolled your eyes but let it slide. Barely. “God forbid anyone wants to eat.”
“We’ve got granola bars and jerky in the glove box.”
“Why are you like this?”
Joel didn’t answer. He just adjusted his grip on the wheel and turned his eyes back to the road.
The next stretch of drive passed in a haze—mile after mile of endless blacktop, headlights slicing through thick mist. You spotted the distant shimmer of billboards, some half-lit, others blinking weakly like dying stars. Tommy snored again behind you, this time louder and with a faint wheeze.
Eventually, the green highway signs began to look familiar. Exit numbers dropped. The roadside morphed from open fields and low trees into office parks, chain restaurants, and 24-hour pharmacies. Civilization. Dallas.
Joel sat up straighter when he saw the skyline begin to peek through the fog, lit up and sharp-edged against the night. The roads split and curled like snakes, each turn lined with concrete and reflective paint. Despite the traffic thinning out at this hour, Joel still muttered under his breath at every off-ramp and merge.
“Left,” you told him as you squinted at the street names. “Then two lights down, take a right onto Commerce.”
“I got it.”
“You sure?”
“Been to Dallas before, y’know.”
“I planned this trip, y’know.”
Joel sighed but obeyed, veering the van through the city’s grid. The quiet of the woods was a distant memory now—replaced by the occasional honk, the hum of streetlights, and the shimmer of rain-slick pavement under neon signs.
The hotel finally appeared on the corner, tall and modern, all steel and tinted glass. The glowing canopy above the front drive read "Horizon Havens | Downtown."
Joel pulled up to the little gate at the parking garage entrance and rolled down the window. A tired voice crackled through the speaker: “Reservation name?”
“Miller,” You said, leaning over the console, then added, “We’re here for the convention.”
The speaker buzzed again. “Got it. Go ahead. Spot 142 is reserved for your vehicle.”
The gate lifted. Joel eased the van forward and found the spot, pulling in beside a row of sedans and SUVs.
You didn’t wait for the engine to cut before you pushed the passenger door open.
“Oh my god,” you groaned as your feet hit the ground. “I swear I molded into that seat.”
You stretched both arms high above your head until your shoulders popped, then bent down and touched your toes. Your knees cracked. Loudly.
“You good?” Joel asked, eyeing you like he thought you might snap in half.
“Grateful to be alive,” you said, rolling your neck.
Tommy kicked the van door open with the heel of his boot. He flung a backpack over his shoulder and yawned wide enough to pop his jaw. “Let’s check in. I need a shower and a beer, not necessarily in that order.”
The three of you moved as a unit toward the hotel’s lobby entrance—your suitcase trailing behind you, Joel carrying the duffel you’d tried to grab but he’d insisted on hauling himself. The very early morning air was muggy and thick, clinging to your skin like glue. The city felt louder here—honking horns, humming HVAC units, the buzz of a distant rooftop bar.
As the glass doors slid open with a soft whoosh, you stepped into another world.
The lobby was nothing short of luxurious.
Backlit marble floors stretched wide beneath your feet, glossy enough to reflect the hanging glass light fixtures above. The ceiling soared higher than necessary, complete with gold-trimmed molding and delicate, twinkling chandeliers that looked like floating stars.
Plush velvet chairs sat in little circles around modern fire pits that flickered behind glass. Somewhere in the distance, soft jazz played—live, you realized, from a trio tucked behind a faux greenery wall, the saxophone warm and sleepy.
You didn’t even blink. You’d been in hotels just like this when you worked corporate in New York—this was practically tame.
But still, you couldn’t help but be grateful you contacted Michelle.
Joel, however, audibly scoffed. “This is a hotel?”
Tommy was a step behind you, head tilted back to stare at the ceiling. “This is fancy fancy.”
“It’s a business conference hotel,” you said, breezing past the crushed velvet rugs. “They cater to egos.”
Joel raised a brow. “So what’s with the fireplace and a goddamn harp player?”
“It’s a saxophone.”
“Same difference.”
You glanced back at him, smiling as your slippers slid against the floor. “Joel, try not to say ‘this is unnecessary’ out loud to the concierge.”
Joel mumbled something under his breath about waste and marketing schemes. Meanwhile, Tommy was still taking it all in like a kid at his first museum. “Bet the towels are thick as couch cushions.”
You strutted up to the front desk with your usual effortless charm, offering the receptionist a warm, practiced smile. “Hi there! Reservation under Miller was booked for three guests. Everything’s prepaid—just here to grab the keys.”
The woman behind the counter gave you a genuine smile back, clearly recognizing the kind of client who was used to this kind of place. You leaned a little on the counter—friendly, professional, but confident. This was your world. You could work a lobby like a ballroom.
“Welcome to The Horizon Havens,” the receptionist said, typing quickly. “I’ve got you here for the entire conference—three rooms, correct?”
“Exactly that.”
“Understood.” She laughed a little. “We’re just finishing your welcome folder—would you like a map of the amenities or…”
“No thank you,” you said smoothly. “We’re just here for the conference. And sleep. And breakfast. Anything else would be excessive.”
Behind you, Joel muttered, “Finally. Something we agree on.”
You didn’t look back. “They’ve got a waffle bar in the morning.”
Tommy groaned happily behind you. “You are a saint.”
The receptionist handed you three hotel key cards in little silver sleeves. “Rooms 1712, 1713, and 1714. Seventeenth floor, just past the elevators and to your right.”
You gathered the keys, thanked her, and turned back to the boys.
Joel looked faintly uncomfortable. Like the walls were watching him. Like he was ready to deck the next person who offered to carry his bag for a tip.
“Try not to stab the valet,” you whispered as you passed him, slipping the key to the shared room into his jean’s back pocket. “Or tip him in crumpled dollar bills.”
“I tipped in exact change once,” he muttered, visibly stiffening as your fingers grazed the stitching.
“God help me,” you sighed, catching the elevator button.
The three of you stepped inside, surrounded by mirrors and chrome as the elevator doors slid shut. Tommy rocked slightly on his heels and looked around, humming softly to himself.
You glanced down at the keycards, then up at your reflection. Hair still mostly intact, mascara smudged but not disastrous. Honestly? Not bad.
“You really used to do this kind of stuff?” Joel asked suddenly, nodding toward the glittering lobby just beyond the elevator doors.
You turned toward him. “Yeah. A lot of networking in Manhattan. Hotel bars. Banquet halls. Conferences with sponsors so rich they didn’t even wear name tags.”
Joel looked at you a beat longer than usual. “And now you’re stuck with us.”
“Pretty sure I upgraded.”
Tommy made a fake gagging noise behind you. “Why are you being so sentimental?”
You shot him a look over your shoulder.
When the elevator doors opened, the hallway was just as grand—soft carpet underfoot, muted lighting, crown molding, and doors that looked like they belonged to high-end apartments. The kind of place that made you walk quieter, even when you were allowed to be loud.
Room 1712, 1713, and 1714 were lined up like neat little puzzle pieces, and the second you saw them, you grinned.
“Well, look at that. I’m the cream filling,” you announced, already moving toward the middle door with your keycard raised.
Tommy let out a half-hearted “gross,” and Joel exhaled through his nose—an almost-laugh, which for him was as close to a cackle as you’d get.
“I’m gonna dump everything in the room, change, and probably stretch for the next twenty minutes,” you said, already sliding the keycard into the lock. “Tommy, go crash. Joel, you can drop my bag here—wait, never mind, you’re already following me.”
Joel was, indeed, trailing behind you, still holding your duffel over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. “Figure I should make sure you didn’t collapse.”
“I’m touched,” you said dryly, pushing the door open. “A gentleman and a pessimist.”
You stepped inside first, and immediately felt the weight of the quiet. The room was enormous. More suite than hotel space—high ceilings, soft amber lighting, and dark wood floors. There was a living area with a low velvet couch and marble-topped coffee table, a kitchenette with a bar and stools, and a hallway leading to what you assumed was the bedroom. Two enormous windows overlooked downtown Dallas, the lights of the skyline still twinkling under the clouds.
You dropped your suitcase onto the padded bench at the foot of the bed and unzipped it with a sharp tug.
Behind you, Joel stepped in and stopped just over the threshold. He stood there for a beat, eyes sweeping the space, expression unreadable.
“This your style?” he asked finally.
You glanced over your shoulder. “What, expensive hotel rooms with blackout curtains and mood lighting? Sure. I like to be pampered after a three-hour drive.”
Joel hummed low in his throat—hard to tell if it was approval or judgment.
You kicked off your slippers, sighing as your sore feet hit the cool floor, then padded toward him barefoot with your hand outstretched. “Duffel.”
He didn’t move. Just cocked his head like he was amused. “You always this bossy?”
You arched a brow. “You always this difficult?”
Something like a laugh caught in his chest. He handed over the duffel, but didn’t move away. Didn’t turn to leave. He lingered near the kitchenette, brushing his fingers over a sealed water bottle on the counter, gaze flicking between the furniture like he was cataloging every inch of it.
You watched him for a moment, chest tightening with something you didn’t want to name.
“You good?”
Joel shrugged. “Yeah. Just… surprised, I guess. How used to this you seem.”
You hesitated. “This?” You motioned around the suite. “You mean the hotel, or you standing in it with me?”
He gave a tired little smirk. “The whole thing. You walk through places like this like you own ’em.”
That landed harder than you expected. Not a jab—something quieter. Maybe even admiration.
“I guess,” you said softly. “It’s just a habit now. Fake it till you make it.”
❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜
The sun had long dipped behind the buildings, trading the gray overcast for a blanket of deep blue and a glitter of city lights. Your suite looked different in the dark—lamplight casting golden shadows across the floor, the soft hum of the minibar fridge the only sound besides the muted traffic outside your windows.
You stood in front of the bathroom mirror, smoothing your hands down the curve of your dress. That feeling of a new dress just took over, making you feel warm inside.
Your hair was done—soft waves, pinned behind one ear to show off the curve of your neck. Your makeup had managed to stay and only needed a few touch ups. Elegant. A little dramatic.
You weren’t trying to impress anyone, not really. But if you were going to walk into a room full of money and swagger and hard-won ego, you wanted to walk in looking like you owned the place.
You adjusted the simple earring in your left ear, gave your reflection one last once-over, and stepped out of the bathroom.
Your phone buzzed on the table beside your clutch.
[TOMMY]: You ready?
You texted back:
[YOU]: Almost. Are you at Joel’s?
A beat later:
[TOMMY]: Sure...
You snorted softly.
You slipped into your heels, grabbed your clutch, and gave the room one final glance. It smelled faintly like hotel soap and your perfume.
At your door, you hesitated. The tension started to settle in your stomach—coiled, alert. Not nerves exactly. Readiness. A switch flipping.
You took a couple steps and knocked once on Joel’s door. It creaked open almost instantly, revealing Tommy, already dressed to the nines. Navy jacket, pressed pants, a crisp white shirt unbuttoned just enough to be charming and not a liability.
He gave you a slow, dramatic clap. “Wow.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re being sarcastic.”
“I’m being reverent,” Tommy said, stepping aside so you could walk in. “But out of the three of us, you won.”
You smirked, lifting your clutch slightly like a blade. “I always win.”
Tommy grinned as he flopped into the armchair. “I know that.”
“Where’s Joel?” you asked, scanning the room. It was the mirror image of yours—same layout, same understated luxury. One jacket was thrown over the back of the chair. Joel’s boots were at the edge of the couch. But no Joel.
Tommy pointed toward the bathroom door. “In there. Still groomin’.”
“Still—? We’re supposed to be downstairs in fifteen minutes.”
“Tell him,” Tommy said with a shrug, already pulling out his phone.
You marched toward the bathroom and knocked on the frame, pushing the cracked door open just a few inches. Steam clung to the mirror, and Joel stood at the sink shirtless, towel slung low on his hips, trimming the edge of his beard with agonizing precision.
You leaned against the doorframe. “Seriously?”
Joel met your eyes in the mirror. “Might’ve dozed off. Didn’t realize the time.”
“You’re just now trimming your beard?”
He raised a brow slightly. “Can’t go in lookin’ like a grizzly.”
“You are a grizzly,” you muttered. “A punctual grizzly, I hoped.”
He snorted, eyes flicking back to the mirror, razor in hand. “Ten more minutes.”
You looked at the clock. Then sighed. “Okay. Tommy—”
“Already on it,” Tommy said from behind you, hopping up from the couch. “I’ll scope out the ballroom, see who’s where, get us a game plan. Maybe grab a drink.”
You nodded. “Good. Text us if anything’s weird. And get me one too”
He gave a mock salute. “At least I have somethin’ to do. Catch y’all in a bit.”
Tommy was out the door in seconds. You turned back to Joel. He was focused again, steady hand moving the trimmer across his jawline with military precision.
“I thought you hated all this fancy shit,” you said, stepping inside just enough to grab the comb off the counter and hand it to him. “Now you’re grooming like you’re meeting royalty.”
Joel took the comb without looking at you. “I do hate it. Don’t mean I’mma show up lookin’ like I walked in off the side of the road.”
“Could’ve fooled me this morning.”
“That was different,” he muttered, lips twitching faintly.
You snorted and backed up, giving him space. “Five minutes, Miller.”
“I’m movin’.”
“You’re trimming.”
“That’s a form of movin’.”
You rolled your eyes and turned to the other side of the mirror, checking your reflection. Joel didn’t step aside for you—you both just shifted slightly, unconsciously, like this had been rehearsed. The two of you in front of a mirror, doing your own thing in tandem without tripping over each other.
You leaned in, tilting your chin and running a nail under your bottom lip to clean the slight smudge in your lipstick. It came away clean, and you gave your reflection a critical once-over.
Joel’s eyes flicked to you in the mirror—just a half-second glance—and then back to his jawline. He didn’t make a comment. You didn’t say anything either.
“Wish I brought my blow dryer,” you murmured, smoothing a strand that had gone rogue near your temple. “Hotel ones always feel like they’re gasping for life.”
Joel grunted, rinsing his hands in the sink. “Didn’t notice.”
“Of course you didn’t. You air-dry.”
“I got two hands and a comb. What else do I need?”
You shot him a look through the mirror. “A miracle.”
Joel shook out his hands, flicking water onto the counter.
“Seriously?” you said, backing away so you didn’t get sprayed. “What are you, six?”
“Didn’t mean to.” He gave you an unapologetic shrug, then turned to grab the dress shirt he’d laid out on the back of the bathroom door. Only when he moved did you realize—
He still had the damn towel on.
“Uh,” you started, brows raising. “You need the rest of your suit, or were you planning to make an impression in terry cloth?”
Joel glanced down at himself, like he’d just remembered. “Yeah. Shit. Can you—?”
“Yeah, yeah.” You turned, making your way back toward the armchair by the bed where his neatly folded clothes were waiting. “This is how horror movies start, you know. Woman alone, giving a man his slacks. Next thing you know, we’re sacrificing virgins to the minibar.”
You scooped up the dark dress pants and the matching tie, along with the charcoal jacket still on its hanger. His socks and belt were tucked between the folds—because of course Joel folded his clothes with military precision. Such an overachiever.
You held the bundle out without looking, keeping your eyes squarely trained on the TV you had no intention of turning on.
“Here. Don’t flash me.”
He took them from you with a grunt. “Relax. I ain’t that cruel.”
“Debatable.”
You heard him chuckle low under his breath before the bathroom door clicked shut behind him.
You moved to the full-length mirror on the closet door and took a second to adjust the hem of your dress. You pressed a palm to your stomach, willing away the restless energy that had started to bubble.
Sharp-edged and taut, sitting right under your breastbone. You stood there, staring at yourself, willing your nerves to disappear into the air.
The bathroom door creaked open behind you.
You glanced toward it and stilled for a half-beat.
Joel stepped out, fully dressed now.
Black slacks tailored just enough, the crisp white shirt buttoned up, his belt fastened neatly. His tie was draped around his neck but not knotted, and his dark jacket was folded over one arm. He was still slightly damp from the shower, his hair curling faintly at the ends, and a bead of water clung to his jawline.
You gave a soft whistle. “Well, look who cleaned up like a presidential candidate.”
Joel raised a brow. “That good, huh?”
“Don’t get cocky. The bar is very low.”
Still, you weren’t lying. He looked… sharp. Clean-cut. Like the kind of man you’d trust to fix your plumbing and negotiate a six-figure contract before lunch.
Joel adjusted the cuffs of his shirt beneath the jacket sleeves once he put the jacket on. “So what’s the plan once we’re down there?”
“You stand there, look impressive, nod at the right times. I’ll talk. Tommy will hover and interject with random facts no one asked for.”
“Sounds about right.” Joel’s voice was smooth, but when he glanced over at you, it caught—just a beat too long.
His eyes drifted—not in a way that made your skin crawl, but slow, deliberate. Measured. Like he wasn’t quite prepared for the dress to look like that in this light.
He blinked once. “Your dress is nice.”
You turned your head, brow arching. “You were there when I bought it.”
“Yeah,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck, “But it looks… different now.”
You angled toward him, curious. “Different how?”
Joel’s hand stalled mid-air before dropping to his side. He cleared his throat. “Just… I don’t know. You’ve got all the pieces on now. The shoes, the earrings, your makeup. Looks… polished. Put together. You.”
“Well, look at that,” you said lightly. “Joel Miller giving a compliment.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you’re serious, which is what makes it weird.” You smirked. “You’ve been real generous with the praise lately.”
He shrugged, his shoulders shifting beneath that tailored jacket. “Just callin’ it like I see it.”
“Mhm,” you hummed. “Funny, because last week you said I looked like I’d rolled out of a laundry basket.”
“You did.”
“It was a matching set.”
“Didn’t look like it,” he said, without missing a beat.
You stifled a laugh, touching your eyelashes to curl a stubborn piece. “So you notice when I look like a mess and when I clean up. That’s a lot of observation for someone who claims to not pay attention.”
“Didn’t say I don’t pay attention.”
You paused, glancing at him in the mirror.
He took a step toward you. Then another. Slow, calm. Comfortable.
You turned around to face him, lips parted like you were about to say something—only you weren’t sure what. He was closer than he’d been a second ago. Just standing there, tall and neat and annoyingly good looking, that faint cologne still lingering from earlier.
“You're really leaning into this confidence thing lately, huh?” you said, voice light but edged with something warm.
He tilted his head. “Confidence?”
You nodded. “Bold. Forward. Complimenting me. Standing in my space. What is this, like... Joel 2.0?”
“I’m just talkin’,” he said, chuckling. “You're the one makin' it a thing.”
You scoffed, arms crossing. “Oh, please. You think I don’t recognize the slow walk and compliment combo? That’s textbook flirting.”
“That ain’t flirtin’,” Joel said quickly, then hesitated. “I mean… I don’t know. I’m not—this isn’t like—”
You laughed, and the tension snapped, just a little. “Relax. Jesus. I flirt with everyone. Don’t get nervous just ‘cause I’m turning it back on you.”
“I’m not nervous.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”
He opened his mouth, then shut it. Then sighed.
You grinned. That, at least, was honest.
Then, quieter: “You really do look nice, though.”
The smile that bloomed across your face was instinctive. “Thanks.”
Another step, and he was closer again—close enough now that you had to tilt your head back a bit to hold his gaze. You could smell the warmth of the hotel soap on his skin, that little aftershave he used sparingly. His jacket brushed against your arm as he reached behind you for something—maybe not even on purpose—and stayed there, hovering like he wasn’t quite ready to move away.
“You should get your tie finished,” you said, voice softer now. “You’re making me look overdressed.”
“You wanna do it again?”
You looked up at him, arching an eyebrow. “What, like we’re at prom? Once isn’t enough for you?”
“Didn’t go to prom.”
You blinked. “Wait, seriously? Your parents made me and Tommy had to hold a poster for a send-off. You even had a date.”
“Lied. Just took my truck and sat in the dark somewhere.”
“Guess you’re making up for it now.”
Joel just shook his head, amused, and turned slightly so you had better access. You stepped in without thinking, deft fingers tugging the fabric through the first loop.
“You really don’t know how to do this, do you?” You tease. “Lying to everyone so that they think you can.”
“Not like you do it.”
You shot him a look. “That better not be a line.”
“It wasn’t,” he said quickly.
You tugged the ends tighter, smoothing the knot and pressing your fingers flat against his chest to straighten the tie. You didn’t move right away.
Joel looked down at you. Something in your chest flipped. You ignored it.
“You’re set,” you said finally, pulling your hands back.
He cleared his throat. “Right. Yeah. Thanks.”
You stepped away, brushing nonexistent lint from your dress.
You turned toward the small table near the door where your clutch sat, flipping it open and rummaging around with one hand.
“Oh—wait,” you said suddenly, fingers catching on the cool metal chain. “I forgot this.”
You pulled out a delicate necklace, the kind that clasped at the nape of the neck with one tricky little hook. You held it up to the light, then turned your back to Joel, gathering your hair over one shoulder.
“It’s your turn. Be useful.”
There was a pause behind you. You didn’t even need to look—could feel the skepticism radiating off him. “You sure you want me doing that?”
You glanced at him over your shoulder, one brow raised. “You scared of it? Thought you were observant, Miller.”
He snorted, stepping closer. “I am observant. Don’t mean I got tiny jewelry hands.”
“Fair. But if you can thread a bolt through drywall, you can handle a clasp.”
“I’ve got practice,” he muttered, reaching for the chain. “Help Sarah with her bracelets. Little butterfly ones she likes.”
You didn’t say anything, just kept your hair pulled to the side as his fingers brushed lightly at the base of your neck. He was slow, surprisingly gentle, fumbling just once before the soft click of the clasp slid home. But he didn’t move immediately.
His fingers stayed there, just for a beat too long. The backs of them ghosted across your skin, and your breath caught.
You let your hair fall back into place. “Not bad,” you said, voice low. “Didn’t drop it.”
“I’m a man of many talents.”
You turned to face him, and that was the mistake.
He was close. You hadn’t noticed just how close until you pivoted and there he was—barely inches away, all tall and broad-shouldered and suited up like he was made to ruin hotel ballrooms.
Your heel must’ve caught on the edge of the carpet, or maybe it was the way you shifted too quickly—either way, you stepped back a half-step to steady yourself, and your shoulders hit the wall with a soft thud.
Joel’s arm shot out automatically, palm landing on your arm. His other hand landed on your waist without thinking—strong, warm, grounding.
Very still.
And close.
Your heart thudded once—loud. You didn’t breathe. Neither did he.
His eyes flicked down—your lips, then your necklace, then back to your eyes. Like he was checking. For something.
You were the first to recover. Barely. “Well,” you said lightly, smirking. “If you wanted to pin me against the wall, you could’ve just said so.”
Joel’s brow lifted—wry, slow. “You think I planned this?”
“I think you’ve got suspicious timing.”
His hand was still on your waist. He didn’t move it. “You really think I’d waste my best move on a hotel room?”
You laughed—quiet, low in your throat. “So you do have a best move.”
“Maybe.”
“Damn,” you murmured, mock impressed. “And here I was thinking this was all improv.”
He didn’t smile, but you could see it in his eyes—the corners crinkling just slightly. That familiar, private amusement like only you ever got to see it.
You looked up at him. Really looked. And maybe you lingered.
Maybe he did, too.
But then, just as quickly, Joel pulled back—arms at his sides again, a breath loosing from his chest like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding it.
“You ready?” he asked, voice rougher than before.
You swallowed and straightened, shifting your dress back into place. “Always.”
You grabbed your clutch, reached for the door, and said over your shoulder, “Try not to trip over your tie, Casanova.”
Joel followed you out with a muttered, “Bossy woman.”
But he was smiling.
The hallway was quiet, carpeted in that expensive, forgettable pattern most hotels favored. Joel’s shoulder brushed yours briefly as you walked, both of you headed toward the elevator in step. The elevator dinged just as you rounded the corner—and waiting there was Tommy.
Grinning. Of course.
He held two drinks in hand, chilled glasses already beading condensation, and raised them like a toast as you approached.
“Look at you two,” he said. “All cleaned up and civil. I’m proud.”
You arched a brow. “How come Joel got one without asking?”
He handed you one of the glasses. “‘Cause he’s my brother. They’ve got some fancy blackberry bourbon thing going down there. Thought you might want a little social lubrication before we dive in.”
Joel took the second drink with a grunt that passed for thanks, eyeing the contents with suspicion.
Tommy grinned wider. “Don’t worry, Joel, it’s not bad.”
You sipped. It was strong, sweet, and went down dangerously smooth. “I hate how good this is.”
“Right?” Tommy beamed. “Some guy from the catering staff said the conference organizer’s trying to impress some investors tonight. That ballroom is decked out. Tiny appetizers on skewers, five different types of risotto.”
Joel gave you a look. “How many types of risotto does a man need?”
“As many as it takes to get people drunk and generous,” Tommy replied. “There’s a jazz trio, too. Real classy stuff.”
You turned toward Joel with a smirk. “Ready to go mingle with the suits?”
He took a long sip of his drink. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
The elevator doors slid open, and the three of you stepped inside. The mirrored walls reflected every angle—Tommy’s relaxed grin, Joel’s slightly stiff posture, your quiet composure framed in gold trim.
Tommy leaned back against the far wall. “They’ve got little lobster sliders down there,” he said casually. “About the size of my thumb. Don’t ask me why that’s the first thing I’m tellin’ you, but here we are.”
Joel grunted.
You smirked, but your eyes stayed forward. The floor numbers ticked down slowly, the hum of the elevator soft beneath lowered music.
Then the first-floor ding echoed.
You moved like water. Smooth. Sure.
Without hesitation, you reached across the small space and looped your arm through Joel’s—light, easy, like you’d done it a hundred times before. And just like that, you slipped back into the skin of the woman you used to be. No-nonsense, high heels and higher expectations. The New York version of you.
Joel stiffened. His shoulder tensed under your touch, like your hand burned through the fabric of his suit.
You tilted your head up to him, lashes low, voice pitched just right. “Walk me out?”
His eyes flicked to you, jaw tight. But he gave the smallest of nods. “Yeah.”
He didn’t pull away. Didn’t say anything else either, but that was typical.
Tommy caught the whole thing but didn’t comment. Didn’t smirk, didn’t raise a brow. Smart man. Probably knew better than to poke at whatever this was.
The elevator doors slid open, and warm light spilled in from the ballroom foyer—golden and low, casting everything in a flattering kind of haze.
Joel shifted slightly, arm still linked with yours, and let you set the pace as you both stepped out. The click of your heels echoed off the marble like punctuation marks. Your posture was perfect, your expression unreadable.
And beside you, Joel walked like he wasn’t sure where to put his hands. Or his eyes. Or his thoughts.
It was subtle—just a tension in his shoulders, a flicker in his gaze—but you felt it. Saw it in the way he kept adjusting his jacket, his free hand flexing at his side like it couldn’t settle.
A hotel staff member in a pressed navy blazer met you at the end of the corridor, all smiles and politeness. “Evening, folks. You’re with the Miller & Miller group, correct? Right this way.”
Tommy fell in step easily, already chatting the guy up about the jazz band and the lighting design and whether dinner was open yet.
But Joel… Joel didn’t say a word.
You glanced up at him. His eyes were moving faster—sweeping the room, checking every person who passed, flicking to the polished floors, the crystal light fixtures overhead, the gilded signs leading to the ballroom like they might suddenly change.
He was looking for exits.
He was looking for judgment.
You slowed just a little, enough that you had to crane your neck up to him. He didn’t notice at first—not until your voice reached him.
“Joel,” you murmured, low enough that it was just for him. “Relax.”
His jaw ticked.
“I can’t,” he muttered, just as quiet. Flat. Absolute.
You blinked. “Why?”
He hesitated. You felt it—the resistance, the shame of even answering. But then he did, deadpan as ever, like he wanted to keep it from meaning anything. Like if he said it plain enough, maybe it wouldn’t hurt.
“Feels like everyone’s watchin’. Like they know I don’t belong here.”
God. He said it like it was a fact, not an insecurity.
But you felt it anyway.
And it hurt.
It was like looking into a mirror of the past. You remembered your first thing like this. You spent thirty minutes after introducing yourself once hyperventilating in the bathroom. But afterwords? You got up, and made a deal that brought your first company’s eyes on you.
If you could do it, Joel could too.
You took a breath. Let the noise around you blur for a second. Then, without letting go of his arm, you pulled him a little closer, the movement seamless and easy—like a practiced flirtation, though it wasn’t that.
Not exactly.
You leaned in, breath brushing his ear, voice low enough to melt straight into his skin.
“They are watching,” you whispered. “But only because of how damn good you look.”
His breath hitched—just once, just enough for you to feel it. His shoulders, still tense, rose slightly beneath your arm. You felt the shift in him, the way he didn’t know whether to be annoyed, flattered, or ruined.
You pulled back, not too far, just enough to see his face.
His eyes found yours.
Dark. Unreadable. The kind of stare that pinned you in place—but you weren’t the type to get pinned. So you just smiled, slow and easy, and let the moment drift like smoke.
You turned your attention back to the path ahead. The corridor leading to the ballroom curved gently, lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that reflected warm light and your silhouettes in gold and shadow. Joel kept pace beside you, silent.
You nudged his arm. “You know,” you started, tone lighter now, “First week I moved to New York, I tried to network with a bunch of execs at this cocktail mixer in Midtown. Whole room full of finance guys. I wore these insane red pumps I couldn’t walk in—but they matched my blazer, so I was committed.”
Joel glanced sideways, his brows raised just slightly.
“I’d skipped lunch. And I had, like, three dirty martinis trying to seem chill,” you went on. “Eventually I’m mid-convo with this investment guy, and I completely lose my balance. I mean—full face plant. Just—boom—right into the marble. The sound echoed.”
He blinked.
“I popped up so fast I almost made it worse,” you laughed, shaking your head. “Tried to save face by saying it was a dramatic entrance. My knee was bleeding. My ego was in shambles. But I stayed. I stayed, I laughed, and I landed two meetings that week.”
Joel stared for a beat. “You fell on your face.”
“In front of a managing director and the guy who invented some high-frequency trading algorithm, yes,” you said. “Sliced my knee open and still walked out with contacts.”
He exhaled—something like a chuckle trying to escape.
“The point,” you added, bumping his arm again, “Is nobody belongs at these things. Not really. Everyone’s faking it. The ones who look like they own the room? They’re usually the most terrified. They just hide it better.”
Joel didn’t answer right away. But he was listening. You gave him a little side glance, like it wasn’t a big deal, even though you could feel his silence pulling more weight.
He was quiet again. That same kind of quiet he always slipped into when his thoughts were too loud—when he didn’t trust his voice not to betray him.
Then finally, low: “Yeah, well, you belong there.”
You looked up at him, brow gently lifting.
He kept his gaze forward, jaw tight. “I don’t. Not here. I’m outta my element.”
That stopped you for a second. Not your body—you kept walking—but something in your chest faltered. Like a string pulling taut.
You could’ve brushed it off. Could’ve tossed him another sharp remark, made it easy.
But you didn’t.
Because you saw him—really saw him—beneath the suit, the scowl, the sarcasm. The man trying to blend into a world that didn’t feel made for him.
So when you reached the ballroom doors—where the golden glow spilled out and laughter rose in waves—you paused.
You turned to him, hand still looped through the crook of his arm, and rose slightly on your toes to bring your mouth close to his ear.
Soft. Gentle. True.
“You do belong,” you whispered. “Not just here, Joel. With me. Right by my side.”
He froze.
Didn’t breathe.
His eyes snapped to yours, like the words had cracked something open and he wasn’t sure how to hold the pieces. Whatever he might’ve said—whatever was perched on the edge of his tongue—was lost.
Because right then, Tommy clapped a hand on Joel’s shoulder, grin wide, voice too loud.
“Alright. Let’s charm some executives.”
Joel jolted slightly, the spell broken. His expression shuttered fast—tightening, cooling, locking back into place. But not before you saw the flicker of something raw in his eyes.
You smiled, small and secret, and stepped through the ballroom doors without looking back.
The room opened wide and bright before you—gold chandeliers glittering overhead, polished marble floors catching reflections from dozens of small round tables draped in linen and lit by flickering candles.
The hum of conversation rose in warm waves, underscored by the soft swing of a live jazz trio tucked into the corner. Waiters moved like clockwork through the crowd with silver trays balanced on practiced palms.
You scanned the room instinctively—eyes flicking from name tags to tailored suits, catching snippets of laughter and knowing exactly which smiles were genuine and which were strategic.
Your fingertips brushed Joel’s arm. “Go find the Miller & Miller table. Should be somewhere along the left side, near the center.”
Joel looked like he might say something—maybe protest, maybe ask what you meant by ‘your side’—but then Tommy stepped in behind you and you were already moving.
“I’ll be back,” you said, voice low and confident. “I see someone We need to say hello to.”
Tommy blinked. “Wait—hold on. Who? What are you—”
You grabbed his wrist and dragged him with you, weaving expertly through the crowd before he could finish.
“Jesus, woman,” he muttered under his breath. “Pump the brakes. I thought we were just here to shake some hands."
But you were already zeroing in on a small circle of men and women near the bar, all badges, tailored jackets, and polished grins. One of them turned at just the right angle—silver-gray suit, gold lapel pin, face you recognized from a dozen conference brochures.
“Is that—oh shit,” Tommy mumbled behind you. “You’re just going to start talkin’—”
“Exactly,” you said smoothly, already smiling.
Tommy opened his mouth again, probably to say something cautionary and completely useless, but it didn’t matter—you were already slipping into the orbit like you belonged there. Like you were the name they’d somehow forgotten to remember.
“Mr. Lockridge,” you greeted, like it wasn’t the first time, reading his name tag. Your hand extended, grip confident but not overbearing, that effortless tone that made people feel like old friends. “I thought I recognized you.”
He turned with the polite smile of a man who’s shaken too many hands already—but when he saw you, something in his expression sparked.
“Wait—hold on. You’re…” His brow lifted. “I’ve seen your face before. Something marketing, right?”
“That’s me,” you said with an easy nod. “Back then I was juggling clients in New York. Now I’m working with a smaller firm—Miller & Miller Construction. Texas-based.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. Not unfriendly—just curious. “Haven’t heard the name before.”
You didn’t miss a beat. “You will. We’re expanding into regional contracts this year. High-integrity work, solid reputation. They brought me on to make sure the right people start noticing.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you gestured toward the ballroom floor, where Joel had just taken a seat at one of the side tables—still stiff, still not touching his drink.
“That’s Joel Miller over there,” you added. “Co-founder, lead contractor, quiet as hell but brilliant in the field. The kind of guy who doesn’t talk about the work—he just does it.”
Tommy shuffled beside you, and you glanced back.
“And this is Tommy Miller—brother, co-founder, and the only one who didn’t try to talk me out of showing up tonight.”
Tommy blinked, gave Lockridge a sheepish smile, and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir. Uh, she’s… real good at this.”
Lockridge chuckled, eyes still on you. “She certainly is.”
“Are you based in Dallas?” you asked lightly.
“Houston,” he replied, tilting his head. “We handle statewide logistics. Most folks just come to shake hands and hope they end up on a vendor list.”
You gave a thoughtful hum, sipping from your glass, before handing it to Tommy. “Houston’s a strong anchor point. That’s smart. Proximity to the ports gives you flexibility, and the infrastructure down there’s finally catching up to the money.”
Lockridge’s brows lifted again, just slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to know—or say—exactly that.
“It’s funny,” you continued, voice smooth as silk over steel. “Everyone talks about scale, but no one wants to talk about sustainability. That’s where we come in. Smaller footprint, more responsive turnaround. Lean teams, local connections. It’s efficient. It’s smart.”
You said it like it was already a fact. Like you weren’t just offering him something—you were letting him in on it.
He smiled now, wider. Less guarded. “You don’t waste time, do you?”
You tilted your head. “Not if I can help it.”
He pulled a card from his jacket pocket—embossed, of course—and flipped it over, scribbling a number on the back in swift, practiced strokes.
“Give me a call tomorrow morning,” he said, handing it to you. “We’ll find some time during one of the breakouts. Maybe grab coffee. I’d like to hear more about what you’re building.”
You took it without hesitation, offering a small, sharp smile. “You’ll want to.”
Tommy blinked beside you like you’d just pulled a sword from thin air.
Lockridge gave you a final nod, then turned back to his circle with an impressed murmur to someone on his left. And just like that, the moment passed—but you’d left a mark. They’d remember the woman who didn’t wait to be important to start acting like she was.
You turned toward Tommy, tucking the card into your clutch.
He stared at you. “I don’t know if I should be impressed or scared shitless.”
You gave a graceful shrug, utterly serene. “Can’t it be both?”
Without waiting for an answer, you pivoted, walking smoothly back toward the Miller & Miller table where Joel sat. Tommy trailed behind you, still mildly stunned.
“That,” you said over your shoulder, “was your lesson.”
“My what?” Tommy frowned, catching up.
“Your lesson,” you repeated. “Now go make a fool of yourself.”
“Hell no,” he muttered. “I need you. You talk pretty.”
You stopped in front of the table, turning to him with one arched brow. “Experience is the best teacher, Tommy. And embarrassment?” You smiled sweetly. “That’s the best motivator.”
Tommy’s mouth opened again, but before he could get the words out, you added, “Besides. I can’t leave Joel standing here looking all sharp and solemn by himself.”
Then you reached out—light fingers brushing Joel’s forearm—and pulled him gently toward you. He stood slowly, a little wary, a little confused.
You gave Tommy a gentle shove in the other direction. “Go. Network. Ruin someone’s drink with small talk. You'll thank me later.”
Tommy walked off with the dramatic flair of a man heading toward his own execution, muttering something under his breath about stage fright.
You turned back to Joel.
The ballroom light caught the edge of his jaw just so, highlighting the faint crease in his brow as his eyes searched yours. He hadn’t said anything, but you could feel the tension in him—not nervous like before. Something else. Something wound tighter.
You smiled.
Then, with quiet triumph, you lifted your clutch just slightly and tapped your fingers against the edge. “Card’s in here,” you murmured, voice low enough for him alone. “We have a call tomorrow.”
Joel’s eyes flicked down to the clutch. Then back to your face. “You just… walked up and got it?”
“I don’t wait to be introduced,” you said simply.
Joel swallowed. “You really are dangerous, aren’t you?” he said, quiet and gruff, with something that might’ve been awe buried in the rasp.
You tilted your head. “I’ve been called worse.”
Then, before he could blink twice, you took his hand.
Just for a second. Just enough to slip your fingers around his and guide him forward, weaving through the thick crowd of the ballroom like it was nothing. Like he was the one following you into the deep end.
“C’mon,” you murmured, glancing over your shoulder. “Let’s make a few friends.”
Joel didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He just moved when you did, a half-step behind, jaw tight, eyes wary.
But he stayed.
You led him to a table where a man in a sapphire blue suit was talking to a short woman in a crisp red blazer—both mid-level execs from regional supply chains, you remembered. Introductions were quick, seamless. You made Joel sound like an industry secret, some buried gem who only trusted his work to speak for him.
And somehow, that made them want to hear more.
You charmed your way in and out of the conversation like it was a rhythm you’d written yourself. You took both their cards.
“That’s three,” you whispered to Joel, slipping them into your clutch.
You moved on.
By the third conversation, he’d stopped trying to track what you were doing and just… watched. Like he wasn’t sure if he was impressed or overwhelmed. Probably both.
You introduced him to a woman from a concrete distributor out of San Antonio who looked him up and down like she was ready to pour him a drink and pounce on him. Joel blinked hard at that one.
“Smile,” you murmured teasingly, elbowing him gently in the side. “She seems to like the strong, silent type.”
“You think it’s easy?” he muttered back.
You laughed, and took the woman’s card too.
Four. Then five. Then six.
Your clutch was getting heavy with possibilities.
By the time you added the seventh card—a logistics consultant with a sharp laugh and expensive watch—you finally pulled Joel aside, back near the bar, breath warm with quiet victory.
You turned to him, just slightly flushed, glowing with the high of it all.
“Seven,” you said, lifting the clutch with a little shake. “And that’s just tonight.”
Joel stared at you for a beat—still looking like he hadn’t caught his breath since the second you walked into the ballroom. Like he was watching a storm form and didn’t know if he wanted to run from it or straight into it.
But then, just behind him—
“Guess who got two cards, baby!” Tommy came bounding over like he’d just won the state fair, practically beaming, holding the small rectangles of networking success like trophies. His hair was a little messy, cheeks pink from a mix of wine and adrenaline.
“Two,” he repeated, holding them up. “And one of them said they liked my boots.”
Your smile softened instantly. You didn’t dare let the grin get smug. He was proud, so proud, and even if you had triple the haul, there was no way in hell you were going to dim that glow.
“Tommy,” you gasped, eyes wide like he’d brought home gold. “That’s amazing!”
He grinned, rocking back on his heels. “I was like, ‘hey, we do residential and corporate buildin’s,’ and they were like ‘oh we’ve been looking for someone like that,’ and—boom.”
You held up your hand. “That’s a victory. High five me right now.”
He smacked your hand with a satisfying clap.
You turned to Joel, who was side-eyeing his brother with his usual look of mild judgment and concealed affection. You elbowed him—harder this time. “Don’t you dare piss on his party.”
Joel raised a brow. “Didn’t say nothin’.”
“Your face is saying something,” you muttered.
Joel gave Tommy a nod, voice dry but amused. “Congrats on the boots.”
Tommy looked like he might explode with pride. “Told you I could charm 'em.”
You laughed, warm and genuine, then glanced around the ballroom again—the crowd shifting, the volume rising, the room ripe with opportunity.
“Alright,” you said, patting Tommy on the shoulder, “I’m gonna go see if I can rustle up a few more connections before everyone gets too drunk to remember their own company names.”
Tommy saluted you with his drink, still beaming. “Go get ‘em.”
You turned smoothly, eyes already sweeping the perimeter of the space for new targets.
And with a practiced touch, you grazed your fingers over Joel’s forearm again like a habit, and he immediately came to your side. Like instinct.
Then, just as your heels clicked past a group of laughing logistics reps, you leaned in—close enough that your lips brushed the shell of his ear when you whispered:
“I need a drink so bad it’s getting dangerous.”
Joel’s hand hovered for a second, tension flickering under his skin like static. “You want me to go grab one?” he asked, voice low.
You nodded. “Please. Surprise me.”
He hesitated—just a breath, just enough for you to notice—then peeled away and headed toward the bar.
You watched him go
And then—
“Excuse me,” came a voice to your right—smooth, polished, like the clink of ice in a glass. “I’m sure you’ve heard this a thousand times tonight, but you might be the most dangerous woman in this ballroom.”
You turned with a smile already fixed in place. Polite. Poised. Just curious enough to flatter him.
He was tall. Clean shave, expensive suit. Confident like a man who’d been told he was impressive for most of his life and never had a reason to doubt it.
“Oh?” you replied lightly. “And what makes you say that?”
“The way you move,” he said, gaze lazy but calculating. “Through people. Through conversations. It’s like watching a masterclass in leverage.” He paused, then smiled. “Lockridge didn’t even know he was handing you.”
Your brow lifted slightly. “So you’ve been watching me?”
“Observing,” he corrected smoothly. “You’re not the kind of woman a man ignores.”
“And you are…?”
“Zane Keller.” He offered his hand, the cuff of his shirt just loose enough to show the shine of a designer watch. “Marketing exec. Blue West Syndicate.”
That name landed with weight.
One of the three. A major player. Exactly the kind of door Joel and Tommy needed opened.
You took his hand—firm, confident. “Pleasure. Miller & Miller Construction.”
He blinked once, then let out a low, amused hum. “Small. Big attitude.”
“Big results,” you said evenly. “They brought me on to make sure the right people started paying attention.”
“Looks like they picked the right woman,” he said, and there was heat behind it now. Less impressed. More… suggestive. “You’ve had this whole room orbiting you all night.”
You laughed briefly. “Just doing my job.”
Conversation moved quick from there—fast-paced, engaging. He knew the language of business, of sales, of branding. But his eyes kept drifting. His tone kept dipping. And the compliments started to shift—off-topic, lingering in that space where admiration turns into possession.
You let it happen.
Not because you liked it. Not because you didn’t want to shove his hand away and walk away. But because Blue West Syndicate was right there and you could snatch it up so early. Just if you entertained this man.
“You know,” Zane said after a while, swirling his drink, “We should pick this up tomorrow. Quiet setting. One-on-one.”
You smiled, even as the warning bells went off in your chest.
There it was.
“I’d be happy to talk next steps,” you said evenly. “There’s room for alignment, if we approach it right.”
His hand drifted—lightly, deliberately—to your elbow.
“Something casual,” he added. “No pressure. Just two people who know how to get things done.”
Then, under the cover of a laugh, his palm slid to the small of your back.
You froze. Only inside.
Outside, you smiled. Steady. Unbothered. Strategic.
Because this—this moment—was the cost of the climb. You were at the bottom again, working uphill for Joel and Tommy who didn’t have access to rooms like this. Who didn’t have names that turned heads.
But you could change that. Even if it meant letting someone touch you like this.
“I’ll check my schedule,” you said, soft but crisp. “If there’s a slot, I’ll make sure to reach out.”
Zane grinned—already victorious. Already imagining more than what was offered.
You didn’t correct him.
You didn’t pull away.
Because the meeting would happen. The contract would land. And no matter what story he told himself about tonight, the real win would belong to you—and to the two guys in your life who had no idea what you were willing to endure for their shot.
“You know,” Zane said, voice dipping into something smug, “I wasn’t sure at first. Thought maybe you were just working the room. But I’m starting to think you see it too.”
You blinked slowly. “See what?”
He gestured lazily between you, fingers trailing the air like he thought they were drawing sparks. “This. The tension. The way you lean in.” His voice lowered further, dipped into sleaze. “Thought maybe you wanted a little more than a contract.”
You blinked. Slowly. Once.
Inside, your stomach coiled like barbed wire.
Your skin itched with the effort it took not to recoil from the weight of his attention. But you didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t ruin the mask you’d spent years perfecting—the one you wore like armor in rooms exactly like this.
Joel and Tommy needed that foot in the door. One contract from Blue West could open an entire floodgate of opportunity for them—legitimacy, exposure, funding. The kind of chance that people like Zane Keller would never believe men like them deserved.
So you smiled.
Not warmly. Not invitingly. But just enough.
“Business tension, Zane,” you said lightly. “Is the only kind I have time for.”
He smirked. “Shame.”
Then he leaned in. Too close. His breath brushing your cheek as he murmured, low and sharp, straight to your ear.
“Still can’t believe a woman like you’s wasting her time babysitting two redneck laborers playing dress-up in the big leagues.”
You went still.
Not from fear. From fury.
Your jaw locked tight. Your spine turned to steel. Something in your throat clenched around the words that nearly tore out of you like teeth.
He laughed under his breath, as if he’d just delivered a clever joke to a friend.
But you were no friend. And you were just about to turn. Just about to let every ounce of your composure crack into something sharp and unrelenting—
Then he was gone.
One second, Zane was standing there—smug, self-satisfied, still smugly half-laughing into his drink.
The next?
He was on the floor.
Glass shattered. Crowd startled. People backed up with their mouths open and eyes wide like they’d just witnessed a drive-by.
You didn’t move. You just stared. Because for a second, your brain couldn’t catch up with your body.
But then your eyes found him.
Joel.
Standing there like a fucking storm. Chest heaving. Jaw clenched. One hand flexing like he still hadn’t decided whether to throw a punch or walk away.
He hadn’t hit Zane. Not with his fists. He shouldered him. Full-body, bone-rattling collision. Ran through him like he was a train.
No warning. Not a scene that could be brushed off or spun into something quiet.
Joel was fuming. Face red, eyes dark, muscles tight with a rage you hadn’t seen in him in years. Not like this. Not this sharp. His voice cut the air before you could stop him.
“You think that shit’s okay?” Joel snarled, stepping toward Zane’s crumpled body. “You think puttin’ your hands on her’s funny? You smilin’ at that?”
Zane groaned, still half-sitting on the floor, blinking like he’d just come out of a spin cycle. “What the—who the fuck are you?”
Joel didn’t even blink. Just stormed in closer.
“You so much as look at her again and I’ll bury your face so deep in the concrete they’ll use your teeth to mark property lines—”
“Joel.” Your voice was low, sharp. You stepped in fast, fingers grabbing his arm, trying to pull him back.
Too late. Heads were already turning.
Phones were already out. Someone across the room whispered “Is that Keller?” and then someone else started recording.
You could feel the oxygen leave the ballroom. You couldn’t breath. Wrong attention. Bad attention.
“The hell’s going on?!”
Tommy. Pushing through the gathering crowd, eyes bouncing between Zane on the floor, Joel standing over him like a weapon, and you holding Joel’s sleeve like a leash on a pissed-off dog.
You didn’t answer. Because Joel was still going.
“Smug little bastard thought he could put his hands on her—” Joel’s voice spiked, too loud, too raw. “Didn’t even flinch when he leaned in like she was his—”
“Joel,” you hissed, digging your nails into his sleeve. “You’re making a scene.”
His head whipped toward you like you slapped him. His face twisted—hurt, furious and defensive all at once.
“Oh, I’m makin’ a scene?” he snapped. “He puts his hands on you and I’m the problem?”
You flinched. Just slightly. But enough.
His mouth opened like he was about to say more—something sharp, something stupid, something he couldn’t take back in front of these people. So you didn’t wait.
You tightened your fistful of his sleeve, yanked hard, and said, voice deadly low.
“Walk.”
He didn’t move at first. He looked like he wanted to fight it—wanted to argue, or yell, or go back and kick Zane’s face into a rich man’s mess on the ballroom carpet.
But your eyes locked with his. And whatever he saw there—whatever barely-contained panic or fire or fury was bubbling under your skin—he recognized it.
And he went.
You didn’t wait to say anything to Tommy. Didn’t turn to the crowd. Didn’t look back at Zane.
You just pulled Joel out of the ballroom by the sleeve like your life depended on it. Because everything you’d been building—every inch of progress, every signature you put on Michelle’s contract, every inch of goodwill—it was crumbling, fast.
And your anger was growing in its place.
The hotel was endless glossy floors, floral carpet, and dimly lit corridors. You didn’t know where you were going—just knew it had to be away.
Joel didn’t make it easy. He was right behind you, snapping under his breath.
“You stood there. You fuckin’ stood there.”
You didn’t answer.
“Didn’t push him off. Didn’t say a word. Just let it happen.”
Still silent.
“Don’t you dare walk away from me like I’m the goddamn villain,” he growled. “I saw it. I saw the look on your face. I saw the way he had his hands on you. You froze. You never freeze.”
Hotel staff were turning their heads as you passed—bellhops, a manager, some woman with a neck pillow. All watching. All whispering. Like New York.
‘No, don’t think like that.’ You kept your eyes forward. ‘Not now.’
Don’t blink. Don’t breathe. Don’t say a word.
Because if you did—if you opened your mouth now—you’d blow a hole through every wall in this damn hotel. And you couldn’t afford that. Not yet.
Not until you were out of sight. Not until you were alone.
It took four hallways and a turn down a carpeted wing no one was using. The lights were dimmer here. No crowd. Just silence and the echo of your heels against the floor. And then—finally—you snapped.
You spun around so fast, Joel barely had time to register it before you were shoving him. Hard. Right in the chest.
He stumbled back a step, caught off guard. But only for a second.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” you snapped, your voice jagged and hot. “You just ruined that entire conversation—”
“That wasn’t a conversation,” Joel shot back, loud, sharp. “That was a setup. That was a man using a business card to climb up your dress.”
You pointed a finger at him, jabbing it into the air between you. “I knew what it was. I chose to stay there. You don’t get to make that call for me.”
“I saw your face,” Joel growled. “Don’t pretend like you were in control of that.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
He blinked. “What?”
“You heard me,” you hissed. “You think just because you saw something that means you understand it? That you know better than me on how to handle a sleazy executive at a corporate mixer?”
Joel’s jaw clenched, that vein in his neck pulsing. “I think you’ve been so busy tryin’ to impress these assholes you forgot you don’t have to let them touch you to be taken seriously.”
You laughed—sharp and disbelieving. “And you think barging in like a pissed-off bull and knocking someone over in a fucking ballroom is going to fix that?”
“It sure as hell made him think twice.”
“No, Joel. It made me look like a joke.”
He stepped closer, fire in his eyes. “So that’s what this is about? Your image?”
“It’s about the company, you idiot. It’s about what I’ve been building. Do you know how hard I’ve worked to get anyone to take us seriously?”
“You mean how hard you’ve worked to sell yourself?”
The words came out of his mouth and instantly landed like a slap. The hallway went still. Your heart stopped for half a second. Then started beating again—harder. Angrier.
“Say that again,” you said quietly.
Joel exhaled hard through his nose. “You know I didn’t mean it like—”
“No. You said it. Say it again. Go ahead—fucking say it.”
He stayed quiet. You took a step forward, shaking your head. “You really think that little of me? You think I’m out here using my body, my smile, my fucking dignity to pull in deals?”
“I think,” Joel said tightly, “You’re forgettin’ who the hell you are.”
You barked a humorless laugh. “And you think you know who I am better than me?”
“I used to.”
Your whole body locked up. That was the cut. The one that landed just under your ribs and stuck there.
“You used to?” you repeated, quiet and furious. “Because what, I didn’t slap Zane across the face with a wine glass the second he got handsy?”
Joel’s voice dropped. “Yea. And because you let him hold you like that.”
“I was working.”
“You were endurin’,” he snapped. “And you shouldn’t have to. Not for me. Not for Tommy. Not for anyone.”
“Oh, fuck off, Joel.”
That stopped him. You saw it—the flicker in his eyes. The twitch of his jaw. The sting. Good.
“You don’t get to throw some protector bullshit in my face and pretend you’re the one protecting my dignity,” you seethed. “You’re not protecting me—you’re undermining me. Again.”
Joel stepped in, voice rising. “Underminin’ you? I just stopped that piece of shit from puttin’ his hands—”
“Too late.” You jabbed a finger into his chest. “If you really cared about what was happening, you would’ve pulled me aside. Talked to me. Checked in. But no—you bulldozed him. Made it loud. Made it about you. Like always.”
His eyes narrowed. “Right. Because this is all about me.”
“You sure as hell act like it is.”
Joel’s mouth tightened, and then he laughed—but it was bitter. Ugly. “You’ve changed.”
You blinked, like the wind got knocked out of you. “What?”
“You heard me,” he said, cold now. “You’re not the same. You used to have some goddamn pride. Some fire. Now you stand there like a statue while some asshole talks to you like you’re a fuckin’ appetizer.”
Your face went cold. “Wow.”
“Yeah,” Joel muttered. “Wow.”
“You wanna talk about pride?” you said, stepping in. “Let’s talk about the fact that I’m the only reason your little two-man company even made it past the city permit stage. You and Tommy? You’d still be using fax machines if it weren’t for me.”
His lip curled. “There it is.”
“There, what, Joel?”
“The real you,” he spat. “Always needin’ to prove how much smarter you are than everybody else. Always measuring your worth by how many names you can drop.”
You flinched like he hit you.
“Fuck you,” you said, quieter now. But it wasn’t soft. It was venom. It burned your throat. Joel didn’t stop.
“You think dressin’ it up in power suits and fancy smiles hides it, but it doesn’t. I see you. I know you.”
“No,” you hissed. “You used to. That was years ago. You’ve got no fucking clue who I am anymore.”
“Maybe I don’t want to.”
“Then why the fuck did you let me into this job, Joel? Why’d you let me join this company if you can’t accept this?”
“Because Tommy trusted you,” he barked. “Because he still sees that bright-eyed little girl who used to tag along behind him, believing in every dream he ever had. But me? I knew you’d do this. I knew the second you stepped into a room like this, you’d stop being us and start being you.”
Your eyes burned. Your hands were shaking. But you weren’t done. Not even close.
“You think I stopped being us?” you spat. “There is no us, Joel. There never was. There was you, sulking in your little pride hole, and me doing all the fucking work to make sure we didn’t drown in it.”
Joel scoffed, voice low and biting. “You think you’re the only one who works hard? You think showin’ up in a dress and schmoozin’ a couple of execs makes you some kind of business messiah?”
You stepped in. “Yeah? And what the hell do you do, Joel? You bang nails and bark orders. You don’t lead. You dictate. The only reason this company has traction is because I gave it polish.”
“You gave it lies.”
“No,” you growled. “I gave it legs . You’d still be running invoices off a printer from 1990 if it weren’t for me.”
Joel’s lip curled. “You’re so in love with your own voice it’s disgustin’.”
“And you’re so terrified of anyone seeing your insecurity that you’ll tear down anyone who gets within ten feet of it.”
His jaw clenched. “I’m insecure?”
“Yeah, Joel. You are. You’ve been running scared since the second this company got bigger than your fucking ego could carry. Hell, you couldn’t even walk into that ballroom without me holding your hand!”
Joel let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Jesus. There it is. That fuckin’ tone—like you’re better than everyone around you. You always talked down to people. Even back then. Thought you knew everythin’.”
You stepped forward, your voice lowering into something cold. “No. I just didn’t lie to myself the way you did.”
His eyes locked on yours. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“You really want to do this?” you asked, voice sharp. “Right here, right now?”
“I fuckin’ do, apparently,” he snapped.
“Fine,” you said. “Let’s talk about 1989. Let’s talk about how I told you she was using you. That she was manipulating you. That she was trapping you and using you—”
“Don’t.” Joel growled.
“No, we’re doing this. You wanted personal? You got it.”
Joel’s face was dark now, mouth tight, nostrils flared. You kept going, the words pouring out of you like poison from a wound that never scabbed.
“I told you she was lying. I told you she was jealous, that she hated what we had. And you chose her anyway. You let her ruin everything.”
“I had a child on the way,” he barked. “What the fuck was I supposed to do?!”
“You were supposed to trust me!” you screamed. “We grew up together! I was the one who got you through every fucking break up, every fight, every failure when you were with her. But the second she got pregnant—suspiciously fast, by the way—you pushed me out like I didn’t exist!”
“Because you called the mother of my child a whore, ” he said, low and venomous.
“I called her manipulative. Which she was! And you knew it! You knew, Joel, and you still chose her.”
He stepped closer, fuming. “She gave me Sarah.”
“And then she left, Joel! Left you! And I tried to stay for you but—.”
Joel’s face twisted. “Don’t say you tried.”
You stared at him. “Excuse me?”
“You left. You moved. You ran off to New York with your polished little degrees and your fancy little job offers and forgot your home.”
“Are you serious right now?” you said, stunned. “You forgot me. For years. After Sarah was born, you barely talked about me. Oh, I heard about it from everyone, Joel. I was a reminder, wasn’t I? A reminder that you fucked up. And instead of facing that, you cut me off.”
“I had a daughter,” Joel barked. “I was tryin’ to do the right thing.”
“By burning every bridge that reminded you of how you got there? You think I left because I didn’t care? I left because it was fucking pathetic watching you become a coward.”
Joel didn’t speak. His silence was louder than any shout.
It hit harder than any scream. You stepped in again, heart hammering. “You think I just woke up one day and decided to cut you off? You pushed me away. Over and over. Until there was nothing left. And I finally realized you were never going to fight for me. Not then. Not now.”
Joel’s voice came low, rough, pissed. “You think I wanted you to go?”
“You didn’t stop me.”
“You didn’t look back.”
“You didn’t call!”
“Neither did you!” he snapped. His voice echoed down the hallway.
“Thirteen fuckin' years, and not one damn phone call,” he growled. “Not one text. Nothin’.”
“Oh, please,” you hissed. “Don’t you dare pin that on me. You chose the silence too. You had my number, Joel. You knew where I was.”
“So did you.”
“Yeah,” you snapped. “And you know what? I didn’t call because I was done. Done waiting. Done hoping. Done watching you waste your life pretending everything was fine while you rotted in place.”
Joel stepped forward, fists clenched. “That’s rich—comin’ from someone who ran the first chance she got. Moved to New York like Arlington was beneath you.”
“Back then?” you snapped. “Yeah, it was beneath me. You stayed because it was safe. I left because I had to. Because I wanted more.”
His face twisted. “No, you left because you didn’t have the guts to stay and deal with the fallout. You always ran from the hard shit.”
“You are the hard shit, Joel!”
You know the drill. Head over to a03 for the full chapter!
blurb - You’re playing catch-up—doing the makeup work of building a bond with your best friend’s wife, the woman you should know like the back of your hand by now. But you don’t. And things go from great to awkward when she starts asking questions. Innocent ones, at first. Until they start circling Joel.
Word Count: 7.0 k
This wasn’t your kind of bar.
You were used to polished floors and polished men—slick voices talking revenue, margin growth, IPOs. The kind of venues where deals were sealed with scotch and a smirk, where the lighting was low enough to make everyone look important and no one look tired.
This? This was a different beast.
This place had sticky floors. Torn vinyl seats. An ancient jukebox that looked like it had war stories. The whiskey was cheap, and the bartender looked like she could punch a hundred men. The kind of joint where nobody cared what your name was, as long as you tipped in cash and didn’t start a fight.
You’d picked a corner booth with the kind of instinct that comes from being tired down to the bone. One leg folded under you, elbow hooked on the backrest, you let your fingers curl around the cold glass, sweating on the table. Whiskey sour. Two limes. The closest thing to familiarity you could find.
The blues singer on stage wore denim and cigarettes like armor. His voice dragged like smoke across gravel, every word aching out of him as if it hurt to speak at all.
You liked that.
It was better than silence. Better than stillness. Better than being alone in your home with a boring weekend waiting you. A reward, Tommy said. More like babying
The place smelled like old wood, old beer, and a hundred bad decisions. But it was honest. Nobody in here was pretending to be more than they were. No curated personalities. No agendas. Just bruised hands and cheap drinks.
Your phone buzzed once. You glanced down.
[MARIA]: Just got into the parking lot! Parking’s a bitch, huh?
You smirked and typed back.
[YOU]: Agreed! If I die out here, bury me next to the pothole that took my tire.
You didn’t hit send just yet.
You looked around instead.
Your eyes caught on a couple near the bar, tangled in each other—drunken kisses, off-beat laughter, hands fumbling under the table like they couldn’t wait to get home. Young. Stupid. Reckless in the way only people who’ve never lost anything can be.
Your mouth twisted slightly. You looked away, back to your taped-up ankle. It didn’t hurt anymore, just uncomfortable to move.
The singer crooned low into the mic again, like he was confessing something to the floor. “This one’s for anyone who ever left when they shoulda stayed…”
The lyric hit too close. You downed the rest of your drink, ice clinking against the glass. You were mid-eye roll at the PDA couple by the bar when the seat across from you squeaked.
“I swear I aged five years looking for parking,” Maria said, breathless but grinning, sliding into the booth like she’d done it a thousand times.
You snorted, shifting to sit upright. “You and me both. I almost curb-stomped a Ford Focus.”
“I believe that. You’ve got that ‘mildly homicidal in heels’ look about you.”
You smirked. “Branding is everything.”
A waitress sauntered over. You lifted your nearly finished whiskey sour. “I’ll do another, same thing.”
Maria barely glanced at the menu. “Just water, please.”
You clocked that—filed it away—but didn’t say anything. Yet.
When the waitress left, you leaned forward, elbow on the table. “So. This is a little off-brand for both of us, huh?”
Maria raised a brow. “You mean the dingy bar with duct-taped booths and a man crooning breakup songs like he's in active mourning?”
You nodded. “Exactly. I usually prefer my liquor accompanied by jazz and $60 candles.”
“Yeah, well, I figured if I dragged you somewhere you couldn’t network, brand, or flirt your way through, you might actually talk to me.”
You gave a quiet laugh. “Alright. Tactical. I respect it.”
“Tommy says you’re all work and no play.”
“Tommy also used to eat glue.”
Maria laughed so hard she slapped the table. “You both are such a menace.”
You grinned, leaning back against the cracked booth. “You knew that when you married into it.”
“Yeah, but I never really got to know you before. You were always like this myth in Tommy’s stories. Always moving, always plotting. All action and sharp words.”
“Flattered. I think.”
Maria smiled, soft now. “You’re different in person.”
You tilted your head. “And how am I in person?”
“Still terrifying,” she said dryly. “But warmer than I expected.”
You tried not to let that settle too deep in your chest. “Well. Don’t tell anyone. Might ruin the brand.”
A pause fell between you, not uncomfortable—just thoughtful. You sipped your drink. Maria reached into her bag, pulled out a tiny Tupperware of almonds, and popped a few in her mouth.
You blinked. “Are you seriously snacking right now?”
She shrugged. “Gotta keep something in my stomach. Heartburn’s been a bitch lately.”
Heartburn. Water only. The flat shoes. That hand that was resting absentmindedly on her stomach. The way her hoodie hung a little looser than usual.
And suddenly, your eyes widened just a fraction.
Oh.
Oh, shit.
You tried to hide the smirk pulling at your lips. “So, no cocktail for you, huh?”
Maria looked smug. “Designated driver, obviously.”
“Mmhm.” You swirled your drink, watching her over the rim. “And the snacks?”
“Blood sugar,” she said lightly.
You tilted your head, grin growing. “And the shoes?”
“Comfort,” she replied instantly.
Your brows lifted. “And the constant hand on your stomach?”
Maria paused. Slowly—very slowly—her eyes narrowed at you.
You held up your hands in surrender. “Hey. I didn’t say anything.”
“But you know.”
“Congratulations on your… water.”
Maria groaned and covered her face with one hand. “I was doing so well.”
“You were doing decent.” You grinned. “Tommy know?”
“Obviously.”
“He told Joel yet?”
Maria rolled her eyes. “I don’t think Joel even notices when I’m in the room, let alone my reproductive status.”
“Lucky you.” You sighed dramatically. “You're safe.”
Maria smiled again, but softer now, eyes a little glassy in the low light. “Thanks for coming tonight.”
“I should be thanking you. This beats scrolling spreadsheets at home.”
“Even with the blues singer crooning about his third divorce?”
You lifted your drink. “Even then.”
You weren’t sure what you expected when Maria slid into the booth across from you—maybe a little awkwardness, maybe stiff small talk to cover for how little you’d actually hung out one-on-one. But she kicked off her shoes, ordered a water, and gave you a look like tonight is happening, and somehow, it worked.
“You ready to tell me all the things Tommy doesn’t want me to know?” she asked, grinning like a woman on a mission.
You sipped your drink, smirking over the rim. “You sure you’re ready to hear it?”
“Born ready.”
You leaned back against the torn vinyl, one leg tucked under you. “Okay. Tell me—has he ever mentioned the Fourth of July incident?”
Maria’s eyes lit up. “Go on.”
“So. We’re maybe ten. Our parents left us with a neighbor while they went to some adult barbecue. We wanted fireworks, but no one would give us any. So Tommy decided to make his own.”
Maria already looked concerned.
“He mixed together baking soda, aluminum foil, and vinegar in a soda bottle. Called it ‘Texas Boom Juice.’”
Maria sputtered into her water.
“It exploded in his garage. Ruined a shelf full of paint cans, sprayed old Christmas decorations with chemical foam. His mom didn’t speak to him for three days. His dad made him clean the garage in 102-degree heat with a toothbrush.”
“Oh my God.”
“He still blames me for not warning him it wouldn’t work.”
“You knew it wouldn’t work?”
“I was ten and smarter than him. Not a high bar.”
Maria laughed so hard she had to lean forward. “Okay. New rule. One more story every ten minutes.”
You obliged.
There was the time Tommy tried to build a skateboard ramp using plywood and cinder blocks—and shattered his front tooth on a faceplant so dramatic, his parents almost sued gravity. The time he got caught sneaking into the local drive-in by hiding in someone’s trunk, only to pop out too early and scare a toddler into dropping her popcorn. The time he asked a girl out by writing a note in ketchup packets on her windshield.
Maria wheezed. “Ketchup?!”
“He said it was ‘bold.’ She said it was ‘terrifying.’”
“God, he’s lucky I found him when he had matured slightly.”
You tilted your head. “Has he though?”
Maria gave you a look. “Okay, fair. He just hides it better now.”
There was a pause, the kind that happens when laughter fades but comfort lingers.
She caught you glancing, gave you a small smile—one that said she saw your curiosity and didn’t mind it.
“You know,” she said gently, “he talks about you all the time.”
You blinked.
“Tommy,” she added. “Says you were the only one who ever really called him out when he was being an idiot. Said it helped him grow up.”
You let out a quiet laugh. “That man was allergic to maturity.”
“Still is, most days. But you were kind of a turning point for him.”
You looked down at your drink. Swirled the ice.
“He always looked up to Joel,” you said softly. “But I think… he needed someone to see him not through Joel.”
Maria nodded slowly. “That makes sense.”
“He’s good now, though. You made him better.”
“That’s the goal, right?” she said, half-smiling. “You find someone who brings out your good parts. Or just accepts the weird ones.”
“I’ll cheers to that.” You lift up your glass and take a sip.
“So,” Maria said, chin propped in her hand, eyes twinkling with curiosity, “I’ve heard enough Tommy stories to write a memoir. What about you? What was life like before New York?”
You snorted, the sound dry as the bar napkin under your drink. “Loaded question.”
“Yeah, well,” she said, “you cornered yourself by making me laugh. Now I want the full backstory.”
You smiled despite yourself, leaning back into the cracked vinyl booth. “I grew up in Arlington. It was… fine. Hot as hell, good barbecue, football worshipped like a religion. The usual.”
“And family?”
You hesitated. Just a beat. “My dad—Clyde—he’s the reason I turned out remotely okay. You know how he is. Retired Army. Old-school and kind. He’s best friends with Tommy and Joel’s dad. They served together and stayed tight. So… me and Tommy? We’ve known each other since we were in diapers.”
Maria raised her brows. “That explains a lot.”
“Yeah, he used to say I was his first mistake. Like, karmically.” You smiled, watching the memory settle. “We terrorized our parents. Set off fireworks in a mailbox once. Joel ratted us out.”
Maria grinned widely. “That sounds like Joel.”
“Boy Scout, even back then,” you said. “He was older, always had that ‘I’ll tell Dad’ energy.”
Maria laughed. “God, I can see that.”
You nodded, then went quiet for a second.
“My mom…” You paused, looked at your drink, then shrugged. “We didn’t talk much. Still don’t.”
Maria didn’t push. Just gave a little nod like she understood more than you were saying.
There was a silence, but not an awkward one. It was the kind that let the music fill the space between people who might become friends. Onstage, the blues singer started another verse, voice curling around the words like smoke.
“She’d hate this place,” you said suddenly.
Maria tilted her head. “Your mom?”
“No,” you said, then corrected, “Actually, yeah—her too. But I meant the version of me I used to be. Power heels, dry bar events, clients who spent more on watches than I made in a year.”
“You miss it?” Maria asked, honestly.
You looked around. The scuffed tables. The peeling paint. The freedom in the way no one gave a damn what anyone else was doing.
“Some days. I’m usually too busy to think this hard. Sorry if I’m boring you.”
“No, never.” Maria smiles, “I’m glad we’re spending time like this. It’s good for people like us.”
“Like us?”
“Workaholics.”
You huffed out a laugh at the word “I can see that in me. Your…” Put together. Happy. Perfect life.
“Not a classic workaholic?” Her smile turns into a smirk. “Well, I do work another job. I’m an assistant district attorney. On my free days, I help Tommy.”
“Shit,” You whistle “Tommy’s got himself a dedicated wife.”
“He’s blessed.”
“Trust me, I know.”
And then, like she’d been biding her time just right, she tilted her head with a spark of mischief and said, “Okay. Now tell me what’s going on with you and Joel.”
You blinked again. “Excuse me?”
She gave you a knowing smile. “You two walk around like magnets trying not to touch.”
You laughed, maybe a little too quickly. “We’ve always been like that.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s not tension,” you added. “It’s… friction.”
“Which is just fancy tension.”
You narrowed your eyes at her. “Did you drag me out here for intel?”
“No,” she said, sipping her water like it was wine. “But if it’s freely offered…”
You laughed, tilting your head. “We’ve been butting heads since we were old enough to talk. Joel was my best friend’s big brother, who took everything too seriously. I was the family friend who made it my mission to knock him off his high horse.”
Maria smiled. “You? Stir the pot? No.”
“Right?” you said with mock offense. “Unbelievable. But yeah, Joel hated that I never treated him like some wise oracle just because he was older. Once, when I was ten, he tried to give me this lecture about ‘respecting rules,’ because I climbed the neighbor’s fence to get a football back. So I threw it at his head.”
“Did you hit him?”
“Square in the jaw. He still has a tooth that’s a little crooked.”
Maria burst out laughing. “I knew you were dangerous.”
“I was just a truth-teller,” you said, smirking. “Like when we were teenagers—Joel got all moody and broody, started thinking he was smarter than everybody. So I’d sneak into his truck and retune his radio presets to pop stations.”
“You did not.”
“I did. It was glorious. Tommy would catch him flipping through stations like his masculinity depended on it.”
Maria was full-on giggling now. “God, you really loved pushing his buttons.”
“Someone had to. He was too serious all the time. Even when he wasn’t mad at the world, he walked around like it owed him something.”
“Sounds familiar,” Maria muttered under her breath, grinning into her water.
You laughed. “Exactly. But look, we weren’t always at each other’s throats. We had a brief truce once.”
Maria raised a brow. “A truce?”
“Yeah, like… a year-long détente. I think we were both too tired to argue. It was weird. We’d actually sit in the same room and not insult each other. Even laugh sometimes.”
Maria gave you a sly look. “And what broke the truce?”
You paused. Sipped your drink again. “Oh, you know. Life. Growing up. People change. Paths diverge.”
She tilted her head, studying you, but didn’t press.
You continued, keeping your tone light. “Anyway, the last time Joel and I had an honest conversation was about thirteen years ago. And by ‘honest,’ I mean we yelled a lot and probably set a record for the most uses of the word ‘hell’ in one argument.”
Maria winced playfully. “Yikes.”
You shrugged, smiling faintly. “Let’s just say we don’t do well with confrontation. Or diplomacy. Or really anything that involves being in the same zip code.”
“Well,” Maria said, sitting back with a warm, curious smile, “For two people who don’t talk, you sure do act like there’s a whole conversation happening every time you’re in the same room.”
You snorted. “Yeah. That’s called tension, Maria.”
She smirked. “I call it potential.”
You gave her a look. “I’m starting to regret this girls' night.”
She clinked her water glass to your whiskey sour. “Too late. You’re stuck with me now.”
You laugh, but your mind wanders. Wanders thirteen years into the past.
Because you weren’t about to admit what it was like in that last year before the fallout. When the edges softened a little. When the two of you had stopped throwing punches long enough to see what was underneath.
You wouldn’t tell her how sometimes, on nights when his dad got mean and Tommy was away, Joel would show up at your window—silent, angry, eyes hollow—and you’d let him climb in. No questions. No judgment. He’d crash on your floor, or sometimes right next to you, the two of you staring at the ceiling, pretending the world didn’t exist.
You weren’t going to admit how that kind of quiet—that charged, aching silence—had felt more intimate than any conversation you’d ever had.
That version of Joel—quiet, frayed, unguarded—you didn’t talk about. You barely let yourself remember it.
So instead, you leaned into the smile.
“He always had that look like someone just told him fun was illegal,” you said. “I considered it a public service to get under his skin.”
Maria’s eyes flicked to yours—sharp, but kind. “Yeah, but did you like it?”
Your smile faltered. Just a breath.
You shrugged. “It was familiar.”
Another beat passed. Then she said, more gently, “Do you miss it?”
You looked down at your drink. Let the ice settle.
“My mom used to say it’s not worth missing things that were only half-real.”
Maria watched you carefully, but said nothing.
You gave her a lighter look. “And besides—he started it.”
She laughed again, soft and surprised. “God, you really are trouble.”
You raised your glass to that. “Takes one to marry a Miller.”
As the drinks flowed, the night blurred at the edges. It got easier to laugh. To talk. To say things you might've kept buried under more sober circumstances. You didn’t mean to overshare—but Maria had that effect. And the whiskey didn’t help.
You might’ve said something embarrassing. You probably did.
But she just smiled like she understood. Like she wasn’t keeping score.
Eventually, someone called last round, and the lights got brighter. Harsher. So you left.
The air outside the bar was cooler than you remembered. Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe the hour. But everything felt a little softer. Quieter. You and Maria stood under the flickering neon for a moment, her arms crossed over her chest, your heels clicking lightly as you shifted your weight.
“That was fun,” she said, not quite ready to say goodbye.
“It was,” you agreed, tugging your jacket tighter. “Next time I’m picking the bar.”
“Oh, I’m already scared.”
You both laughed as you headed to your cars, her silhouette slipping into her truck, headlights flashing on. You waved as she pulled out, then climbed into your own.
She drove off in a flash of headlights, and you slid into your car, letting the leather seat chill your thighs. The drive home was short but long enough to let your mind wander—through dusty memories and clean breaks. Arlington. Your dad’s laugh through the wall. Your mom’s perfume clinging to the couch cushions even after she stopped sitting there. The echo of who you were before you traded quiet for ambition, front porches for boardrooms.
And then, like a glitch in the reel: Joel.
Stubborn, gravel-voiced Joel. Who could ruin your whole day with one look. Who used to sleep on your floor in silence after screaming matches with his father, tension still humming in the air. Who now looked at you like a storm cloud he’d rather outwait than engage.
God, you hated him.
You missed him.
You hated that you missed him.
The porch light was still on when you got home, a quiet beacon against the dark. Inside, the TV flickered low and warm in the living room.
“Hey, Sugar Cubes,” your dad called from the couch, one hand lazily flipping the remote. “You out corruptin’ Millers?”
You leaned against the doorframe, kicking off your boots. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
He smirked. “She survive it?”
“Barely. I was gentle.”
“You? Gentle?” He snorted. “Don’t lie in my house.”
You came and sat beside him, stealing half his blanket. On the screen, some old black-and-white movie played, guns and grit and men with jawlines sharp enough to cut steak.
You sat in silence for a while. It was nice—this kind of quiet. Earned. Heavy without being hard.
He eventually looked over at you. “You doing okay?”
“Yeah,” you said, meaning it. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.”
You smiled, and kissed his cheek. “Night, old man.”
You made it to your room and flopped face-down onto the mattress with all the grace of a tranquilized bear. Kicked off your jeans, stretched one leg up like a dancer mid-fall, and groaned into your pillow.
Buzzed. Maybe a bit more than that.
Your phone sat on the nightstand. Innocent. Tempting.
You picked it up.
Opened your messages.
Scrolled past every number that didn’t make your eye twitch.
And there he was.
Joel Miller.
You chewed the inside of your cheek, fingers hovering.
Then—God help you—you typed:
[YOU]: How does it feel to walk around like a human middle finger all day or is that just something you turn on when I’m in the room?
You blinked at the screen. Smiled.
Sent it.
Then dropped your phone with a soft clatter.
It buzzed once. You didn’t check it.
Sleep tugged at you like a tide, and you let it take you—mouth dry, heart full of noise, and one regrettably sharp text message deep into the night.
❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜
The hiss of a bottle cap.
The sharp click of a lighter.
The smell of cherry-scented body spray trying to cover up the acrid, sweet burn of vodka.
You were small again. Eleven. Maybe twelve. Sitting on the porch step, knees pulled into your chest. The sun had dipped, and the cicadas were out, loud and rhythmic. You didn’t hear the door open behind you, but you heard the voice.
“Whatcha doin’ out here, baby?”
You looked over your shoulder. Your mom. Hair a mess. Eyes glassy. Smile wide. Too wide.
“Just… watching,” you’d said.
She sat down beside you, joints creaking like they were older than they were. She held a can of something. Coke? No. Not just that.
“Watchin’ what?” she asked, swinging her legs like a teenager. Her bracelet clinked against the can.
“The sky.”
She nodded, thoughtful. “Good thing to watch.”
You want to lean into her. Want her to ask you how school was, or how Tommy was doing, or why you’d stopped wearing your hair in ponytails? You want her to smell like soap and sun, like she used to.
Instead, she turned to you with that dreamy, dazed smile and said, “You know, sometimes I think you’re gonna be smarter than me. Already are, probably.”
You blinked.
She sipped her drink, then laughed. “Don’t look at me like that. I mean it. You’ve got that brain your daddy doesn’t know what to do with. Gonna go far, baby girl. Just don’t forget where you come from.”
You didn’t answer. You looked down at her bare feet. At the chipped nail polish. The half-moon bruises on her ankle. You hate that you loved her so much.
“Hey.” She bumped your shoulder with hers. “You love me?”
It was a trap. You knew it even then. But you nodded.
She smiled. “Then promise me something. If I ever… I dunno. If I ever get lost in my own head again, you’ll come find me. Okay?”
You didn’t promise. You couldn’t.
You stared straight ahead, watching the clouds become different shapes.
She didn’t push. Just kept sipping. Kept watching the sky like it was gonna give her answers.
❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜
March 12th, 1989
The first tap was faint. So soft it almost blended into the hum of your fan.
The second tap? Not so much.
You sat up in bed, heart jumping straight into your throat. Three more taps, fast. Urgent.
Not the door.
You froze, pulse pounding in your ears. This wasn’t a knock. It was your window. Your second-story window.
Which meant it sure as hell wasn’t the delivery man.
You moved fast, slipping out of bed in your shorts and tank top, cursing every horror movie you’d ever watched alone. The floor was cold under your bare feet. You crept across the room, silent as a shadow, and reached for the aluminum bat tucked behind your dresser.
Your dad always said if someone ever tried anything, you don’t freeze. You swing first and deal with questions later.
Another tap. You gripped the bat tighter, already picturing headlines.
Local Teen Girl in Sleep Shorts Beats Pervert Senseless with Softball Bat.
You yanked the curtain back and raised the bat—only to freeze.
Joel Miller stood on the other side of the glass, head low with his messy hair covering his face, one hand held up like he was trying to talk down a feral cat.
You lowered the bat an inch. “What the—Joel?”
His mouth moved behind the glass. “Can I come in?”
You blinked. “You’re lucky I didn’t knock your teeth in.”
“Figured it was worth the risk,” he said with a huff , lip already split.
You unlocked the window with a huff and shoved it open. “What the hell are you doing, Miller? You scaling walls now?”
He gave a crooked half-shrug, lip split and bleeding. “Figured it was worth the risk.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
He didn’t answer until one booted foot hooked onto the sill, and he hoisted himself through—fluid, practiced, like this wasn’t the first time he’d climbed into a girl’s room through a second-story window.
You stepped back with a grimace. “Jesus. You’re bleeding on my floor.”
“I’ll bleed quieter if you give me a towel,” he mumbled, already toeing off his boots.
You crossed your arms, bat still dangling in one hand. “You get in a fight or fall down a flight of stairs trying to look cool?”
“Guy was messing with Tommy.”
You groaned. “You fought someone. After your dad explicitly said not to.”
“Yeah.”
“And now you’re avoiding going home because…?”
Joel dropped onto the carpet like his whole body weighed too much. “Didn’t feel like a lecture. Or Mom’s sad eyes.”
You watched him, heart still catching up to everything. “…You could’ve gone to Tommy’s.”
He snorted. “He talks in his sleep. Like, full paragraphs.” A pause. “Didn’t feel like that either.”
You glanced at the window. “So you came here?”
He finally looked at you. “Didn’t think you’d answer the door.”
You bit your lip. “Didn’t think you’d knock on the glass like a psycho bird.”
That pulled a breath of a laugh out of him. Small. Honest.
“You’re lucky I didn’t swing.”
“I’d have deserved it,” he muttered, dabbing at his mouth with the hem of his sleeve.
You sighed, turned to grab an old hoodie off your chair, and tossed it at him.
“Here. Stop leaking all over my rug.”
He caught it with one hand and gave you a look. “You’re real hospitable, you know that?”
“Only ‘cause I’m too tired to call the cops.”
Then you saw the scrape under his sleeve. The crusted blood at his lip. That stiff way he was breathing. You sighed again, softer this time. “Joel.”
“I’m fine.”
You raised an eyebrow like you were trying to launch it off your face. “You always this bad at lying or just when you’re concussed?”
You stepped closer, reaching for the hem of his hoodie.
He pulled back a little. “Hey, I’m good—”
“Uh-huh. And I’m Miss Texas.” You shoved him—lightly—back onto the bed. He fell with a soft oof.
“Hey!”
“Quit whining. I’m checking for bleeding.”
“I think I’d notice if I was bleeding.”
“You don’t even notice when I stole that hat. Sit still.”
You peeled his hoodie off, biting your lip when you caught sight of the bruises. His ribs were already turning a mean shade of purple-blue, his eye was swelling, and that cut on his lip looked worse under good lighting.
“Wow,” you deadpanned. “You really won, huh?”
“Didn’t lose,” he muttered.
You shook your head and turned toward the door.
“Where you goin’?”
“To get frozen peas and regret all my life choices.” You opened the door, pausing. “Don’t move. If you bleed on my pillow, I’ll smother you with it.”
He gave a lazy salute as you slipped out.
You returned a few minutes later, arms full of an ice pack, first-aid stuff, and the last clean towel you were willing to sacrifice. Joel hadn’t moved—except to take off his boots. That was something.
You shut the door with a soft click. “Still here, huh? Guess I didn’t dream this.”
He looked up. “Depends. You usually dream about half-naked guys in your bed?”
You scoffed. “No. They’re usually smarter.”
He smiled, but didn’t argue.
You pointed at the chair. “Sit up. Shirt off.”
He arched a brow. “You're always this bossy with your patients?”
“Only the dumb, bleeding ones.”
He peeled his shirt off slowly as he walked over to the chair, ribs clearly sore. You tried not to look too hard. You failed a little. Just enough.
You had never had a boy naked in your room. Okay, lies. You had never had Joel half-naked. You did this with Tommy, sure. He’d seen you in a bra, even just panties. But this… too much, too fast. Especially for two people like you and Joel.
You pressed the peas against his ribs, and he winced.
“Baby,” you muttered.
“Says the one who shrieked when a moth flew at her face last week.”
“That moth came at me with intent, Joel.”
He chuckled, chest rising under your hand. He was rock solid. Not with muscle, but the feeling of touching around person. His skin was rough here, just like his hands, like his expression, most of his life. You kept your eyes on the icepack, but your awareness shifted—drawn to the slow rise and fall beneath your palm.
Then everything went still.
He wasn’t laughing anymore. Not smiling.
Just watching.
You could feel it. That shift in the air. The quiet that wasn’t comfortable anymore. Heavy. Coiled.
“You always gonna take care of me like this?” he asked, voice low. Dry.
You didn’t look up. “Only when you’re dumb enough to need it.”
A beat. Then, “So… often.”
Your lips tugged upward, barely. Your heart kicked once, hard. You didn’t let it show.
He didn’t move. Neither did you.
“You got a real sharp tongue,” he muttered.
“You’d be bored without it.”
“Wouldn’t call it boring,” he said after a pause. Not quite agreeing. Not quite disagreeing either.
You moved the icepack again. He tilted his face without you asking, like he’d already given up the fight.
When you pressed it gently to the bruised skin under his eye, he hissed—and his hand shot out without thinking, gripping the back of your thigh.
Not your knee. Not your arm. The high, soft part just beneath the curve of your hip.
You froze.
So did he.
His fingers twitched once, then loosened like he’d just realized what he’d done. “Shit—sorry,” he said, voice rougher than before. Embarrassed. Controlled.
“Y’need something to hold onto,” you muttered, eyes still on the bruising, “I’ll give you a free pass.”
He let out a breath—almost a laugh, almost something else—but he didn’t let go.
“I’m fine,” he said, voice quieter than usual. “Don’t need a crutch.”
You swallowed. “Didn’t say you did. Just said I don’t mind.”
Joel didn’t laugh. He didn’t let go either.
His jaw flexed once. Like he wanted to say something, but didn’t trust whatever might come out.
So he stayed quiet. Fingers still curled into the back of your thigh like it helped him hold steady.
You kept the icepack in place, pretending your skin wasn’t burning under his touch. For a long second, neither of you moved.
You had to look like some sort of movie poster—Joel in your room, shirtless, the lighting low and gold, your bodies too close, too still. His hand on your thigh like it had every right to be there.
Not in a fight.
Not in anger.
Just there.
You weren’t used to that. You weren’t sure he was either.
Always physical fights, not physical normal touches.
Joel didn’t say anything. Just kept his hand there, warm against the back of your thigh, thumb brushing lightly—maybe unintentionally, maybe not. The coldness of the icepack was nothing compared to that.
Another beat. The kind of silence that felt like it might break if either of you so much as blinked the wrong way. Then Joel shifted just slightly, enough for his thumb to brush a little higher up, the touch deliberate this time. Testing.
Your jaw tensed. But you didn’t move away. Didn’t lean in either.
That’s where the line lived. Right there.
In the stillness.
“Joel,” you said, barely above a whisper.
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes weren’t on the ice anymore. Weren’t on your mouth, either—thank God. They were somewhere between, like he couldn’t decide which part of you to look at without it meaning something.
“I ain’t gonna do nothin’,” he said finally. Low. Rough. Serious. “If that’s what you’re thinkin’.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
You didn’t deny it.
His hand finally dropped. A sharp absence that left your skin colder than the ice ever could. You straightened, stepping back the smallest distance—enough to breathe, not enough to forget.
Joel leaned back against the chair. Rolled his shoulder with a faint wince. “You got bad timing.”
For once, you didn’t respond. Just shut up and toss the peas on your desk. You grabbed some of your extra pillows from the closet and your heavy winter blanket. You started to throw them to the side closet to the door. Safety, just in case your dad decided to come check on you.
“You’re not sleeping on the floor,” Joel said, brows furrowed like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“I’m not letting you take the bed,” you shot back, already halfway into making a pathetic little nest of pillows and a blanket on the floor beside it. “You can barely see outta one eye and you’re limping like you fought a damn bear. Lay your ass down.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not fine.”
“I’ve slept on worse.”
“And I’ve seen worse, and I’m still not letting you—”
Joel didn’t wait for the rest.
One second you were reaching for your next pillow, the next you were airborne—hauled up with a grunt and tossed unceremoniously onto the bed like you weighed nothing.
“Joel!” you yelped, half tangled in the blanket, stunned.
He didn’t even look at you.
“I said you ain’t sleepin’ on the floor,” he muttered, turning his back as he dropped down beside you with a sigh that came from somewhere deep in his chest. “Quit makin’ me repeat myself.”
You scrambled up onto your elbows, staring at him like he’d grown a second head. “Did you just throw me into my own bed?”
“Didn’t throw. Just… relocated.”
“Oh, hell no.” You moved like you were gonna get up, but he stuck an arm out without even looking—barred your way with a tired groan, keeping you trapped between his body and the edge of the bed.
“Try me,” he warned, voice rough, already halfway to sleep. “You’ll be strapped here next time.”
You stared at the back of his head, fuming.
He didn’t budge.
Didn’t smirk. Didn’t gloat. Just… settled there, shoulders rising and falling slow and even, like exhaustion had finally won out.
You laid back with a huff, glaring at the ceiling.
The bed was warm from your body. The space between you wasn’t nearly wide enough.
“You’re such a jackass,” you whispered.
Joel didn’t answer.
But you saw it in the way his shoulder twitched—just a little. Like he’d heard. Like maybe he agreed. Then he flopped onto the bed, his back turned to you.
And still didn’t move an inch.
The silence stretched long in the dark.
You stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, wide awake despite the ache in your bones and the weight of the day behind you. Joel’s breathing had evened out, slow and steady beside you—but something about the way he was lying stiff didn’t quite say asleep.
Eventually, your eyes adjusted, shadows and shapes forming in the dim room. That was when you noticed it.
A dark shape, just below his shoulder blade. Too clean of a line to be dirt, too raw to be old.
You frowned.
There’d been so much blood earlier—you thought you’d checked everything. His ribs, his eye, the cut on his lip. But not his back.
Carefully, slowly, you pushed yourself up on one elbow. The blanket had slipped low, exposing bare skin. A long, purple brush that was inflamed at the edges. Dried blood had crusted around it from some other wound.
You reached out, fingers hovering.
Just to see. Just to—
You traced it, light as a breath, careful not to press too hard.
Joel shivered.
His shoulder twitched. A breath hitched in his throat.
You froze. “Sorry,” you whispered. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I ain’t asleep.”
His voice was low. Rough. But not angry.
You hesitated. “You want me to stop?”
There was a pause. Long enough for you to think maybe he’d fallen asleep after all.
Then, finally:
“…No.”
So you let your fingers trail lower. Slower. Not quite over the wound anymore—but close. You followed the shape of it, the heat of it, brushing the edge of a bruise before gliding to the dip of his spine. Skin that was too warm, too tight. Holding more pain than he’d ever admit.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.
So you kept going.
Your palm found the middle of his back, steady and warm. Pressing down just enough to say, I’m still here. That was when he let out a breath—long, rough, and quiet. Like something deep in him had cracked and finally started to leak.
It didn’t scare you. It made you softer.
So you moved closer, slow and deliberate, fitting yourself behind him. Tucking your knees into the backs of his. Curling your arm under his. Letting the whole of you settle against the whole of him.
He froze.
Like someone had cut the wire again.
“…What are you doin’?” he rasped, low and raw, like the sound was being dragged from somewhere he didn’t want you hearing.
“Relax,” you whispered, adjusting your arm so your hand rested just beneath his ribs. “You’re still bleeding. I’m keeping you warm.”
He let out a disbelieving huff. “Since when do you give a damn if I’m warm?”
You shrugged against him. “Since you decided to play human sword for Tommy.”
“I didn’t—” He stopped. Exhaled. “…He was gonna get hurt.”
“I know.” You smoothed your hand over his side. “That’s why I give a damn.”
He didn’t reply. Not for a while.
You could feel him trying to push something back. Lock it behind his ribs and throw away the key.
So you pressed in closer, your voice brushing the skin of his shoulder.
“Be quiet.”
He was.
For a moment, all you heard was the soft rasp of his breathing and the pounding of your own pulse in your ears.
You felt the way his chest rose, stalled, then fell again. A breath half-held and barely released.
No response this time. Not out loud.
But under your palm, you felt it—that flicker of something beneath his ribs. A sigh that didn’t make it all the way out. A tremor that wasn’t pain.
So you didn’t say anything else. You just smoothed your hand over him again, grounding. Gentler now.
His muscles stayed tense, like his body hadn’t caught up with the fact that the fight was over. Like it didn’t know how to unclench.
You waited.
And then, after a long, stretched moment, he shifted just slightly—only enough to lean into the warmth of your touch. Barely there. Barely anything.
But it was permission.
So you moved again, your hand tracing up the slope of his ribs, skimming the bruised plane of his side. You could feel the breath flutter in his lungs, ragged from adrenaline and effort and silence. You didn’t look for words. Not anymore. You just let your hand settle, firm and steady. A tether.
You blinked, heavy and slow with exhaustion, and before you could second-guess it, before your mind could get in the way, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his shoulder.
Soft. Barely there.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
But his body was humming. Every part of him was on alert under your mouth, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to lean into you or run.
You didn’t explain it. You didn’t mean anything by it—at least nothing you had words for. The kiss wasn’t romantic. Wasn’t anything.
Except… it was something.
You let your lips rest there a second longer, then pulled back and let your forehead rest against his spine. Your hand stayed where it was. Anchoring.
The room was so quiet, it felt like even the walls were holding their breath.
No movement. No words.
But after a moment, Joel let out a low, fractured sound in the back of his throat—somewhere between a sigh and a question.
He didn’t move away.
And neither did you.
You let your hand stay exactly where it was, warm and steady on his side. Your knees were still tucked into his. The rhythm of your breaths slowly syncing. His hand slowly coming to rest on yours, large and rough. His fingers tracing your fingernails in little circles.
Not friends. Not enemies. Not anything that made sense.
But still—you stayed.
And so did he.
Woah woah woah. I love a good double upload. Are you guys eating this up or am eating in the corner by myself.
After Kate reported you as M.I.A. when you failed to respond during your mission, they expected the worst. One by one, that expectation had been run through a paper filter, the material thick like molasses, the process slow. For some, it was like the molasses had been stuck in the fridge first, but it was undeniable that an undercurrent of hope was beginning to form.
They hoped to whatever god was listening that you were still alive, at the very least. Maybe a prisoner of war, in one piece better yet, but at least alive.
The brain damage they were not expecting.
Not the amnesia, either, nor the way you shrieked like a banshee warning of incoming tragedy, wailing that another grave was about to be filled. Ghost was a second too late on slamming a hand over your mouth, but a second was all it took.
The butt of a gun to the base of his skull. A knife drawn to his sergeant's neck, the glint of its metal further dazing him as he instinctively let go of you and stumbled backwards. A foot swiping under his legs, the ground rising to greet him, and a knee to the center of his spine. That's where his focus came back to him, mere moments after metal met his skull. A fast recovery, but not fast enough to prevent the thick zip-tie from securing his wrists behind him at an uncomfortable angle thanks to his bulky gear.
From there, it was a blur. Soap shouting your name, the behemoth coddling you, ushering you back into the truck. Both Ghost and Soap were swept up, gagged, hogtied, and thrown into the truck’s bed. The trip took minutes and hours, one where they were both consumed by their own thoughts.
Now, they were here, cuffed to chairs in front of a wooden table in some decomposing, abandoned shack.
"141," König addressed the two men as soon as you were tucked away in another room of the safehouse, out of earshot. "Color me surprised."
"Feelin's mutual," Ghost grunted, his teeth gritted together. He could tell Soap was starting to get antsy, restless, eager to try and break free in a fight of four against two when they were both bound to chairs with bright lights shining in their eyes. "Didn' know we go' assigned the same mission."
Krueger – the one that kept the sergeant on the knife's edge earlier, he pieced together – snorted. "We got it first."
Finally, Soap snapped. "What'd ye do tae her?" He demanded, lips pulled back in a snarl, hands twitching.
Ghost could imagine König's brows rising under that hood of his. "Who?"
"Tales, ye fookin'–"
"Soap," Ghost barked, cutting the man off before he could go and get them killed with his impatience, his anger. It effectively shut up his insults, thankfully.
König huffed through his nose. "Didn't do anything."
"She's no' righ'. Cannae remember us. You brainwash her?"
At that, Krueger outright laughed. "Brainwash? Hah! Why would we need to do that?"
"You were the ones that took her, weren' you," Ghost stated, rather than asked. Above him, a tsk of disappointment.
"Нет," came the familiar hiss of Russian from Nikto. "Found poor thing already like that."
Something in his chest deflated. They found you... like this?
"What...?" Soap whispered the very thought aloud.
Nikto hummed. "All alone. Almost dead. More blood out of her than in."
Ghost could tell that Soap was feeling that same cold dread as him.
König spoke next. "Sick with fever, barely made it through that. All the time, begging not to be left alone. Put out of her misery. Saved. Asking forgiveness."
The silence that followed was deafening.
“Wanna talk to her,” Ghost said.
“Not up to you,” the colonel responded, but the door opened behind him, revealing… you.
It was like looking at someone after having seen nothing but an old, grainy, small photo of them from decades ago. You looked the same, but were nothing like the smiling girl they saw in the back of their mind’s eyes.
“It’s fine,” you spoke in your own place. “I’ll. Talk to them.”
König visibly hesitated. “Are you sure, hase?”
You nodded once. Nobody moved, not until the man sighed and tucked you into his side, murmuring that he and the others would be right outside if you needed them. With a jerk of his head to the side, the others followed him out, though none seemed all-too happy about it.
Must have been very confident in their securing abilities.
Given privacy, none of you knew how to start. They both tried to catch your gaze, make eye contact, look at you, but you made it difficult. Still couldn’t bear to look at them.
Soap’s voice was rough, hardly a whisper, when he asked, “What happened?”
That spurred you into action.
"Was. Bad," you started, nervously fidgeting with your fingers. "Failed mission. I don't remember. It all. I Remem. Ber being cold. Then hot. Fever."
Gods, you sounded nothing like you used to. Your fluid, emotive speech had been dragged to a grating halt, words staggered and landing flat. It was like your throat was constantly sticky, but your words came out clear. Periodically, you trailed off, mouth either still open or clicking shut as your stare drifted. Then, you began again as if nothing happened.
"König took care. Of me. Didn't list. En. When I asked him. To. Kill me," you continued. It was hard to listen to you, but both men were completely hooked, unwilling to miss a single word. "Now, I'm here. Never sa. Me. They helped me."
"Hen," Soap started slowly, mulling over his words, working his jaw. "They– they're bad men. Keepin' ye here like this."
At that, you frowned deeply. "They saved me. Gave me. Meaning."
"Meaning?" Ghost asked.
Your head bobbed. "I can't fight. I have seizures, some. Times," you tapped the side of your head for emphasis. They winced, stomachs knotting tighter. When you paced, you limped. "But I can. Use. Compu. Ters. Watch them from above. Keep. Them safe, too."
Soap inhaled deeply. “Cannae believe…”
“What happened on the mission?” Ghost questioned, speaking slowly, enunciating. The twitch of your eye should have been the first and only warning he got.
“I told you. I. Don’t remember.”
“Surely there’s something–”
"I'm not stupid!" Your patience evaporated all at once, mood swinging violently. "I still think. At. The same sp. Eed! Still function. The. Only thing. Diff. Erent is my voice!"
You were fuming – insult, frustration, residual anger, it could have been any of them or all of them, but they were getting the full brunt of it. Neither complained, neither opened their mouths to argue back. They simply took it, knowing they deserved it.
"You think I like. Talking. Like this?" You were pacing now. "You. Think. It's easy? I have to slow. Slow. Slow my brain. Down. So my mouth can keep. Up."
"Lass..." Soap murmured, though you didn’t seem to hear him, consumed by your rage.
"I know. I'm. Different now. I know. I knew the. Mo. Ment I woke up. But they," you swept your hand towards the door for emphasis, where the rest of your team was undoubtedly eavesdropping, "they never treat me. Like. The weak link. Even though I can't. Can't fight anymore. Even though. I. Have brain damage. Fucked leg. Bad scars. They've never made. Me. Feel like I'm less than them."
Panting, you shoved your hair away from your face, eyes wide and wild as you glared at the two men who got you so riled up in the first place.
Silence for a beat. Then, so much softer, with so much pain laced in your voice, you asked, "Do you know how long I waited? How many. Nights. I didn't sleep? Thinking, 'someone. Will. Come for me'."
A tear slipped down your cheek as you closed your eyes, a heavy sigh escaping you through your nose.
"But nobody came."
That was the final blow.
They stared, unable to muster the words, any words, to respond to that.
"I’m leaving," you finally stated after a quiet moment that dragged on too long.
Soap interrupted as quickly as he could. "Roach," he said frantically. "Roach, he– he misses ye so much. He should know ye're alive. A-And Maria. They've been lookin' for ye for so long."
You merely gave him a sad, defeated look.
"I've never met those people in my life."
Before they could argue, you had taken your own advice. You strode over to the door and yanked it open, stepping aside just in time to avoid Krueger and Horangi as they tumbled in. Behind them, König and Nikto had moved back, the former at least having the decency to look a little ashamed of himself for listening in to your conversation. Nikto, on the other hand, looked ready to murder. You were tempted to let him.
König tilted his head in a way that let you know he opened his mouth to ask you something, but you shook your head, shutting him up.
"I want. To. Go home," you told him instead. He nodded solemnly and placed a hand on your upper back, guiding you away.
Away from them. From the men who used to be your teammates, the people you once trusted most.
They wondered now if you had ever trusted them at all to begin with.
The darkness of the other room began to swallow you and König. On instinct, Soap tried to scoot towards you on the chair.
"Tales, wait–"
"That is not her name!" Nikto roared suddenly as he stabbed his knife into the wooden block of a table between him and them.
"Yeah?" Soap challenged, ignoring the kick Ghost delivered to his ankle. "What is it, then?"
The door shut with a quiet, deafening click, the lock on the knob twisted by Horangi. "We call her 'Miracle', because it is a miracle she survived," he answered slowly, gaze lifting to the bound men. "And you will need a miracle to survive this."
It shouldn’t have been a surprise to you when they came running. It was only natural for them, now, after having spent so long with you, practically glued to your hips. Attached to the little ugly duckling they found and took in, raised until you could waddle into the water and preen yourself, though you never turned down their help.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise, but perhaps the lingering trauma you couldn’t remember made it so.
You replayed the events of the night, trying to piece together the exact timeline of events, but none of it seemed to line up correctly.
It all came to you in a flood – the memories, the emotions, the terror that drowned your lungs and blurred your vision. You jerked out of his hold, stumbled back. Your hands went straight to your head as you felt it begin to split apart, neurons eviscerating all at once. Flashes of faces and names and pain rippled through you, crashing against you like the waves of an angry sea that bashed you into the jagged rocks of a cliffside.
Hands were reaching for you, yearning to drag you to the depths of hell. Voices – “shh, bon, s’alright! Ye’re alright, s’just us!” and “bloody hell, quiet down! We’re not gonna hurt you!”
Chaos, grunts of pain, shouted orders. You were freed, but without something to hold you up, to keep your balance, you were falling.
It didn’t make sense, none of it made sense. Everything around you was crumbling and falling away, your brain was breaking, head gashed open over and over by an axe–
Warmth. Stability. The scent of cloves and orange spice.
In an instant, it all quieted down, mind blissfully blank, pain numbed with the heaviest shot of morphine you’d ever received in the form of the giant that came to save you.
Dizzy, your eyes opened, and you found yourself back in the safehouse. Your head wasn’t splitting open anymore, and your side didn’t ache as bad as it had earlier. Unfortunately, your knee took the brunt of the damage when you stumbled around on the field, and from your careless pacing. I’ll need to use the cane again, you thought, sighing through your nose. And you’d just gotten rid of the thing, too.
You looked to the closed door you’d exited through, shoulders slumping.
"They aren't coming," the words are flavored with an accent and the pleasure of your pain.
The team didn't want you, not like they wanted Maria.
Maria, who served savagely and drank wildly. Maria, who could be called stoic and was everything expected of a member of Task Force 141. Maria, who they wanted, who they would save when presented the choice. Maria... Maria... Maria who was your friend and you hoped to the gods beyond the stars they reached in time.
You were nothing like Maria, bright and full of laughter. You fought with the devil at your back but one mistake (and not meeting the visual standard of a special forces soldier) had damned you to a lonesome death.
"I know," the wretched whisper, acknowledged everything that could no longer be ignored.
When the bang of a gun rang out, you flinched—it wasn't your body that fell.
When your high-powered marketing career goes up in flames, you find yourself back in Texas and out of options—until your old childhood friend Tommy offers you a job at his family’s growing construction company. The only catch? His older brother Joel, the project manager with a chip on his shoulder and zero patience for your city-slicker attitude.
You clash instantly: you’re clever, confident, and painfully corporate. He’s quiet, rugged, and set in his ways. You push his buttons. He pushes back harder. But somewhere between long meetings, late nights, resurfacing memories, and hurt, along with one very unexpected work trip… the tension starts to shift.
What begins as bickering turns into banter. Glances linger. Walls crack. And neither of you is quite sure when things started to change.
Christmas fluff, post-main story, slight spoilers if you really read into it, family fluff
♡ Fan-Extras:
Moodboards by @broknedits
Fan edits by @evcrmoree
Joel and Reader's son fanart, baby!Sarah + young!Joel by @krispykattv
Happy couple things fanart, chapter 29, young!Joel's animal (mostly oc x t&c!Joel) by @hoziersguitarr
Family Tree by @honey-moon-13
When your high-powered marketing career goes up in flames, you find yourself back in Texas and out of options—until your old childhood friend Tommy offers you a job at his family’s growing construction company. The only catch? His older brother Joel, the project manager with a chip on his shoulder and zero patience for your city-slicker attitude.
You clash instantly: you’re clever, confident, and painfully corporate. He’s quiet, rugged, and set in his ways. You push his buttons. He pushes back harder. But somewhere between long meetings, late nights, resurfacing memories, and hurt, along with one very unexpected work trip… the tension starts to shift.
What begins as bickering turns into banter. Glances linger. Walls crack. And neither of you is quite sure when things started to change.
Christmas fluff, post-main story, slight spoilers if you really read into it, family fluff
♡ Fan-Extras:
Moodboards by @broknedits
Fan edits by @evcrmoree
Joel and Reader's son fanart, baby!Sarah + young!Joel by @krispykattv
Happy couple things fanart, chapter 29, young!Joel's animal (mostly oc x t&c!Joel) by @hoziersguitarr
Family Tree by @honey-moon-13
simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist
Epilogue: anything
The bathtub spout stares at Simon as he dips his hand in the water, and he is not afraid.
Tepid water grows warm like fresh milk. It swirls around his fingers as he plugs the drain, allowing the basin to fill until it promises to kiss the ridge after submersion.
This was one of your only requests upon buying a house—it needs to have a bathtub large enough for you to sink into. Something that would swallow you without wanting to spit you out too soon. Of course, there was nothing of the likes. But Simon promised you anything you wanted, and installing a corner garden tub was much easier than hoping Manchester would actually give him anything of value. Your smile alone was worth the hard labor.
Once he's content with the suds foaming on the water's surface and the soft aroma of vanilla in the air, Simon leans back on his haunches to inspect his work while he listens as your footsteps wander closer to the bathroom. From the corner of his eye he can see your obnoxiously fluffy robe and the way you wrap your arms around yourself, molars knocking together as you hold back waves of shivers. You blink long and slow, gaze focused on the bath with drawn brows.
"What's this for?" you ask.
"You said you were cold," he shrugs.
Waddling up to his side, it doesn't take long for your fingers to find the nape of his neck. You rub small circles where his hairline and skin clash as you lean against him. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know." He casts his attention upwards, cheeks pressing against your legs as he reaches a hand up along your stomach. Fingers gripping the knot on your robe, he tugs until the fabric comes free. "Hop in, sweetheart."
Your body vanishes behind iridescent bubbles as you sink down far enough for the water to swallow your throat. You hum at the steam that wafts up through the blanket of suds, extremities finally warming despite the chilly February air.
Simon presses a kiss to your forehead before he vanishes into the bedroom and retrieves several toys hidden in the closet. It's Joseph's birthday today and he certainly didn't skimp when it came to his nephew's special day. RC planes, car toys, new packs of clothes (since the kid wants to grow just as fast as his father did); he lays everything out on the floor before sizing it up next to wrapping paper and obscuring the treats behind superhero themed icons and caricatures.
Once they're decorated with glistening bows, Simon makes sure to sign each one:
To: Joey From: Uncle Simon and Aunt Chip.
Time ticks away and an anxious lump forms in his throat as he braves the frost and loads the presents into his car. It isn't until there's a tiny mountain of them that he begins to second guess how many he's gotten, but he inwardly shrugs before marching back to the house. The living room welcomes him with open arms as a gas fireplace flicks on. He recalls the first night the temperatures fell—how you curled up on the floor like a lazy cat smothered in a blanket just to keep warm, basking in the flames.
Your feet tap away at the floor overhead prompting Simon to clear his mind as he ascends to the bedroom. He catches you just as you've slipped a dress over your shoulders; the same one he bought you last year when he noticed you couldn't stop staring at it. It had been eons since you last wore something like that, you admitted. Something soft and fluid. Dainty. Your old life wouldn't allow it.
Now you're styling it with warm socks to ease the bite of winter and a scarf that doubles as a shawl. Your skin still glistens from your bath, giving the illusion that the cotton bodice is glowing from the inside out. His heart pounds in his chest when you spin around to face him, skirt flaring out around your legs. Your smile could wound him. It could draw blood and still it would never waiver.
"What do you think?" you prompt.
Unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth, he nods. "Beautiful."
He knows something's wrong the moment you reach up for your ears, fingers pinching and tugging on your earlobes. Holding up a finger, you quickly dash to your nightstand to retrieve your hearing aids from their chargers before shoving them into your ears and placing your hands behind your back to rock on your heels.
"Gorgeous," Simon coos.
Laughing, you rush up to him and toss your arms around his neck, capturing him in an embrace he gladly welcomes. You've gotten confident with physical touch. Never afraid to ask for it, to give or receive it. Blemishes fade, cracks pasted with gold—the gentle mending of yourself has been a journey, one you're still enduring, but the growing pains are worth it.
He feels the ripening in your lips, the warmth they exude, how you melt into him. There's your fingers in his hair, your palm against his cheek, then your head resting on the place where a blade nearly stole him from you. You hum as if he still needs healing, as if he hasn't grown back into himself, fat, muscle and all, as if he's still fragile. A gentle reminder of his strength bleeds into you as he places his hand on your lower back, fingers digging into taut flesh.
"Ready?" he asks.
You nod. "Ready."
Joseph still calls you Aunt Chippy. It's a name you wear with honor as you scoop him into your arms while he's clad in pilot's gear, complete with a floppy leather hat that droops down far enough to threaten his eyesight. His mother has gone all out with the decorations. Cardboard planes hang from the ceiling, tilting with the natural flow of the living room, balloons arch along each walkway, and his favorite animated movie plays quietly in the living room.
Gasps and coos explode throughout the dining room when Beth presents Joseph's cake, complete with five candles to mark his age. Everyone sings then cheers when he blows them out, and he ensures that everyone gets a piece of the vanilla delicacy. Simon chuckles at your indulgence, but he doesn't mind wiping frosting from the corner of your mouth and sucking it clean off of his thumb.
When it comes time for presents, Joseph demands that you be the one to sit next to him on the floor. Curled with your legs to the side and skirt tucked beneath your knees, you hand presents to him bit by bit and assist him in reading the words on the cards he doesn't know yet. He rips into wrapping paper until there's a shredded mess around the two of you and he's squealing at each gift he recognizes.
Simon's pulse thuds in his chest as he watches you. The curl of your lips, the shaking of your shoulders as you laugh, the quiet correction of your hearing aids. The pressure against his ribs worsen the moment his fingers dip into his pockets, barely skimming the top before he freezes.
His torso crushes, muscles angrily contract; each beat of his heart overwhelms his ear drums. Sand plagues his mouth, dry and grainy, all while his palms seem to hold the ocean. It's panic in its purest form, a love he doesn't know how to articulate—
—the algid air outside is a cold splash of water against his face.
Each breath comes easier, but gets trapped in his lungs where it continues to expand then freeze in the open space. The sun winks in the sky above him, tucking the frost away and warming the back of his neck as he places his hands on the porch railing. Simon Riley has never been afraid to do anything. It's what has always set him aside from everyone else. Courage. The strength to do what no one else could bring themselves to do.
Now, each thought he has is accompanied with anxiety. Trembling hands prod at his pockets. No one has ever weakened him quite like you do.
The door behind him swings open, bringing a crescendo of chatter before it quickly dies. He doesn't need to turn around to know who's joining his side.
"If that's a fresh pack in your pocket, I'm telling," Tommy chides.
Simon can only shake his head as his brother knocks his shoulder against him. "Chip would kill me if it was."
"Yeah, well, she'd have to get in line."
Silence settles outside, broken only by the old wood creaking beneath their combined weight. Simon stares at his hands, fingers twitching with the blood that courses through him, not at all concerned with the physical effects it wreaks on him.
"Well, come on then. Let's see it," Tommy prods.
"See what?" he asks.
Annoyed, Tommy rolls his eyes. "That glitter you've got hidin' in your pocket."
Wary, Simon glances over his shoulder to ensure that the door is shut tight before he dares to move. Then, a velvet box. Dark and unassuming, he holds it in his palm as if its fragility demands reverence. The brothers look at it wordlessly for a long moment before Tommy flips the lid open.
Inside sits a ring. Its beauty is quiet, refusing to overwhelm but yet unapologetically dazzling in its radiance. A dainty band lined with gems to embellish the fox-red jewel that lies in the center. Tommy's chuckle is warm as he nods, fingers gently flipping the box closed.
"Gonna man up soon, then?" he asks.
"Been tryin' to for the last month," Simon admits before stowing the ring back to safety. "I just… don't wanna fuck it up."
Tommy shrugs. "Can't be worse than anything else you've ever done." When his teasing gets no verbal or visible reaction from his brother, he softens. "You mean the world to her. She's not gonna say no."
"It feels wrong. I've had to fight for everything. We both have. Doesn't feel real that she'd just waltz into my life and be mine."
Scoffing, Tommy shades his head before thumping the old scar hidden behind Simon's shirt. "You've already fought for her, 'member?"
The door squeaks behind them where giggles swell as Beth peeks her head outside. "There you boys are. Joey needs his father's help setting up one of his toys."
A silent understanding settles over the brothers as they file back inside, faces warm like they've never known the weight of the world. Simon finds you on the threshold between the living room and the dining room, eyes wandering away from the party, staring off somewhere you can't reach.
"What'cha thinkin' about, baby?" he asks.
Your eyes flicker to him and the dilation of your pupils ties his guts in knots. "I… I kinda want another slice of cake," you admit with a sheepish grin.
Chuckling, he nods towards the table. "Well go get one. Beth made plenty," he rationalizes.
"Yeah, but I don't wanna be eating cake all by myself."
"I'll get some with ya."
You blink. "Yeah?"
Simon swallows and his throat is tight. Sandpaper lines the soft tissue and sticks together, but he still smiles that same crooked smile he always does. His hand reaches for yours, squeezing your fingers between his, feeling for the empty space he wishes to fill with that gift in his pocket.
simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist
Chapter Thirty-Six: clean
Warm water washes over the back of Simon's neck. He's never felt more alive.
He can sense the way every bead drips down his spine, tracing the curves of his body until they soak into his skin or splash to the floor. It feels good on his body. The aching joints, the tender muscles—physical therapy has been unrelenting, but he's made progress. Most times getting through the day still feels like a monumental task, one he has to slog through. The epitome of scraping by.
But he has you. Loving fingers weave through his hair, covered with suds as you massage his shampoo into his scalp, nails digging up the solidified oils without complaint. You did this without asking. All he knew was the the bottle was in his hands one moment and then in yours the next, soap lathering between your palms with the quiet order for him to bow his head so you can wash up for him. You do it wordlessly, sharing nothing but a hum as you work.
"Okay. Rinse."
This part he does on his own. Head leaning back, soap runs clean out of his hair until the strands seem to stick together. When he's finished, he wipes the excess moisture from his eyes so that they're clear to look at you. The steam softens you. Your edges look like mist, soft enough to form into the shape he wants. His hands find your hips, thumbs digging into you as he pulls you closer.
"My turn to wash you up?" he offers.
"Hmm?" you tilt your head.
"Want me to wash you up, baby?"
There's slight panic in your eyes as you press your lips together, and it doesn't take long for Simon to sniff out the culprit. Your hearing has been getting worse these days—apparently it was another ear infection to blame. While he was gone (gone; it's the only way he can think about the coma that stole so much from him) you had cried yourself sick. At least, that's what Aelin informed him of during their last visit when you had seemingly ignored a question, one you just simply couldn't hear.
More antibiotics. More hearing loss. So he leans forward, lips pressing against the shell of your good ear.
"Let me wash you, sweetheart," he says, ensuring his voice cuts through the noise of the shower.
"Oh! Okay, yeah, if you want," you giggle.
He shows you how bad he wants to. Body gel smoothing over his palms, he runs his hands along the entire expanse of your body, scraping off the dust that's collected on you as if you were fine china. A porcelain doll he's watched shatter over and over again—he traces the lines of you. The soft tissue along your spine, the roll of your hips, the quiet scar on the side of your face and the glass that still lurks beneath, waiting to bite.
You've started to melt these last few months. That strange exterior you wore so well when he first met you has thawed into a puddle at your feet. It circles the drain like old blood. In some places, you are still stained. Healing is far from linear; he would know that better than anyone. Still, you sleep better at night and you've long since stopped questioning his generosity. When you speak Marco's name, you tremble less. He's long since disintegrated into a less than fond dream too far out of your reach.
All that's left of him is a bad taste in your mouth and a few burnt Polaroids in a landfill somewhere.
"Are you sure you're feeling up to going back to work?" you ask.
Humming, Simon stays close to your ear as he begins to work on your back, nails gently scraping along your flank to work off the dead skin. "Gotta make money somehow."
"I know, I just… worry about you." As if testing his own strength, Simon digs his thumbs into your shoulders where the knots are thickest. He still feels weak, but for now it's enough to get you to keen. "I should start working again, too."
"Yeah?" he prompts.
Nodding, you begin to lean back into him. His chest is warm; slowly regaining that softness it once had before Marco ruined him. "Maybe Bruce will take me back. Sapori wasn't too bad, and Bee's a good friend."
"You don't have'ta go back," Simon murmurs against your earlobe. "I make more than enough money."
"But I wanna take care of you, too."
Arms wrapping around your front, he pulls you closer as he kisses the side of your face. "You already do, sweetheart."
The two of you stay in the shower until the water goes cold. Algid ice against your skin, yet Simon is still so warm. You take turns drying each other off until it's enough for you to brave the chilly air behind the curtain. A foggy mirror greets Simon once his feet settle on tile but it isn't long until your palm is wiping along the surface, gathering the condensation on your palm and wiping it on your towel.
Months have passed since he was discharged from the hospital, yet he still doesn't recognize himself. Not the pockets beneath his cheekbones, nor the protrusion of his ribs. He's growing back into himself—body widening with muscle and fat—but there are parts he can't get back. Pieces of him are left to rot back in the abattoir. As your fingers run over his chest and lips press against his old wounds, he smiles at the fact that at least the important parts are still here.
Getting dressed is a well versed dance, one neither of you need to perform anymore but still do anyway. He's long since been able to raise his arm over his head again, yet you still assist him with his shirt, pulling the cotton over his body until it's fitting properly. Each article dressed ends in a kiss.
He holds your hand for the entire drive to Aelin's house. A proper girl's night, you're calling it, complete with the two of you plus your new beloved niece. For weeks now you've been glued to his side but Simon's sure this will be good for you; enjoying time with a friend, far away from the bitter reminder that he's still soaked in despite your cleansing hands.
You give him a kiss goodbye, and he assures you he'll only be working half a shift tonight before coming to pick you up. Hands glued to the wheel of the car, he watches you hop up the walkway and vanish behind the front door with hints of blonde hair and a set of tiny hands welcoming you inside.
The more distance he puts between your bodies, the more his skin starts to itch. Memories swarm his mind of the last time he left you alone with Aelin—to this day you swear your nose hasn't healed quite straight. Rationalizing it only helps so much. Marco's dead, a man turned into a fountain of blood, left to suffer until he's either six feet under or discarded in some ditch for the foxes to scavenge, and though Makarov isn't the most mentally sound man he's ever met, he is a man of honor. Rules aren't meant to be broken, especially by him.
Still, the thrumming music of Terminus doesn't put him at ease, not even as he dives into the depths of the basement where the club is left as nothing but a heaven he refuses to ascend to. People look at him like he's a ghost. A zombie wandering where it shouldn't—a man dragged out of his grave and forced to live for his own sake.
To prove to himself he's still as dangerous as he always was, he eyes the workout equipment; weights, punching bags, treadmills. Physical therapy has given him his mobility back, but his strength hardly reaches beyond drawing breath. Where he once used to lift dumbbells with ease, he now feels the screaming in his shoulders and biceps. His stomach sinks. The weight in his chest is heavier than the physical capabilities of his body now.
A young boy too small to fight back against monsters. Nose kissing nothing but bath spouts. Fingers gripping nothing but angry wrists.
Curled fists bite into the punching bag and Simon can't help but curse at the stillness of it. The next adventure breathes down his neck with each punch he lands, whispering to him, reminding him that the clock is ticking. How much longer until the next beast comes to rip things apart? He's behind the curve. Once strong iron now fearing the rot of rust creeping up his spine, settling deep in his bones, slowing him until the only useful part of him is his eyes—he'll need them in order to witness the way everything is ripped from his useless hands over and over again.
"No rest for the wicked, it seems."
Jumping, Simon snaps his head over his shoulder to find John moseying into the weight room. It's been weeks since he's last seen him, yet he still looks the same; perhaps more tired if anything. Fatherhood has changed him in little ways. He smiles more. Checks his phone more often. It's a good look on a man who has spent all his life exhausted in other ways—darker ways.
Simon wipes the sweat from his forehead with a huff before shaking out his hands. The callouses on his knuckles that he's curated over the years have begun to soften, leaving the ache to radiate down to his wrists.
"Surprised you're here," John continues. He crosses his arms, shoulders resting against the side of the treadmill as he studies Simon. "I would've bet money saying that you'd stay home with Chip."
Wandering away from the bag, Simon shrugs. "Thought the wife didn't like it when you gambled."
John can only grin in response.
The two men meander until they reach their respective positions—sitting across one another, bodies resting on some piece of equipment, shoulders curled forward as if hunched over a campfire telling war stories. John's gaze is heavy as he attempts to find anything familiar in Simon, but out of everyone in this circle of hell, he's changed the most. Keeping his lips quiet about the physical change, he wanders to kinder pastures.
"How's the healing going?" John asks.
Simon shrugs. "No different than usual. Therapist gave me the boot. Said to come back if I start regressing."
"You're not gonna regress."
"Not if I can help it," he agrees.
"Good man."
Smirking, Simon's head tilts to the side. "Good 'nough to take your spot?"
John raises his brows. "This job dies with me, son." Pausing, he shakes his head before bringing the main topic back in the spotlight. "And Chip? How is she? She keeps telling me she's fine but… well, we both know how good of a liar she is."
Like usual, Simon's initial reaction is to shake it off, make up some believable half-truth. Instead, he pauses and thinks back to the shower the two of you shared. Perfect. Beautiful. Your body shoved up against his beneath running water, tension in your muscles melting away until it's circling the drain.
"She's good. For the most part," Simon admits. "Happy. Happier than I've ever seen 'er but she's carryin' somethin. It's like she's tryin' to pay me back."
Tense fingers run through the overgrown facial hair on John's face as he nods. "She's been through a lot. Fuck, she had that debt to Marco for years. Poor girl probably isn't used to not owing someone."
"I'm workin' on it," Simon assures. "Just don't wanna rush 'er."
"I know."
The conversation derails the moment John's phone buzzes in his slacks. Holding his finger up, he cuts Simon off before retrieving the device, suddenly enamored with his screen. Grateful for the distraction, Simon uses it as a moment to catch his breath. It's another surgery. A diligent operation, and John's the only one with scalpels.
Smiling at the screen, John begins to type, eyes not bothering to look up as he speaks. "You should get out of here."
Curious eyes study John as Simon leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. "You tellin' me to go home?"
"Don't care," he shrugs. His thumb makes a decisive click and finally John's eyes flicker away from his phone. "Been thinking about it for a while now. Get out of here. I don't want you coming back, either."
His tone is too serious for this to be a joke, but it's too difficult for him to read as John goes back to his phone. Straightening his spine, Simon nearly stands to his feet, confused anger coursing through him. "The fuck're you talkin' about? You givin' me a P45?"
"Sure," John flippantly confirms. "Don't care what you call it, Riley, I just want you out of here."
Curling fingers dig into Simon's kneecaps as he tries to catch John's attention, but the man is too enamored with whatever is on his phone—something more important than him. The smarter part of him tells him to bite back his anger and keep his tongue even, but the frustration growing in his chest quickly overwhelms all equanimity.
"Is this 'bout the fight? Price, I'm gettin' better, I'm not some fuckin' liability," Simon argues.
Finally, John looks at him, but he keeps his phone poised high enough that he can continue to glance down at the screen. The only thing keeping Simon from ripping it out of his hands and throwing it across the room is his quiet hope that he can convince him to stop talking nonsense.
"I'm not getting out of here, Simon," John says, stoicism swallowing his face, leaving him unreadable. "I was born into this life, this work, but you weren't. I dragged you into this, now I'm kicking you out before it's too late."
"Too late?" Simon repeats, words dripping with venom. "Fuckin' look at me. I'm knee deep in this shit and you think you can just rip me out? Tell me to go live some normal fuckin' life after everything I've done?"
"That's exactly what I'm doing."
Tension grows in Simon's jaw but quickly ebbs the moment John finally turns his phone to to him. He holds it out like a gift, tenderly, fearful that it might shatter. Simon feels his heart freeze.
It's you.
A picture from Aelin illuminates the screen with you center frame holding Amelia. She's got her mother's bright eyes and her father's dark hair which sticks up at every angle despite the floral headband attempting to swallow the mess. At a few month's old, she's able to hold her head up on her own as she sits in your lap, rosy cheeks scrunching as she grins at her mother from behind the camera. You beam down at her, hands carefully holding her close to you as you place a gentle kiss to the top of her head. Amelia's hand is blurry, like she's too excited to keep still.
Underneath the picture is a text from Aelin: Little Rosie and her Aunt Chip.
For the first time, Simon dreams of a quiet life and what it might look like with you. A big yard wet with fresh rain, your bare feet wading through the grass, tinier feet frolicking after you. He swallows, presses his thumb against the screen as if the heat from the phone is the warmth of your skin against him. You, unburdened.
"I know you don't do well without orders, so consider this my final request." John slips the phone out of Simon's hand, ensuring that he's looking nowhere else but at him. "Get out of here. Out of Terminus, out of London. I don't care where you go, just get Chip out of here. She's been in this shit for too long. Just make sure she's happy, yeah? It's the least she deserves."
After so many years, Simon Riley finally understands why he was put on this earth. He's always known he was supposed to take care of people. Saving his brother from his addiction, ensuring his mother always had food on the table, plucking you out of the fray and keeping you out of harm's way—but he's always done it with blood. Shattered knuckles and noses, gritting teeth and curses. Now he thinks he was always meant to do it softly. Save tenderly. Nurture life with quiet kisses and you on the other side of the bed.
Maybe now that he has you, he can be soft.
Both men stand in quiet agreement. The path is carved so obviously in front of him that Simon knows he can't stray. Choking back his old life, he extends his hand for John to shake. The man pushes it to the side and pulls Simon in for a hug instead. He freezes, body going rigid until John pats his back, bringing him down to earth.
"Take good care of her."
As Simon climbs out of the basement, he feels lighter than he's felt in years. The weight of survival has been replaced with the weight of flourishing—a sanguinity he hasn't experienced in ages. He can hardly even feel the heat of Terminus as he makes it to the main floor with its pulsing music and dancing bodies. They leave the air thick enough to make his old wound tickle, but he pushes past the mess as he makes a beeline for the security exit.
All he can think about is what he wants to ask you and how he's going to do it. Leave this place. Leave with me. I'll take you anywhere you want to go, just stay with me.
He did promise you he'd take you to Manchester.
"Riley! Hey!"
Before he can even get his hand on the door, he's looking over his shoulder to find Marcel chasing after him. He's surprised to see that he's even here after everything that happened, but he doesn't make a comment on it yet. There's an apology written all over the boy's face as his pace slows and an awkward smile settles on his features. He's finally shaved properly. Simon nearly congratulates him on looking like a proper human instead of a half-scruffy dog.
"Didn't expect to see you here," Simon admits bluntly.
"Yeah, I'm surprised that Mr. Price took me back after… well…" Hardly a few seconds into the conversation and the boy is choking on his words like usual. Still, Simon is patient with him. "I never got to thank you for everything that happened that night. I know you didn't do it for me but it would've been a lot easier for you to just… well, and you wouldn't have gotten hurt like you did, and I just—erm—"
"No need to thank me," Simon interjects, putting the kid out of his misery. "Just glad you're doin' alright."
Marcel nods in unison with an anxious laugh as his hand digs through his work slacks. He retrieves a pack of cigarettes still freshly sealed in plastic. "Well, thank you, and I'm sorry about everything. Here, take these. MacTavish told me these were your favorite."
Temptation gnaws at the back of Simon's neck as he looks at the cigarettes. It's been months since he's had one—before his lung collapsed and he was rendered unconscious for months. Chuckling, he shakes his head.
"I quit smokin' but thanks. You keep 'em." Conversation falling into a doldrum, Marcel is left floundering as he stares down at the pack. Simon can only huff as he places his hand on the kid's shoulder, and he tries not to laugh too hard when Marcel jumps. "Have a good life, Marcel."
The music swallows Marcel's confusion as Simon turns around. There's a heavy smirk pulling on his lips that refuses to go away. It stays ingrained in his being as he pushes through the exit knowing full well he will never set foot in Terminus again.
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it is literally 1:37 am and i don’t know if anyone will ever read this
guys i am an ORIGINAL IN LIMBO FAN. I NOTICED WHEN IT WAS TAKEN DOWN and i was so sad that author had to go through what happened and i can’t believe i stumbled back here.
i reread it all. it’s so good makes me cry i love this so much it’s insane. and i love row. my baby. this fic is amazing you guys understand how much i love it i binged this so hardddd omg ophelia i noticed when u deleted ur account and everything literally welcome back
simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist
Chapter Twenty: ouroboros
tw: non-con mention, heavy emotions, hurt/comfort
Simon feels sick.
He feels sick in the way that medicine can’t cure and alcohol can’t numb. This condition is a life long affliction that’s been hiding dormant beneath his skin, patiently waiting for the perfect moment to sprout up and ruin him. Fire is the only thing that can purge the feeling that hangs over his head like a noose waiting to string him up in the gallows. Feet dangling, trachea crushing—would it be enough to cleanse him?
It’s been nearly half an hour since you last said anything, though the passage of time in his mind would convince him that it’s been days. Your voice has not rattled his ear drums in so long that he fears he might never hear anything from you ever again, and the arms that wrap around you to keep you held close to him urge to squeeze you. Maybe if he compresses you tightly enough, he can get you to coo and smile like you always do.
Instead, Simon’s eyes focus on where his hand still rests on your upper arm. His stomach churns at the sight, and he feels bile poke and prod at the thin lining of his stomach as his body recalls the way your hands pushed at his chest—how your voice cracked when you looked up at him—the terror in your eyes brands him a monster.
Did he go too fast? Did you see his playful teasing as something more predatory? The tightness in your throat, the desperation in your voice—was that fear instead of desire? Did you not want his hands on you?
Can you even stand the touch of him now?
Solicitude getting the better of him, Simon shifts beneath you, rocking your body to the side. His heart skips a beat when he hears your disgruntled whine as you nuzzle closer to him. Your arms snake around his torso. Face buried into his ribs, you attach yourself to him like a parasite—some lesser creature who would crumble without the aid of a host to keep you on your feet.
“Chip?” His susurrus is a soft rumble against your cheek, but you can only bring yourself to respond with a grunt. “Baby, what’s goin’ on?”
You swallow and it’s thick like molasses in the back of your throat. The pounding terror in your chest has dwindled over the last little while, but you still feel the way it lurks throughout your abdomen. It nudges its nose against the chambers of your heart and bites at the quivering muscle with venomous teeth. It injects the worst recollections into you. Mint breath. Blood flowers. Green eyes.
“I dunno,” you mutter.
Simon attempts to move again, but your constricting grip only grows more firm around him. Nose against his side, you don’t think you could stand looking at him—at him looking at you. If you pull away from him now, he might see the blood that’s been leaking out of you since you were sixteen.
His hand moves up from your arm to cup the back of your head. “Did I do somethin’ wrong?”
“No.” Your answer is quick—decisive. “No, it’s not you.”
Your adamant denial offers Simon only minimal reprieve. “Talk to me, baby. What’s goin’ on?”
His begging is only met with more silence.
“Please, Chip. Let me help you.”
Ouroboros—that’s what this feeling is. You haven’t been able to place your thumb on it until this moment despite the fact it’s plagued you for most of your life. This cycle of pain. Of remembering. You’ve been forced to devour yourself whole, even the blackened rot and decay of your skin. Every time someone finds you with your mouth full, they always beg the same thing.
But you cannot clamp your maw down to cut yourself off any more than you can spit your body back out.
Still, your core engages—you’d at least like to try.
“It’s Marco,” you say, timid voice fracturing. Your words are incomplete. Broken. You try to spew them out anyway. “I… dunno how to say it.”
Simon’s muscles twitch beneath you. “Did he say something to you?”
“No. Well, yes, but-” You cut yourself off with a frustrated huff.
“Hey, one step at a time,” Simon says softly, grounding you. “Take it slow. Start from the beginning.”
Your lungs expand with breath so violently that your diaphragm shakes and stutters with the movement. Oxygen burrows into the alveoli where it stings with a pain that quiets the wicked humming in your brain.
You step into that kitchen again.
Blood on linoleum—you breathe it in—
“I… didn’t tell you everything about… the day Marco killed my mum.” It’s the first admittance of your sin. Of the wrongs that were forced upon you that day. Still curled against Simon’s side, you feel your muscles liquify as if you’re about to deliquesce into the couch. “It’s really hard to say.”
“I’ve got all day, sweetheart,” Simon soothes as he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.
Nodding, your eyes focus on the coffee table in front of you. Something tangible. Stagnant.
“It was the last day of school before the end of term. I had just got home when I found mum’s body in the kitchen. I still see her like that, sometimes. Or I dream about her. Hunched over below the kitchen sink. Marco had… had stabbed her. I remember just being so in shock at her body and just- like, none of it made sense. So I just sort of froze, and I didn’t hear Marco when he came up behind me. He pinned me against the wall and he had this knife that he kind of kept up to my throat and stuff so that I wouldn’t move or fight him.
“He… he was the worst. Grinning and chuckling about killing my mum, and talking about my dad dying too. He was just so fucking arrogant. Like he thought he was untouchable or something. But he explained sort of what was going on and was pressuring me into paying off my dad’s debt, and I just agreed because I was too afraid to die but… he said he would make a deal with me.”
Spittle clogs the back of your throat and you cough. Instinctively, Simon pats your back—your eyes squeeze tight at his touch.
“He said that if I… If I had sex with him, he would cut the debt a little. O-Or that if I was a virgin, he would cut it in half. And he just started—like—to put his hand up my skirt and I just- I-”
Your body screams. Despite the overall callosity that taints your skin, that terror still nettles in the back of your mind. If you think about it too hard, you can still feel the way his hands defiled you that day, and your stomach twists worse than it did the night Andrei pulled his knife out on Simon.
“I just remember thinking to myself that I was glad mum is dead,” you admit with asperity. “Like—I know it sounds crazy—but I don’t think I could have lived with myself if he had raped me in front of her, you know?”
Each word you speak has Simon’s body growing rigid. You feel the way his muscles harden into iron and stone as he holds you close—you hear how his heart thrums away in his chest like a drum calling soldiers to wage war. “Did he?”
“Rape me?” you confirm. “No. He stopped when I told him that I would pay it.”
Simon’s head rocks against yours as he nods. “You said this happened at the end of term… were you in uni?”
“No, I was in secondary school. I was… I was sixteen,” you reveal. “Marco knew I was in school, so he told me he was going to be nice and wait until I was old enough to get a job to start paying things back. And like, I couldn’t have ever gone to uni like that. Working enough to pay for housing, and the costs, and paying Marco? I just went straight to work as soon as I could. Never got a degree; never got a job that would actually pay me well enough to live…
“But I made do. You know, I made the payments as best as I could all while keeping on top of things for the most part. It helped that I was living with Aelin and John for a little while, so I didn’t have to worry about rent until I was like, nineteen. But Marco, sometimes he… uses it against me.”
The more you speak, the more enervated you feel. It nestles into the marrow of your bones until your body feels twice as heavy. Nothing feels real. Nothing feels tangible. Except for maybe Simon’s bare skin against your own.
“What does he use against you?” he prods, pushing you to further explain.
“He’s always kept that offer hanging over my head. About me having sex with him.” Chapped lips rub up against one another and you find your tongue darting out of your mouth to wet them before you continue. “Like… that time you and Andrei fought in the alley? He said that he was going to have to raise my monthly payments because of that, since it was kind of my fault that Andrei’s nose got broken… fifteen hundred a month. I got so frustrated that I started crying because there was no way I was going to afford that so he… kissed me. We were in the middle of the laundromat in broad daylight and he just held me on that bench a-and when he was done he said he would only make me pay twelve-fifty instead.”
“He did that to you?” Simon is apoplectic. His hatred bleeds into his tone as your voice trails off at the end of your spiel. It grows as unbridled rage beneath his skin until his muscles are twitching.
“He’s done worse,” you dismiss.
“Like what?”
The temptation to prevaricate gnaws at you like a dog with a bone as sour memories tickle the back of your mind. Your toes prod at the edge of a threshold. There is a line that you’re not sure if you want to cross or not, but the veil that tickles your fingertips promises relief. The temptation whispers that if you can muster the bravery to toss yourself to the other side, you could—even if only for a moment—find some sort of peace.
“You don’t have to say it if you don’t want to,” Simon hums when your silence begins to stretch.
“No, I want to. I need to say it,” you assure. “It’s just… hard.”
“Take your time, baby. I’m right here.”
Your body requires a few more deep breaths before your brain feels quiet enough for you to sift through the monstrous amalgamation of memories Marco has forced upon you throughout the years. They weave through the grey matter in your brain. They root and feed on the most vulnerable parts of you until they shoot through your cranium and strangle you from the inside out.
You have to purge it, lest it consumes you.
“Before Marco moved our meeting place to the laundromat by my apartment, he had us meet at a pawn shop,” you say. The strength it takes to keep your voice from quivering is exhausting, but you push through the pain like you always do.
“Tsar Trading.” He says it like it’s a statement rather than a question—as if he already has the exact shape of the building memorized beneath the pads of his fingertips.
You nod. “Yeah. Tsar Trading. Usually I would just go up to the counter and drop off my payment to him, but this one time when I was maybe nineteen, soon after I started living on my own, I didn’t have enough. I had gotten really sick and wasn’t able to work, so my pay wasn’t as much as it usually is. I tried asking for an extension, or offered to pay the missing amount and more with my next payment, but he told me to follow him into the back of the shop.
“The building doesn’t look that big from the outside, but when he brought me back it looked sort of like a warehouse with these shelves and just—like—these people walking around and I just… he brought me to this chair. Just a simple plastic school chair, and he m-made me sit in it. And I just remember noticing all the blood stains around the cement and thinking that he was going to kill me. I had messed up, and he was going to kill me just like he killed mum.”
Always dripping, more tears begin to leak from your eyes where they wet Simon’s bare skin, cementing your cheek to his side. Sniffling, you do your best to wipe the moisture away, but it’s never-ending. Eventually, you give up. Simon does not make mention of the moisture on his skin, and keeps quiet as he lets you pull yourself back together.
“But as I’m sitting there, he reaches for my hand and… and he—like—makes me… he makes me t-touch him through his clothes, and he tells me that I’ve got two options. That I can—fuck… I hate this. He says I can either use my mouth, or use my hand, and so I just do it because I dunno what else to do and the whole time he’s just- he’s just talking so much. Saying how he wishes I’d let him fuck me and that I wouldn’t have to worry so much about the debt if I’d stop b-being a choosy minx about it and—oh my god, Simon—so many people were just- they just watched!
“They all watched him do that to me! And they’d whistle and tease, and Marco, he would keep stopping so that it would last longer. I couldn’t even cry. I just tried to push through it until he was finished and then he kisses me and tells me not to worry about the rest of the money for that month and sends me on my way like he didn’t just- just…
“I-I’ve been—fuck—I’ve been so afraid to ever have sex because he always holds me being a virgin over my head like he can help me, and I’ve never told anyone about any of this. Simon, I-I feel so bad. Like I’ve been hiding something terrible from you. I’m so sorry, but I just- Simon I’ve never felt about anyone like I feel about you! You make me feel so good—so loved—and I was worried that if you ever knew what Marco did to me t-that you wouldn’t like me anymore because you’d think I’m gross, and I’m just s-so scared all the time, and I just—fuck!—I don’t know what to do!”
Pulling apart at the seams, your old scars regress back into open wounds, and you spill out of yourself—both the destroyer and the victim. Simon’s body shifts beneath you as he pulls you closer. Arms like sutures, he stitches you back together as he holds you firmly against him, refusing to allow you to fall apart past the point of no return. His body heats against yours as vitriol warms his skin and sends his heart pounding into overdrive—his knuckles itch. His fingernails yearn for the color of ichor to soak their cuticles. Each phalange that twitches in his fingers craves the sharp crack of cartilage to pop beneath their grasp.
Simon’s tongue prods his teeth—he’s checking how sharp they are. He’s gauging how hard he needs to bite to end Marco’s life.
And still—even with all this rage nipping at his heels—he snuffs it out in favor of holding you. Vengeance can come later. It can come when you’re no longer crumbling in his grasp.
“I’ve got ya, baby,” Simon whispers, voice hardly cutting through the sharp squeal of your wailing. You feel impossibly small in his arms—like this is the first time he’s held you and realized just how fragile you are. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. I’d never leave you.” A culmination of fury and frustration constricts his trachea, and his voice grows tense with each word that he speaks. “None of that was your fault. You hear me? None of that.”
“It feels like it is,” you confess, anguish heavy on your tongue. “I feel like I’m just prolonging the inevitable.”
“It’s not your fault,” he reiterates. “Marco’s not gonna lay a fuckin’ hand on you ever again.”
Your silence is the only proof of your doubt that Simon needs to witness, but there are other hints. He feels it in the trembling of your body—how you quiver and pulse beneath him like a writhing animal lying in wait of unforgiving teeth and greedy claws. It’s painted all over your skin—how you refuse to look at him; like you can’t stand being seen.
“This doesn’t change anything,” Simon whispers. He’s cradling your head, lips pressing against your skull as if he wishes to hold you properly. Not even his arms are large enough to embrace you whole; sorrow and all. “It doesn’t. This doesn’t change how I feel ‘bout you. It doesn’t make me love you any less.”
His words get your head to perk slightly. Your eyes are raw—your cheeks stick to Simon’s ribs as if your bodies have begun to meld together. “You mean that?”
Simon nods. “I do. I swear it. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
Neither of you say anything for a long while after that. Your words are spent. Your body is spent. Still curled into Simon’s side, you are stuck in a terrible state of the in between. Chained to purgatory. While you feel his body against yours—the way he kisses the top of your head, and how his heat bleeds into you—your mind is elsewhere. Severed from your physical form.
You are in that kitchen. You are in that warehouse. You are in that car.
The past haunts you with casual smirks and the huff of a breath across the apples of your cheeks. All it does is linger—all you can do is remember.
So you remember. It washes over you the way shame burns the layers of your epidermis, or the way a kiss sours in your throat. You remember until the firm pulse of Simon’s heart beats it out of you. A fist against your jaw, each throb immolates the pain until it is numbed—until it’s small enough to tuck away beneath your tongue where it can wait to grow and choke you once again down the road.
For now, it sits and waits. Patiently. Quiet enough for you to forget about it.
You are the lightest you have felt in years.
Ouroboros—you’ve finally managed to snap your jaw shut and swallow down the parts of you that you always thought you never could.
“I think… I think I wanna take a bath.” It feels like the first thing you’ve said in years; the first thing you’ve said with this new body of yours.
Simon nods. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll get one runnin’ for you, sweetheart.”
It takes Simon ten minutes to get the water to the right temperature. He’s not used to taking baths—he can’t even recall the last time he even had one that was by choice. By the time he’s satisfied with the steam that emanates from the spout, his heart squeezes so violently in his chest he’s certain he’ll pass out right there on the bathroom floor. But he doesn’t. As always, he persists.
Though he doesn’t have any soap fit for a bubble bath, he does his best with what he has, and decides to add some of your shower gel into the water. He froths the bubbles up by hand, swirling his arm through the water until there’s a decent layer and the scent hangs heavy enough in the air for it to make a difference. Simon stares at the way it swirls in front of him—he hopes he hasn’t tainted it by touch alone.
He tries to leave the room so that you can bathe by yourself, but he stays when you ask him to. Your voice is timid—impossibly small—when you ask him to turn around while you undress, but he follows your wishes without a second thought. You attempt to meet his gaze in the mirror before you sink into the water, but his eyes are shut tight.
The sight makes your heart flutter.
Once you’re settled into the bath, Simon sits on the floor with his back against the tub. Still shirtless, you catch the way his skin tightens from the cold enamel, but he doesn’t even hiss at the feeling. The water swaddles you with steam and a tingling burn that makes you hum as your head leans back against the wall. Somehow, your mind feels completely void of any thoughts. You are empty—a blank slate waiting to be reformed and filled.
“Do you work tonight?” You don’t know why you ask it, but the question slips past your lips anyway.
“I can call out,” Simon says, perking his ear toward you, yet refusing to look over his shoulder.
“No, that’s okay,” you hum. Limber fingers weave through the water as you play with the thin layer of bubbles along the surface. They sizzle and pop like a fryer as you move, and you close your eyes as you enjoy what little sounds you can hear. “I feel… surprisingly fine. I’ve never… talked about that before. To anyone. I always thought it would feel like the end of the world, and it sort of did, but now it… doesn’t.”
He nods. Knees bending, he rests his arms out on them as he stares at the cabinets in front of him. The pale paint is peeling on the corner a little, and he notes how they could use a good scrub due to the water stains. “I’m sure it wasn’t easy. I’m glad you shared it with me. You can tell me anythin’ you want to; I swear it won’t ever change anythin’ between us.”
Unsure of how to respond, you allow yourself to sink deeper into the water. Your knees poke further out of the surface as your neck is consumed in a mess of bubbles and soap. Before your brain can cook up a coherent response to Simon’s affirmations, he shatters the silence with his croaking voice.
“I’m sorry ‘bout movin’ too fast. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“What?” Your voice fractures in your confusion and you find yourself staring at the back of his head. “Simon, no, no I- you didn’t do anything wrong. I really wanted it. Like… I feel a little pathetic about how badly I wanted it—wanted you.” A chuckle bleeds past your lips, and as the sound reverberates off of the tiles around you, Simon feels it crash straight through his chest. “It was… the mint.”
Simon’s confusion visibly forms in the tension of his shoulders. “Mint?”
“Yeah, like… This is going to sound dumb, probably, but… Marco, he… always smells like mint. Like his breath? It’s like he’s always chewing on gum or something like that,” you explain. “And I just—I dunno—I smelled it on your breath and it just sorta… my brain just sort of freaked out, like I couldn’t make sense of anything.”
As you speak, Simon’s eyes begin to wander up. They focus away from the cupboard door in front of him and onto what little he can see of the countertop. He sees his toothbrush. His toothpaste. And then yours.
Kids fruity toothpaste.
No thanks. I… erm… don’t like mint.
“It’s not your fault,” you add in a panic. “You couldn’t have known about that, it was just sort of one of those things, and I’ve never really mentioned it before, so-”
“It’s okay, baby,” Simon interjects softly. “I know how nuanced this shit gets.”
A soft, dainty breath exhales from your lungs as you let go of the words that had built up in your throat. Simon’s mind is swirling. You can see it in the muscles that line his spine and the twitching in his jaw. He stares at his hands as he picks at his short-cut nails, body curled forward like a dog with his hackles raised.
Water sloshes around you as you curl forward. The edge of the tub is lukewarm against your cheek as you rest your head on it, and you sigh as more of Simon’s face comes into your view. Careful fingers rise out of the water as you trace a line along his shoulder, leaving a layer of glistening moisture to shine beneath the vanity lights.
“Si?”
He does not hesitate to look at you when you beckon. Neck craning, when he looks at you, his eyes dilate, forcing his pupils to swallow the sweet warmth of his irises. He focuses on the small curve of your lips—weary, but still there—and when your hands wander up to his face, he leans into your palm.
“Thank you. For everything. I… don’t know what I would do without you,” you whisper.
Body twisting, Simon brings a hand up to cup over yours, keeping you pressed against him for a short moment before pulling you away. Then, with a softness he can’t remember ever having mustered before, he kisses each of your knuckles before rubbing his thumb over them.
“I’d do anythin’ for you,” he says. “I mean it. Anything.” He swallows. “I love you.”
There is still that twitch in his fingers—that buzzing electricity that jolts through him, urging his muscles into action. His lungs expand as if pushing him to run, and his knuckles yearn to feel that familiar ache that always follows after they’ve kissed soft flesh or jutting bone. All that tension and virulent desire melts away the moment Simon sees the warm smile that graces your lips at his confession.
He realizes that he can put away those bad habits and macabre desires if it means he gets to see you like this—even if it’s only temporary.
“I love you, too.”
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