Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader, brief F!Reader x F!OC
Summary: The longer, more dangerous patrol routes around Jackson are designated to you and one Joel Miller. You both have an understanding with each other, talking wasn’t the biggest concern for either of you, but being confident in each other was. He wasn’t a bad friend in your scavenged life, but then again you were beginning to think you didn’t want to be just his friend…and that’s got you more than a little sexually frustrated.
Word Count: 6.3k (idk what happened, y’all)
Warnings: oh lord, okay: implied f/f attraction, implied f/f smut, use of sex toys, masturbation, language, pet names, p in v smut, sexual frustration, pining, mutual pining, reader is a hot mess, no use of y/n
A/N: okay, so this took a wildly different route than i anticipated? but i kinda like the way it turned out. I’m sure some scenes seem disconnected or the characterization doesn’t flow throughout but i got tired of reading and re-reading the entire thing and said ‘eh, it’s as good as it’ll get’. please let me know what y’all think?
Your hands released the hold they had on the lapels of his shirt, moving lower to rip open the snap buttons on his shirt to expose the top of his chest.
He didn’t give you the chance to explore as he took your hands in his own and guided them to feel the hard length of him through his jeans.
“This what you wanted, what had you so goddamn irritable all those weeks before?” He taunted in your ear, his warm breath on the side of your neck sending shivers down your spine. He twitched underneath your hands, and you felt your underwear dampen even more.
pairing: rockstar!joel miller x f tour manager!reader
summary: Tour rule #1: Don’t fall for the talent.
Too late.
You knew Joel Miller was difficult before you took the job. You just didn’t realize he’d be impossible to ignore. A seasoned rockstar with a reputation for being stubborn, Joel is determined to do things his way. As his new tour manager, your job is to keep him in line—not to fall for the way he looks at you when he thinks no one’s watching.
general series warnings, see each chapter's warnings for a full list: age gap (20-30s/50s), smut in most chapters, smoking (joel), drinking, a character recovering from childhood cancer, angst, possessive!joel, f! masturbation, m! Masturbation, explicit smut
ao3 link
i - Welcome to the Jungle
It’s your first day on the road. Your job is to keep Joel Miller’s tour on track. His job is to make that impossible.
chapter content - no smut this chapter, rockstar! joel, alcohol, mentions of childhood cancer, language
ii - Highway to Hell
You and Joel continue to butt heads, but this time, he gets under your skin in a way you can’t shake. The tension isn’t just anger anymore—it’s something else, something that keeps you up at night.
chapter content - language, sexual tension, alcohol use, cigarettes, f! masturbation because the tension is starting to build baybeeeee
iii - Under Pressure
Avoidance was supposed to make things easier, but Joel’s lingering stares and the weight of last night make it impossible to forget. When the tension finally breaks, neither of you stop it.
chapter content - explicit smut, language, sexual tension, heavy makeout sesh, m! masturbation, age gap, time for joels POV!!
iv - Need You Tonight
You try to keep things where they belong—professional, distant, clean. But there’s nothing clean about the way Joel looks at you, nothing distant about the way he fights for you. When it all falls apart, you don’t hesitate. You fall with him.
chapter content - language, drinking, brief violence, possessive/jealous Joel, explicit smut, unprotected p in v, f! oral, fingering
v - you make loving fun
You’re not supposed to crave him like this. Not in the quiet hours. Not in the way he holds you after. But lines are beginning to blur.
chapter content - not gonna lie this is chapter is pure filth and feelings, age gap, insecurity, language, drinking, cigarette smoking, joel catching feels, you catching feels, vulnerability, explicit p in v sex, creampie, dirty talk, fingering
vi - Landslide
You fit beside Joel so easily now. And that’s the part that scares him.
chapter content - age gap, insecurity, language, drinking, vulnerability, joel being a scared idiot, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, oral sex f!, ass play, slightly rough sex
vii - Wish You Were Here
Joel doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants, so he pushes you away instead.
chapter content - age gap, language, heavy drinking, joel is an idiot, fighting, angst, yearning, the dramaaaa
viii - Bridge Over Troubled Water
Sarah and Ellie have arrived, and you’re still here, still hurting, and still hoping, while Joel lets his songs speak in all the places he won’t.
chapter content - age gap, talking, lots and lots of talking, introspective joel and reader, yearning, sarah and ellie have entered the building
warnings: age gap (20s/50s), female masturbation, trouble orgasming, dissociation, ptsd, angst, anxiety and spiraling thoughts, unhealthy coping methods, reader was a sex worker, mentions of sex work, internalized shame, self deprecation, guilt, emotional vulnerability, terrible horrible parents, mentions of poverty, reader has a bad trip (anxiety, shaking, sweating)
a/n: as always would love to know what you think! thank you for reading! I'm sorry for what I've done to our girl, all will be fixed in time <3
You spend your twenty-fourth birthday alone.
It’s not as bad as it could be, and it’s better than years past. Since you started college you’ve always worked on your birthday. Last year it had been spent in the library, unaware that Joel would reenter your life that very weekend, that pretty widower you never thought you’d see again.
It stings though, that this year it falls on a Friday.
Had things turned out differently, maybe you would have spent it with Joel.
But as it stands, things are as they are.
You’re alone.
Your mother calls you in the morning and the call lasts less than a minute, your father’s voice echoing her sentiments from somewhere in the background, the once familiar sounds of the pair of them getting ready for work echoing down the line.
Against your better judgement, you tell them that you’re graduating. Something tells you to leave out the doctoral candidacy.
It’s been months since you spoke to them, and you had not seen them around the holidays, a brief call just like this one the only contact.
“You’re still doing that?” Your mother says, coughing into the phone. You can picture the billowing cloud of cigarette smoke, the irritated wave of her hand, phone cradled between her cheek and shoulder. “Well, good. You can finally get out into the real world. Get fucking a job and stop wasting all your damn money.”
She is the first person you’ve told, leaving out the most important details, and this is all you get. Beratement, bereavement that you aren’t better than you are.
The sound of the screen door opening and closing reaches down the line, strangling you with silence, the sounds of morning in your childhood home fading. You should hang up, but you’re frozen. “And I hope you stopped with that other shit,” she scolds, her voice snapping like gunfire. “Whorin’ or whatever the fuck you thought you were doing. Those tuition statements stopped comin’ to the house so I thought you dropped out.”
You had only changed your address with the school. She had never bothered to ask, about school, about what you were doing otherwise if you dropped out. She doesn’t ask how you’ve afforded it otherwise.
You can only swallow and murmur, “No, I just—I figured it out.”
“Without—”
“Yeah,” you cut her off, not emotionally prepared to be repeatedly called a slut by your mother. “I made it work.”
“Good. It was fucking disgraceful and I hope you know that. We didn’t raise you that way. We didn’t raise a whore.” She inhales again, long and slow. “Come visit us sometime. Come home when you get a chance.”
She hangs up without saying goodbye, without wishing you a happy birthday again, without waiting for a reply. Neither of them had deigned to ask when your graduation will be, and you’re faced with the sudden reality that no one will be there.
You want to feel the ache of disappointment, of hurt, but it’s too familiar to sting anymore. It’s nothing you haven’t heard before, been faced with before. You hadn’t really wanted them to be there, but for one shining moment it had seemed like someone might be.
Joel had offered to attend, and that hurts more, because you had started to believe in him in a way you haven’t believed in your parents in a very long time.
The possibility that Joel might come had lit you from the inside, a warm glow turning you translucent, lighting you from the inside out, all your veins and soft parts showing through your skin. Even if you hadn’t ended up telling him your name and university and asked him to come, the knowledge that you could have and that he would have shown up, is enough.
You curl on the couch and let your phone fall out of your hand to bounce on the cushion and then tumble onto the floor. The white light of the tv flashes over your face and the lethargic splay of your tangled limbs beneath the thin blanket.
No one is going to save you, no one is going to support you, and that has always been true. But for one fleeting, tantalizing moment, you let yourself believe you might not have to do it all alone, that someone would have your back, look out for you, protect you when necessary from shadows stalking the night.
Bright morning sun peeks hesitantly through blinds, and you wish you could swat it away like an errant fly.
A hollow feeling opens in your chest, the edges of it raw and irritated, soaked in vinegar and salt. Your eyes are dry and soft in your skull, pulsing with a dull ache that never seems to fade. It matches the tension headache pounding between your eyes, the nerve pain in the back of your neck from clenching your jaw so often and for so long.
The pain is a river that snakes between your ribs, tugs persistently at the tangled remains of your shredded heart. It’s unceasing, a flow that feels like it will never stop.
Try as you might to resist it, you’ve fallen between the rungs of another depressive spiral. A pathetic, meaningless tragedy that never seems to end, that carves out little craters inside you. How long should you grieve something that had not been real to begin with?
Not at all, probably.
It hadn’t been a relationship, it hadn’t been anything, apparently.
Discarded like yesterday’s trash by a man you love. A tale as old as time, a warning you should have heeded. If you were stronger, better, you would have quit him months ago along with smoking.
He’d be nothing but a memory you left behind, and a more pleasant one than this, used and discarded and violently unwanted.
This, maybe, is the price of all your clawing and scratching and wanting. You get the thing you want, the life you want, at the cost of what you felt had been a burgeoning love, something delicate and fragile but real.
But Joel had proven himself worse than any other man you’d been with. At least you knew what to expect, at least you felt nothing for them. Joel had gained your trust, been unjustifiably kind to you, helped you in so many ways, just to break you, just to fuck you like he didn’t know you, like he’s always known you were worthless and easy.
Part of you wonders if he’d just gotten bored of you, or found another girl to fuck.
All those times you’d wished he would just hurt you, be rough with you, push your head down, make you contort yourself to his whims, rush back into you so intensely you have to take a moment to breathe deeply with your eyes closed, cold air brushing the anxiously sweaty skin at the back of your neck. You wish for it now more than anything, because you never would have felt anything for him.
The day moves slowly, time slipping by in great white clouds, sunlight pawing desperately at your blinds, thin fingers poking between the slats, prodding at your body until you sigh and get up, blanket curling to the floor in a pathetic sloughing ribbon.
The pounding in your head only burrows deeper as you shuffle toward the bathroom, bathed in a sudden acid yellow from the ceiling light. You splash water on your face and get ready without meeting your eyes in the mirror, knowing you’ll just look tired and sallow.
It’s hard to look at yourself, anymore. You’d managed it for so long because you’d had to, to work. But now, all you feel is disgust and shame when you meet your own stare.
Unorganized thoughts darting beneath the surface of your mind as you go through the motions of your skin care, never fully taking shape.
Love and disappointment and a self-loathing so intense it makes your chest heave with a silent self-critical half-sob. It’s dry and easy to swallow back down, to keep buried in the lining of your stomach where no one can see it.
Shame lingers in your chest like an old friend, happily settling in, nesting down, tucking in for a long, long stay. You try not to let any of the half formed thoughts transform into musings about Joel, but he lingers in your mind like a wraith.
He’s everywhere you look. How many evenings had you spent on the phone with him in your bathroom, cracked pink tiles and blue ceramic framing the picture of him propped in your medicine cabinet, on the side of your bathtub?
It scares and sickens you to think of the nudes you sent him, with your fucking face in them. If he were angry enough, determined enough, he could find you and ruin you in a different way. Share the pictures and the story that went along with them. It might be revenge porn, but no one would take you seriously ever again, at least not in your field.
This is what you get for hoping for something more, for letting your guard down, for showing him so much of yourself. It’s what you get for cupping his hand around your heart and expecting him not to curl his finger inward and squeeze until it popped, bloody pulp in the center of his hand.
You had deposited the most fragile part of yourself, that you’ve kept buried in your chest for years, in the palm of a man that paid you for sex. No matter how kind he had been to you, you were still only a whore. Only good enough, until you weren’t.
That’s something your mother has always been right about, at least.
You had let your guard down because you were attracted to him, because he’d said gentle things like I would never let anything happen to you, things like I wish I had met you sooner and I’ll take care of you. He had called you smart and good, and it had felt like sunshine after so many years of rain.
It had made you want to believe in him so desperately.
He’d finally seen the tally marks on your skin, the dirt under your nails, heard the grit beneath the coo of your voice, seen you for what you really are. Prying at the loose stone of your age, like running his tongue along over the empty socket of a recently lost tooth, he had not been able to ignore the rest of it any longer.
You’ve replayed that afternoon at the hotel over in your mind a million times, a feedback loop of broken dialogue and wasted dreams, his voice like a scratched CD repeating the same words over and over, cruelly, punishingly.
The memory has become its own memory, a mirror laughingly reflected back at you. In time, his voice has grown softer in the replays of that afternoon, his words less barbed and more desperate.
You aren’t sure what to trust, the memory or the clarity that has arrived over the last two weeks.
You aren’t deluded enough to think sex work hasn’t affected you. A year of grasping, entitled hands, pinching and pulling and prodding, of having to defend yourself and humiliate yourself and do things you’d rather die than do, learning how to coyly push them away, how to spot anger and how to weather it, would affect you for years to come, maybe the rest of your life.
And, in a sprite of honesty with yourself, you can admit you hadn’t really been present in that hotel room because of it. The comforting remove of disassociation, just the same as when clients would unexpectedly grope you, push your head down so hard your neck ached and you gagged to the point of pain, pushed inside you without any inkling of if you were ready to take them.
You’d been so terrified he might lash out at you, even though you’re sure Joel wouldn’t, that he’s not that type of man at least.
You ain’t even gonna say anything? Ain’t even gonna deny it?
How wretched he’d sounded, how desperate and alone. Had he wanted you to deny it? To have a reason to berate you more or because he’d needed you to say it? To tell him it was real? To please, please deny it?
But you can’t really trust your memory of how he’d sounded, what he’d meant.
Did it matter, anyway, if his voice had been soft, if he meant something else? It still bruised you, thumb caressing the fuzzed peach flesh of your heart to break the skin with horribly slow pressure, the crust of his nail drawing juice through flesh. He had still said the same words, still held the same accusations.
Though one question loops around your mind, impossible to answer. Why did it matter if it was real? To him? To you? If you were just sex to him, just companionship and someone to spend time with, why did he care if it was real?
He wanted to pay you; he had wanted to buy you things and give you things and take you places and take care of you. You had both held up your sides of the agreement. So why did it suddenly matter if it wasn’t real?
You know why it matters to you, but why did it matter to Joel so suddenly?
The simplest answer may be the male ego. He fucked you well and so you should love him, feel real things, even if you were nothing to him.
You wrench yourself away from the spiral of that conundrum. It’s too dangerous and devastating to consider.
You flick out the bathroom light, dress in your favorite outfit, determined not to feel as shitty as you could, determined to demarcate an end, wrap a bow around it all, in some way. If tears press hard against the back of your eyes, if your lips tremble, no one is there to see it.
The small cardboard box looms on your kitchen counter, casting a sideways, angular shadow onto the laminate. You catch it up in your hands and stare down at the contents, pitiful in the shaded light of your apartment, blinds drawn closed to keep out the already brutal heat.
Within lies the credit card, sharp black metal cool to the touch, the tiny wooden sparrow, and the crystal vial of blue bonnet perfume. You’re sure the credit card had been canceled or frozen within minutes of you leaving the hotel, but you still want to return it to him. You aren’t sure if you mean it as a fuck you to his accusation, or just because you don’t know what else to do with it. Maybe it’s just hard to look at his name, to know something existed nearby etched with those letters.
The sparrow is wrapped carefully in newspaper. It feels like giving away a part of your heart, but maybe that’s what you need, to pluck out the kernels of Joel left behind in you and give them back, send them off.
You feel stupid for it, humiliated, to have to navigate the ending of a sugaring arrangement like a bad breakup. It’s only been two weeks but you oscillate between sweeping, near manic, highs and tragic lows, gentle with yourself one moment, that it was okay to grieve, and berating the next for daring to feel broken up about something that meant nothing.
Your birthday has so far been a grieving day, though only half gentle with yourself.
You tape the box shut and write the address of the ranch along the top in a shaking script. You can’t bring yourself to write his name, so you leave it off, along with your return address. Even if he wouldn’t come by your place, you don’t want him to look up your address and see how destitute you really are.
After you walk through the boiling heat and drop it off at the post office, you buy a too expensive cupcake from a bakery down the street and eat it alone on a park bench in the sweltering sun.
You have Joel to thank, not just for the cushion of money in your bank account to hold you over until the new assistantship starts in the fall, but that you’d think to indulge and treat yourself at all.
The frosting is sweet but not overly so.
You want to be angry, even if you aren’t sure if Joel deserves your anger. But all you feel is a crushing numbness, a chilling lonely sadness.
You hate the pervasive slip of him in your mind, curling around the edges of your consciousness, like a shadow at the corner of your vision, like an infestation you can’t rout out.
The depression rooted in your bones feels no different than it had before you met Joel, but it weighs more heavily because you think you might have almost been happy.
.
.
.
You stopped watching porn two years ago.
Though you hadn’t watched it often, after that first night you’d spent at the club in the company of lecherous men, you hadn’t been able to stomach it anymore.
Your body was usually so exhausted anyway, you couldn’t have even if you’d wanted to. Any sex drive you had had been wiped away.
It was rare you came with the men you slept with, but that didn’t make the mental toll any less taxing. You often felt like you needed to rest, to sleep for days, afterward, downtime you were so rarely afforded. You can admit now that it had depressed you, being used and touched and commanded had taken a toll you hadn’t dared look too closely at. Because you had no other choice, because you needed to continue on.
Until Joel.
Joel, who made you come almost every time he touched you, who you felt comfortable enough to rest with. There were weekends that you hadn’t had sex, an odd sense of guilt sweeping through your body as you laid next to him, talking and touching but nothing more than that. He’d seemed content with it, too.
Maybe he hadn’t been, where rose had tinted your vision of Joel before, the edges are now blackened with uncertainty. You aren’t sure you had been reading anything right, too caught up in the blossoming love and affection in your chest, and stupid enough to think maybe he’d return the love of the girl he paid to fuck him.
A month after you stop seeing Joel, the first inkling of want plants low and weak in your belly as you’re watching television one night. One of those old westerns, in the style you’d watched with Joel. You’re loath to admit the actor looks like him again, that his hands and arms are veiny and muscled and remind you of Joel and that’s what does it.
You seize the moment and for the first time in two years, open a browser and search for something, anything, that doesn’t remind you of him. For one horrible moment, you think of driving out to the club, offering your body and want to someone who wanted it, at least for a while.
It makes you feel ill to watch, a fairly vanilla, badly produced cut of a girl sucking dick, but the discomfort of looking at porn at least distracts you from him. The man looks nothing like Joel, even if his face is rarely shown, and she looks nothing like you.
You come after a few minutes of furiously rubbing your clit, trying to get it over as quickly as you can. But when you come, it doesn’t feel good and all you can think about is the first time you’d had phone sex with Joel, how good it felt, sitting on the couch as you are now.
If you cry afterward, no one is there to see it.
.
.
.
You yank your curtains closed one Saturday at the beginning of May, determined to languish in bed all day, wallow in the sadness with nowhere to go lodged firmly in your heart. Pain like little zaps of lightning constricting your chest every so often.
You’d spent the previous day on a high, untouchable and fearless and not sad about anything especially Joel. You hadn’t thought about him all day while on campus, engaging instead with your cohort for maybe the first time ever. You’d liked listening to them talk about things you were passionate about, liked listening to them joke even if you were outside the joke, having been too busy and desperate to hang out with them much before.
Maybe you’d had a few drinks, and maybe you’re feeling it now, in the pounding behind your eyes. At least you’d felt good for a whole day. It was progress.
It’s so hot you can feel the heat through the glass as you drag the fabric into place. The parking lot beyond is a desolate yellowish orange, cracked, broken pavement, scrubby grass that chokes the concrete, the rock strewn planter boxes that have never had a plant in them as long as you’ve been there.
Your apartment is warm, despite the AC being on low. The unit belches warm air across the room in a murky wave, something sweetly rotten about it. The heat makes your hangover worse, but it's at least a different kind of pain than you’d grown used to.
There’s no point in calling your landlord to repair it. If he deigned to send someone to fix it at all, it would take weeks for them to actually get around to you. And you only have a few weeks left in this apartment anyway. Cardboard boxes litter the floor between your bed and the wall, the vast ocean of the living room floor. With the new salary, you’ll be able to afford somewhere better. In a better part of town, in a better building, with enough wiggle room to save something every month.
It’s a miracle you never thought possible. You should feel proud, but you feel nothing.
You slip beneath the still sunwarmed sheets and stare into the dim gray light of your bedroom, listening to the strain of the air conditioner, the distant notes of birdsong hung on the air, the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. You allow yourself to drift, to curl back into the comforting arms of sleep.
But when you allow your mind to drift, when you sleep, there’s only one place your mind deigns to wander.
And though you feel ill at ease for thinking of him, for craving the reunion and attention in your mind, you don’t stop yourself either. You’ve been mostly good about not moping, not mourning, trying not to feel like you lost something.
He was never yours to begin with, not really. A touchstone in the dark, a light to brighten your path only briefly, and that was it.
Maybe crawling back into bed is indulging a side of yourself that you shouldn’t, but you can’t help it, you miss him and you’ve been strong the last few weeks, you’ve been so good, about not letting yourself linger with him in your mind, of pushing away the thoughts and not indulging in the melancholy. And you didn’t think about him at all yesterday so it’s okay to think of him now.
Joel sweeps through your mind in fragments, illusions of multicolored glass and long told stories of what could have been. If you hadn’t lied or had come clean sooner, if you really were older, if you weren’t playing at being his fucking whore, maybe things would have been different, maybe your paths would have never crossed.
The way he smiled when he saw you, how he always walked with one hand on your spine, held your hand in public, took you dancing even when he said he didn’t dance, how he always wanted to make you come, even when you told him it was okay, he didn’t have to.
You aren’t sure how to nurse a broken heart. You’ve never had one before, never had the opportunity to have one, and you’re not sure you should indulge in it but you think you’re doing all right. You’re doing good, though you wish you had someone to stroke your cheek and tell you so.
It’s something you have no right to, though, not when Joel had made it so clear he thought nothing of you, not really.
But you’d meant what you said to him that night at the drive-in, you’d really believed he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you, you thought you’d understood what he meant when he said he wished he’d met you sooner. To preserve you from the hurt inflicted by other men, but you have to reconsider everything that he’d ever said to you.
Maybe he had lied, though what the point would be you couldn’t imagine. You would fuck him no matter what, he was paying you for that. Maybe he was just sorry that you’d already been so used.
Despite it all, you miss him.
You miss the warmth of his body next to yours in the cool dark of the hotel room, the pressure of his fingers around yours, thumb stroking circles into the back of your hand, the interior of your wrist; you miss the soft reassurance of his voice his voice carried even when he was talking about something like fixing a fence post, because you’d asked him to talk about his day, about himself, no matter how boring.
You miss his hand between your legs, stroking your thighs, the soft folds of your cunt. You miss his lips against your forehead, the murmuring of a thousand praises. You miss his hand curled around your throat, miss the way he knew you liked it, that he’d deliberately found out how to do it without risk of hurting you after refusing the first time you encouraged him to close his fingers around your neck.
Worse was the way he so carefully pulled you apart, ribboning pleasure out of you, wrapping it around his fingers until there was nothing left to tug forth, when you tried anal. So careful in it, so worried about hurting you, not knowing it wouldn’t be the worst thing to ever happen to you.
It’s a little point of pride, maybe, that you’d taken a fifty-something man’s anal virginity, that he’s only ever been inside you that way. You’d never done it again but it had felt so good, and it was because of him. Had he been any less careful, it might have been painful or horrible the way so many of your other firsts had been with other men.
He’s the only one you’ve ever liked having inside you in any way, the weight and heat and stretch of him perfect, and because he’d know the importance of touching you, using his hands in other places.
Sleep is suddenly elusive, an ache springing up between your legs. This time, unlike the last, you let the want of him linger.
The fantasy careens into a vision of him between your thighs, prising you apart, tongue on your pussy, humming like he’d never tasted anything quite so sweet. You can feel the press of his broad shoulders against the backs of your thighs, the heat of his skin against yours, so hot it burns.
Sweat gathers at the backs of your knees and beneath your breasts. You shift one hand between your legs, trying not to feel as though you’re betraying yourself, the other to squeeze your tits, one and then the other, trying to replicate an impossible pressure because your hands aren’t calloused, your fingers aren’t wide enough to stretch you open right.
They aren’t thick enough, either, when you press them inside you, but it’ll have to do.
The sweet of it disappears, the memory of his fingers in your mouth, making you gag, the punishing distance of your last time together. It’s like an intrusive thought that you can’t reject fast enough.
It all falls apart in a matter of moments, like you can’t breathe around the fingers in your throat, but you ache to hear him praise you for taking it anyway. You let him squeeze you too tight and manhandle you because you trust him, and that’s what makes you open your eyes, stare at the crack in your bedroom ceiling with unidentifiable, turbulent, unravelable feelings caving in your chest.
You feel rattled, fingers splayed against your cunt but not moving. Despite the need throbbing in your stomach, you pull your hand away and breathe out harshly, letting your mind settle so you can think.
It’s only after a long moment or two that you realize your mattress is humming with the buzzing echo of vibrations from your phone where you’d tossed it earlier.
When you flip it over to see the caller ID, your body freezes, hands skeletal and mortified, rimmed around the edges of the screen.
joel, it reads, a smooth black background behind the white lettering because you don’t have any pictures of him.
You stare and stare and in a fugue state, a dreamlike haze, answer the call and lift the phone to your ear.
It’s silent for a long moment.
Then you hear him take in breath. “Cherry?” he asks, voice shaky and desperate and far away. “Are you there, darlin’?”
You don’t answer, listening to him breathe, listening to the line buzzing, before you wrench the phone away from your face and end the call, flinging it away from you, lungs tight.
You bury your face in your pillow, inhaling the still lingering scent of the blue bell perfume, wishing you had anything that still held his scent, wishing that you hadn’t picked up the phone, wishing that you’d said something, wishing that you had a recording of his voice because it still soothed you even if it hurt too.
It might be for the best that you hung up, but it still stings, another hurt to add to the sparkling collection on the littered shore of your heart.
.
.
.
“Hey.”
You glance up from your computer monitor to find a guy from your program standing beside your desk. Social awareness washes over you all at once, makes you straighten your spine and tilt your mouth into a smile.
When you glance around, you find most of the office empty, evening sunshine lashing across the gray tile and grayer cubicles further into the room. The sea of grayness is at least cut by the wooden island of the graduate assistants’ desks clumped together in the middle of the room. You aren’t quite important enough yet to have your own flimsy little walls yet.
Without waiting for an invitation, he sits down at the desk across from you, leaning to the side so you can see each other around the computer screens. Your rich but kind deskmate is already gone, just a cloud of too expensive perfume and leather left in her wake.
“Hi,” you answer, hitching your smile more firmly into place when you meet his eyes again, folding your arms across the tabletop in front of your keyboard. “What’s up?”
He blows out a breath, cheeks puffing out. “Glad I caught you.”
His name is. . .his name eludes you. You should definitely know it, the program is small enough and he was definitely there when you got drinks with your other colleagues a couple weeks before. He’s handsome in a boyish way, messy brown hair and a dimple in his cheek. Brown eyes that crinkle when he smiles.
He’s around your age, maybe a year or two older.
You blink at his assertion. “You are?”
“Yeah! You’re always gone before I can catch you.”
“Catch me?” You ask, raising a brow.
“To ask you out,” he says as though it’s obvious and maybe it is but not to you. “But you’re always gone by four.”
“Could have asked me some other time,” you answer teasingly, a lick of nerves scraping up your spine, leaning back to needlessly straighten things on your desk, the cup of pens, the stack of folders to your left.
He waves a genial hand at you. “Ah, too intimidated, y’know?”
“Well I guess that makes you rather bold at the moment.”
“We graduate in a week,” he grins, “might as well shoot my shot. And unlike you, some of us didn’t get a PhD spot and have to go to our second choice half way across the country, so if you reject me spectacularly, at least I won’t have to see you and yearn for what could have been from behind the water cooler.”
You laugh. He’s charming in an odd kind of way. “Sorry. I know I haven’t made an inroad with most of you. I. . .work a lot, at a second job.”
Work? Is that what you want to call it? All you did was lie on your fucking back and spread your legs. The spike of guilt, the nasty thought, darts through your mind so quickly, like a lancing pulse of pain, before it spirals away. It’s so common a self-deprecation it barely even registers anymore.
“Yeah, so I heard, which is fucking crazy. I was so busy with one I could barely see straight. You definitely should have been the one they were wooing with money and grants and waivers and shit at the beginning.”
You bite your lip.
His eyes are brown and familiar, and its nice to hear nice things about yourself, even if he’s just trying to fuck you before he flits into another life. Maybe you don’t care if he is, the attention is nice.
“Well, I don’t know about that—”
“But they saw the error of their ways,” he lifts a finger into the air to interrupt you, “which is fucking rare in academia.” He leans back in his chair, head tipping back, eyes roving over the ceiling. “And, well, Astrid told me she thought you had a boyfriend.”
Astrid, your trustfund baby deskmate who had once overhead a phone call with Joel. “Oh.”
His face flashes through your mind, a tight spiral of shame and hurt tucking into the space between your ribs, teeth gnawing on ivory branches.
Boyfriend isn’t the right word, but what can you say? My sugardaddy dumped me after fucking me one last time and I was stupid enough to fall in love with him along the way?
Boyfriend would have to suffice.
“Not anymore,” you murmur.
“Ah, sorry about that.”
“No, it’s. . .maybe it’s for the best.”
It doesn’t feel that way. It feels like there’s a rock in your stomach, a linchpin of grief and love with nowhere to go slowly slipping out of its socket.
“I mean, look,” he says, “fuck him. You’re pretty and smart and successful. So fuck him.”
“You just want me to go out with you.”
“Well, yeah.”
It’s endearing and so forward and clear. And you aren’t beholden to anyone anymore, and its been a very long time since you went out with a man because you liked him, and not because he was paying you to suck his dick.
“Okay, I’m almost finished here.”
“Great,” he settles back in the chair. “I’ll wait.”
.
.
.
His name is Matt.
It’s only with a little clever conversational maneuvering at the dingy college bar that you manage to get him to say it without directly having to ask him what it is. The room smells like stale beer, dark wood obscuring how dirty the floors and tables are.
You feel bad that you hadn’t known it before.
He’s sweet in a frat boy kind of way, though smarter than any you’d met during undergrad.
If you weren’t so heartsore, if you’d never met Joel, you think you might actually have felt something for him, been attracted to him, for his boisterousness, for the ease with which he laughs and buys rounds of drinks and speaks with strangers.
But your body and soul are tired. You feel much older than you are, weighted with sins that are only half yours, with memories of other men that jump occasionally to the front of your mind without warning.
As soon as you have health insurance, you will be finding a therapist. Someone who can help you sort through the shame and guilt and fear and get your head straight, though you worry you might be affected forever. You’re removed far enough from it now that you can see the trauma latticed over your bones, colonizing your veins. PTSD, someone would probably say, though not you. It’s not like you went to war, you’re just fucking broken.
It’s been a long time since you went out with anyone you weren’t trying to solicit, that wasn’t paying you to sit next to them and fuck them, and you find yourself almost slipping back into the familiar grooves of it. You’ve contorted yourself into something else for so long that being yourself feels like wearing someone else’s clothes that fit too tightly, that itch at your skin.
Matt buys your drinks and makes you a little circle of quick friends playing pool and darts, graduate students from other programs and a little squadron of undergrads that aren’t handling their alcohol very well.
He wraps his arm around your waist, hand resting on the strip of skin between your jeans and shirt comfortably. Jeans you’d left tucked in your car unless you ever needed a quick change with Joel. You try not to feel weird about it, about the jeans, or like you’re doing something wrong or betraying someone who didn’t give a fuck about you.
Still, you hear his voice, tinny over twenty second phone call.
Joel pockets in and out of your mind each time Matt touches you, sliding in front of you when you least expect it, the hurt like a wound you keep sticking your finger into.
The discomfort, the playacting of a prostitute you’re trying to fend off, only loosens and slips away when you’re on your third drink.
Matt buys you a fourth while one of the undergrads tells you about a house party they’re heading to at one of the frats.
“Wanna go?” He says in your ear, his breath holding the warm scent of beer, hand squeezing your hip and then your ass.
“Aren’t we a little old for frat parties?”
“Nah, c’mon, how old are you, twenty-four, five? We’re too young to be thinking we’re too old.”
You like his enthusiasm, the bright way he smiles at you, even if it doesn’t quite sit right inside you. And, besides, you never really had the chance to go out much when you were an undergrad, so why not now. You feel the beginnings of an upswing in mood, a violent one eighty of positivity that will leave you hollow and dizzy later.
“Okay,” you agree, and follow the gaggle of twenty year olds out the bar and down the street, passing darkened university buildings, halos of streetlight wreathed in late spring humidity, watched on by a fat yellow moon, heavy in the corner of the sky.
It reminds you of lying beneath the stars with Joel, whispering truths in his ear, sneaking parts of your past, of yourself, between the bars of his ribs, prisoners passing a key between cells. Or so you had thought, maybe that key opened something else entirely.
There’s too much light to see the stars, but knowing they’re overhead is enough to make melancholy settle briefly on your heart.
You stumble along, the world careening and smashing around you in a way it only can when you’re drinking, swaying, like a giant has clutched the marionette strings of the earth in eager fingers, swinging it a little too enthusiastically.
Light pulses from a house at the end of a well lit street you turn onto, passing one party after another.
“Is it a holiday?” You ask Matt.
He just laughs and drags you up the concrete front steps, wrought iron railing cold beneath your fingers. You stumble and he doesn’t notice, already at the dark, broad wooden front door, creaking open, fingers of pulsing light sweeping out to where you went to one knee on the steps.
“Oh, shit,” he says, only belatedly moving toward you, “No, it’s just a Friday, y’know?”
Joel would have never let go of your hand.
Inside, music thrums hard and loud, drowning out the sound of laughter and shouting. Bodies pack in so tightly, you have to squeeze between them with some amount of force, following Matt to a kitchen filled to the brim with red cups and open bottles of booze, the floors so sticky it’s hard to lift your feet.
“What do you want first?” Matt asks.
You hesitate and then decide to just let go.
Fuck Joel and all the memories he planted like landmines within you.
Fuck Joel and all the lies he thought you told.
.
.
.
The room spins, vibrant technicolor swirls of light and laughter.
Someone hands you another drink, and you swallow it without looking. A girl drops a pill in your hand and you take that too, because you never did this when you were supposed to. Party and have fun, and this is fun. It’s fun.
Matt is still at your side, laughing, hand inside your back pocket, squeezing your ass warmly.
You pull him aside and kiss him in a darkened hallway, the music so loud you can’t hear yourself think, the vibrations of it rumbling against your back pressed against the wall.
It’s okay when he presses his hand beneath your shirt, shouts in your ear about a bedroom upstairs.
You’ve fucked in worse places, but you don’t want those wires to get crossed. You aren’t working right now, you don’t do that anymore, you’re supposed to enjoy this. You aren’t a whore, you’re just a girl on a night out.
And for a while, you do enjoy it.
You let him touch you and take you upstairs and lock some random person’s door behind you.
And even though his hair is brown but not graying, it’s fine. And even though his eyes are the wrong shade of brown, it’s fine. His hands aren’t as broad, his fingers thinner, his face smooth, the hair on his chest not as thick and wiry and you—
It’s fine, it’s fine, it's so fine.
It’s fine when he takes your hand and puts it on his half hard cock and tells you to make him feel good.
You haven’t had sex outside of sex work in years, and you’re having trouble remembering how to, if you aren’t desperately trying please and predict and be the perfect prostitute, then what are you suppose to do? You worry you’re just lying there, but your thoughts are moving so slowly and lethargically, at a remove from the way he’s yanking your shirt up and over your head, clumsily fumbling with the clasp of your bra.
You absentmindedly rub him through his jeans even though you suddenly don’t want to.
The room convulses.
You feel hot and panicked suddenly and you aren’t sure if it’s what you took earlier or if you’re in the beginnings of a panic attack. You feel frozen with the sudden fear that he’ll want you to touch him directly. Of course he’ll want you to touch him.
In your cherry, candy coated dreams of the future, you had imagined what the first time with Joel would be like, without lies and secrets, without being paid for the privilege. A romantic, silly notion, that things would be drastically different just because the sword of exchange wouldn’t be hanging above you.
The realization that the man touching you, kissing you sloppily and not realizing you stopped moving your lips minutes before, is going to want to put his dick inside you makes you sick. You don’t want to fuck him, and you don’t want to jerk him off or blow him just so he won’t fuck you.
When he drags your jeans and underwear down, you jerk away with a gasp.
“Wait, stop.”
And he does and you feel lucky and then awful at the relief. You sit there trying to catch your breath, time passing in long starts and stops.
“I can’t, I don’t—”
“Hey.” A hand on your spine, guiding your head down between your knees. “Relax. We don’t have to.” He sounds concerned, and just a little annoyed, but the concern outweighs the annoyance.
Humiliated, to once again be sitting in some unfamiliar room, with a mostly unfamiliar man, with your panties caught around your knees, thin and feeble. The feeling sours and writhes, chasing up your throat, curling at the back of your throat. Are you just. . .meant to end up here? On your back, welcoming to whoever wanted you for the next five minutes?
He hands you your shirt and you lift your head long enough to tug it on. His hand lands on your spine again, what you assume is supposed to be comforting makes your skin crawl. You never want anyone to touch you again, you can’t be trusted with it.
“You’re sweating a lot,” he says suddenly. “What did you take?”
“I’m gonna be sick,” you mumble, lurching up from the bed, yanking up your underwear and jeans, wrenching futilely at the bedroom lock until the door opens with a creak.
Someone is just coming out of the bathroom across the hall, you jerk the door closed behind you, falling to your knees in front of the toilet, disgust merging seamlessly with shame, a pinwheel of emotions that tip and spike down your spine. Something watery comes up and you feel a little better.
You slump to the floor, back against the side of the bathtub, hands shaking, sweat slicking your neck and chest, dampening your forehead and the space behind your knees, trying to breathe through the panic or the disappointment or maybe it’s just a bad trip. Combined with the alcohol, it makes it hard to think.
Someone is knocking on the bathroom door but you ignore it in favor of pulling out your phone. There’s only one person you want to call, who despite it all, you think would probably come get you, find you, help you. You don’t want anyone else to touch you and he’d make sure of that.
Trembling fingers search for Joel’s contact, stab at it until his name appears and ringing echoes.
It rings, and rings, and rings, so you know he hasn’t blocked you after you rejected his call.
A feeble wash of hope, hope of what, you aren’t sure.
But it clicks to voicemail and when you call again, the same cycle repeats.
summary: After a disappearance shakes his world, Joel finds himself craving home, touches that promise, hands that stay.
a/n: I was in a really bad headspace, and that's why I wasn't replying a lot to your sweet comment (I've read them all, thank you so so much), or responding to messages. I just needed to get this chapter off my chest, because it's been building up to this, and I've been coming back a lot to fix this specific part so a lot of WARNINGS please: vague mentions of rape, lotsa violence, trauma, action, and just a fuckload of angst. also, LOVE. SO MUCH LOVE. hope you've got your hearts ready and some bandaids.
Joel was making a list.
A real mental inventory of all the fucked-up shit that had gone sideways since last night.
He had to. Otherwise, his head would be a mess of rage and regret, spinning in circles, getting him nowhere but down. And he needed to focus.
First, the crap he’d spewed at Leela—words he couldn't take back, words he didn't mean, words that sat like rusted nails in his gut. Sharp, corroded, poisoned with his own damn pride. He should’ve known better. But meaning didn’t matter. It was what she heard that counted. And what she heard had been enough to make her go quiet on him. Worse than yelling. Worse than anything. He’d rather she cussed him out, swung at him, anything but this.
Second—fucking Tommy. The son of a bitch dared to leave him behind on this run. Rode off without so much as a glance back, like Joel was the one being difficult. Like he was the one who needed space. Like he wasn’t the one who’d been fighting tooth and nail to put things right. And now he was playing some game of keep-away like Joel didn’t deserve to be part of it.
He clenched his jaw at that. He didn’t like being shut out, especially not by his own damn brother.
Third—his back. Christ. Riding non-stop for the past hour had him aching fiercely. His lower spine felt like it was grinding itself down to dust, and every bump in the trail shot pain clear up to his skull. He was too old for this endless shitwork, but stopping wasn’t an option.
And then—Leela. Because out of everything in his life that was spinning out of his control, she was the one thing he wasn’t willing to lose.
He hated it. He hated this helplessness. The desperation to know that she was alright. This madness was a product of his own idiocy.
Right. That was the list.
And now, this—this goddamn trail. Because like clockwork, the next thing to add to his tally of frustrations was creeping up on him before he saw anything.
The Colten Bay trail had started to look familiar—small bends in the path, the way the trees arched overhead, creating a canopy of shifting shadows. He'd been riding for two hours, maybe more, the passage of time lost in the churn of his thoughts. He wasn’t as good as Tommy at navigating these woods, not yet, but he wasn’t blind either.
The ruined road into the small town had gone quiet—too quiet. No wind whistling through the broken windows, no birds, no distant scurry of wildlife picking through the remains. Just silence, thick and suffocating,
He took it in as he rode in slowly, scanning the hollowed-out husk of a town that had been left to rot. Storefronts with shattered windows, doors hanging off hinges, sun-bleached signs dangled by rusted chains. Rusted-out trucks half-buried in overgrown grass. A rust-colored stain smeared across a brick wall, years old, but still dark enough to make something curdle in his gut.
Joel pulled up short, dismounting without taking his eyes off the wreckage. His boots hit the pavement with a dull thump, the heat of the sun bleeding into the soles of his feet.
It was even worse up close, but nothing he wasn't used to. He'd seen worse. Nature had started creeping back in—vines curling over stone, weeds splitting through the pavement—but it wasn’t enough to hide the bones of what had been left behind.
He adjusted his grip on his rifle, raised and cocked to take aim, his every sense straining for something—growls, clicks, rifles, shoes, anything.
Then he heard it.
A voice. Then voices. Faint, distant. Threading through the ruins.
Tommy. More specifically—his shitty brother’s loud-ass laugh.
Joel exhaled sharply, stock perched tight into his shoulder, trying to shake the tension curling through him. Tommy was laughing, which meant the dumbass wasn’t dead. Which meant there was no immediate danger.
Still, Joel pushed forward carefully, stepping over debris, keeping to the edges of the street.
And then he spotted them.
Tommy, standing outside a withering old appliance store, leaning against the frame with his rifle slung loose over one shoulder. Ellie was a few steps away, arms crossed, leaning on her rifle like she was already bored.
Ellie—fucking Ellie. What was she doing here? Did nobody think? Did nobody use their goddamn heads? She hadn't even been down this path before. Kid was going to get herself killed.
Joel barely had time to process it before Tommy caught his movement. His brother tensed immediately, his hand twitching toward his gun, already halfway to raising it before recognition hit.
Joel threw up a hand. “Jesus Christ, Tommy, it’s me.”
Tommy exhaled sharply, lowering his rifle. “Son of a bitch—”
Joel didn’t let him finish. “The hell do you think you’re doin’?” His voice came out low and edged, riding the line between frustration and relief, still fueled by the panic that had been burning through his veins for the last two hours.
Tommy gave him a flat look. “Right now? ‘Bout to blow your goddamn head off.”
His pulse thundered, but he forced himself to keep steady. “You were goin’ off alone? Did you want to get your ass kicked?”
Tommy scoffed. “Toldja, not a tough job. In and out.” He tilted his head toward Ellie. “And I’m not alone. I’ve got the kid. And the whizkid.”
Ellie grumbled. “How am I still a...? Ugh.”
And as if Leela even counted as a backup. How the hell was she supposed to protect anything? What was she gonna do—build a goddamn time machine? Throw a wrench at danger? Jump in a fucking toolbox? She could hardly walk without wincing half the time, always too lost in her head, too quiet, too—
Joel exhaled hard, scrubbing a hand down his face before turning to Ellie. She barely acknowledged him, arms still crossed tight, scuffing her boot against the pavement like she was already tired of waiting.
He huffed, stepping over, and giving her shoulder a firm squeeze. Just checking. Just making sure. She was real, breathing, safe, alive.
“You alright, kiddo?”
Ellie rolled her eyes, glancing up at him. “Relax, old man. No one's dead yet.”
Joel's jaw ticked.
She jerked her chin toward the store. “Your girl’s back there. Still scrounging up stuff.”
Joel stalked forward without another word to her. The place within was dim, slats of dying afternoon light slanting through the busted-out windows, casting long, jagged shadows across rows of overturned shelves. The air reeked of stale plastic and mildew, and somewhere, a strip of metal dangled from the ceiling, creaking with the breeze.
He stepped past a shattered washing machine, careful with his footing, ears straining.
His fingers flexed around the stock of his rifle, irritation already flooding his focus. Stupid. This was so fucking stupid.
Leela was nowhere in sight. Just more and more metal shelves stripped bare, and the soft creak of something shifting toward the back.
He found her there—half-hidden behind the last row of shelves, grunting as she wrestled with the handle of a rusted cart already stacked high with shit he didn't know the names of—gears, belts, maybe the guts of an old dryer. Heavy-looking. Useless-looking.
Joel barely stopped himself from cursing out loud. “Jesus, darlin'.”
She glanced up then, catching sight of him, eyes flicking to the rifle still in his hands. He saw the brief tension in her shoulders, and the slight narrowing of her eyes, before he wordlessly slung the weapon back over his shoulder.
“Joel,” she greeted, a little surprised but didn’t care enough to show it.
Just Joel. As if he hadn’t spent the last two hours riding like a maniac through the woods, as if she hadn’t left Maya alone like she hadn’t done the most reckless, mind-numbingly foolish fucking thing she could’ve possibly done.
There were so many things he wanted to say. To lay into her, to yell, to cuss her out, to tell her what a fucking idiot she was.
For leaving Maya alone. For coming out here, unprepared, with Tommy of all people. For not thinking—despite whatever had happened between them—that she could have left the baby with him. Because that was how it worked. That was how relationships worked. Or would have worked. If they had ever thought to address what the fuck they were. Too friendly neighbours? Co-parents? A friend he really wanted to belong to for the rest of his life? Just two people who knew each other too well?
No, but she looked fine. Which would've been great if it didn't piss him off even more. As if she hadn’t made him lose his goddamn mind these past few hours.
His jaw ticked as his gaze flicked down, scanning her, frustration mounting as he catalogued every stupid decision she’d made today.
She’d put on a nice windbreaker—for once—yet she was completely underdressed for the trip. No flashlight strapped to her pack. No holster. No decent boots. And for the love of all that was holy—where the fuck were her pants?
She was in nothing but those annoying tiny shorts, legs all bared for the claws or teeth of a clicker, like she thought she was going out for a fucking morning stroll instead of a dangerous supply trip with Tommy.
Joel exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. Stupid, stupid girl.
And she was looking at him like she was waiting. Like she knew exactly what was coming.
Proving her right, he took a slow step forward. “Are you outta your goddamn mind?”
Leela didn’t flinch. She just looked back at him, even, hands tightening over the handle of the cart. “Didn’t realize I needed permission from you.”
“Ain’t about permission. It’s about sense.” His voice dropped lower, biting. “Somethin’ you seem to be lackin’.”
Leela didn’t rise to it. She never did. It seemed to be this ongoing habit of hers. She just let the words settle between them, let it fester, before she turned her focus back to the cart like she’d already decided he wasn’t worth arguing with.
And that? That made something in Joel snap.
“Y'know, you're always thinkin’, but you don’t think, do you?” His fingers twitched at his sides, curling into fists before he could reach for her, shake some goddamn sense into her. “You’re out here, in the middle of this—” He gestured vaguely at the abandoned town, at the dust, the dried blood smeared across the floor, the risk that was so apparent to him and not to her, “—and you don’t even have a fuckin’ gun on you.”
“I have a knife in my bag,” she defended, but with not as much fight.
Joel let out a sharp, bitter scoff. “Is that gonna do much good against a clicker? Maybe they’ll take a step back, let you go ‘cause you've got a real nice set of kitchen knives in your pack.”
Leela’s expression didn’t change. “But, Tommy has a gun.”
Joel let out a humourless breath. “And I guess everyone else has fuckin’ daisies.”
She shrugged. “Ellie has a gun, too.”
“Oh, ain’t that perfect?” His voice dripped with sarcasm, his chest rising and falling harder now. “So, what, you’re just trustin’ everyone else in the goddamned town to keep you alive? You think that’s how it works?”
Leela didn’t blink. Didn’t react. Just stared at him, quiet, unmoving, in that way that had always fucking unnerved him. She wouldn't fight back for him.
And that silence? That refusal to defend herself, to say anything, to at least try to justify the absolute recklessness of what she was doing—it only pissed him off more.
Because if she didn’t care, if she wasn’t afraid—then what was he even doing? Why did he even bother?
Joel threw his hands up, biting back the string of curses burning the back of his throat. His patience had already been worn thin, sanded down to raw edges.
“Fine,” he muttered, stepping away like he was physically forcing himself to let go. “Do whatever the hell you want. I'm done.”
She didn’t argue. Didn’t even flinch as he turned sharply on his heel, raking a hand through his hair, his pulse still thrashing out the remnants of his irritation.
She could've spared him a little fight. Snapped something cutting, something sharp enough to match the anger buzzing beneath his skin. But instead, she said quietly—
"I think that’s how trust works."
The words landed deep, right in the place where things stuck—where they burrowed and festered before he could shove them down.
It should’ve been just another one of her quiet, cryptic remarks. No, this felt undeniable.
That’s all she’d ever wanted from him, wasn’t it? From the beginning, it was for him to trust her. For her to trust him. To trust that she could handle herself. That she wasn’t this fragile, breakable thing that needed to be caged for safekeeping.
And him—he’d been too fucking blind in his own haze of anger and anxiety to see it.
Leela didn’t wait for him to say anything. She just turned, dragging the cart behind her, grating against the ageing floorboards with a long scrape. Moving forward, focused, methodical, searching.
Ignoring him completely.
Joel exhaled hard, grounding himself, still riding the tail end of his frustration. Because the worst part was that she was right. But he would never admit that.
A sudden, violent crack split the air. The sound of wood splintering. The groaning of something old, something giving way.
Joel’s stomach lurched. His head snapped up just in time to see the floor beneath her buckle, the rotted planks slumping under her weight. Her hands jolted out instinctively, fingers clawing at empty air, a piping scream tearing out her throat.
Then, nothing. She was gone.
“Leela—!” Joel surged forward, reaching before he could think—but it was too late.
The floor swallowed her whole, boards snapping shut like a broken jaw, dust curling up in thick, choking plumes. The sound of her landing—hard, jarring—hit his ears like a gut punch. Then came the whine of shifting debris. The scrape of metal. Her groan strained with effort.
That sound. A sick, inhuman clicking.
Joel’s pulse kicked like a gunshot. His muscles locked, his body firing forward on instinct before his mind could even catch up.
Fucking clicker. It was down there with her.
The thought sent a cold, ruthless and electric prickle ripping through his chest.
Joel barely had time to think. A screech echoed up from the basement, followed by the hysterical sound of struggle, of something heavy slamming into concrete.
He dropped to his stomach over the broken floorboards, rifle braced, eyes straining through the broken planks. His flashlight cut through the dust, the yellow beam sweeping frantically over crumbled furniture, cracked linoleum and rusted-out shelving.
Then the light found her.
Leela was on her back, breathing hard, limbs tangled in broken debris. And above her—
The clicker.
It was on her.
Face sickly split and scarred like some rotting flower from the overgrowth of Cordyceps. Snarling, yellowed teeth dripping, gnashing too close, pinning her down. Hands curled into claws, raking at her shoulders and throat, missing if not for Leela's battling strength. Its body convulsed, straining forward with desperate, single-minded hunger. To feed. To kill. To infect.
And she was holding it off. Barely.
“I got you, baby, I got you,” he whispered aloud, fists tight around his rifle, taking aim.
Joel’s trembling hands steadied, years of muscle memory overriding the blind panic gripping his chest, his heartbeat a rapid-fire hammer against his ribs. His thoughts narrowed into one singular focus: kill the fucker.
But he didn’t have a clean shot.
The clicker was thrashing, too close, too erratic, its face just inches from hers. One wrong move and—his stomach roiled at the thought.
"Hold it there!" he yelled.
Leela didn’t respond—only sucked in a breath and turned her head, her knee jerking up to slam into the thing’s gut, rearing it back an inch—just enough.
Joel fired.
The first shot grazed its shoulder, making it shriek.
The second and third shots went straight through its skull. The fourth one, although completely unnecessary, sparked off from his trigger.
The clicker went rigid, its movements stuttering like a puppet with its strings cut.
Then it slumped. Its deadweight crashed onto Leela, forcing the breath from her lungs in a sharp, strangled sound.
For a long second, Joel didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. His mind was still catching up, reeling from how fast it had happened. One second she was standing there, the next—she was nearly gone. Taken from him. He saw a flash of what could've been if he hadn't made that shot.
His hands were shaking.
Boots pounded against the floorboards behind him, but the sound barely registered until Tommy's voice cut through—sharp, urgent.
“The hell happened?”
“Where is she?” Ellie demanded, rifle raised.
Joel was already moving.
“I got her, I got her,” he ground out hoarsely, twice to himself, barely keeping up with the adrenaline roaring through him.
Without hesitation, he leapt straight down into the hole, landing hard on the basement floor, his knees taking the brunt of the impact. He came up, rifle-first, and his flashlight swept the space—shadows stretching long against the damp walls, old shelves lining the perimeter, nothing but silence now.
Leela had already pushed the dead clicker off her, chest rising and falling too fast, breath coming in sharp inhales, hands clenched into her shirt collar, shoulders drawn tight. She hadn't moved beyond that.
Joel was on her in an instant, pushing her hair out of the way. “I'm here. You're okay.”
But the moment his hands found her skin—
She screamed.
It wasn’t just fear or panic. It was an impulse. It was raw, broken, blood-curdling, a sound that clawed its way out of her throat like she was being torn apart.
She thrashed against him, full-bodied, desperate, her hands flying up, kicking him off, shoving at his chest, nails catching against the rough fabric of his jacket. She was fighting with everything she had, body twisting, gasping through sobs, her strength fueled by something deep and unconscious.
"No—no, please, please—stop!"
Joel flinched.
Not at the force of it. Not at the hit.
At the sound. At the way she said it. Like she wasn’t here. Like she wasn’t seeing him. Like she was still down there in the dark, with that fucking thing clawing at her.
It hit somewhere he didn’t have words for, someplace that made his stomach twist and his ribs squeeze tight.
Because she wasn’t just afraid.
She didn’t recognize him. For a second—a heartbreaking second—he was just another set of hands on her, just another force holding her down, just another compulsion, and the thought of that—of her looking at him and not knowing him—it fucking gutted him.
But he didn’t let go.
“Hey,” he coaxed, his grip firm but cautious, hands bracing her shoulders, keeping her still, not trapping her, just holding on. “It’s me.”
She was still fighting him. Still gasping. Still somewhere else.
His hands moved—one sliding up, cupping her face, fingers pressing into her skin, desperate, grounding, his thumb stroking over her cheek like he could physically pull her back.
"Just look at me," he murmured, voice softer now, voice wrecked.
Her body was still trembling beneath his hands, her muscles locked tight, her pulse battering out a frantic rhythm beneath his fingertips.
And it hurt like shit. Hurt to see her like this, to know that she was still drowning in what he couldn't touch, that she was still lost, still bracing for a fight that was already over.
So he did the only thing he could.
He took her hand. Brought it to his shivering lips. Pressed a kiss into her palm, firm, warm, real.
“It’s me,” he urged.
Her breath hitched. Her fingers twitched against his skin. Her vision cleared. Then she saw him. Finally saw him, those brown eyes focusing.
And in that split second, her body wilted against his. The fight drained from her like water slipping through open hands, leaving only exhaustion, only relief, only the sharp, shaking remnants of fear still rattling in her chest.
Her lips parted, and a single, barely-there whisper fell from them—
“Joel?”
Joel exhaled, like he'd been holding his breath this whole time. Like the air had been punched out of his lungs.
“Yeah, baby,” he murmured, his thumb stroking over her cheek, over the damp trail left behind by her tears. Her pulse was still too fast, still too frenzied beneath his fingertips, and that tightness in his coiled harder.
He wanted to tell her she was safe. That it was over. That she was alright. But his voice was too fucking broken to say any of it.
He swallowed hard, still fighting the residual panic gripping his chest. He had to see. He had to know.
“Let me see,” he rasped, his hands already moving, frantic, fierce. “I have to see if...”
His fingers swiped up her sleeves and lapels, moving too fast, running over her arms, his mind slating every inch of skin, checking, counting. No bites. No scratches. No bleeding.
Down her sides. Down her shoulders and neck. Down her thighs. Down her calves—and his stomach dropped.
“Oh, Christ.” The words left him in a breathless rasp, barely there.
At the back of her calf—a deep, glistening wound. Blood ran in a slow, damning trickle down into her shoe.
Joel's inhale caught in his throat. The edges of his vision blurred. His ears started to ring.
No. No, no, no—not like this. Not now. Not her.
His hands loomed over it, useless, fingers twitching, unable to touch, unable to breathe.
The panic surged like wildfire, like an explosion inside his chest, riving through every thought, every shred of calm, reducing everything to one singular, burning horror.
This couldn’t be happening. What could he do? He couldn't stop this. No, this was beyond him. His mind scrambled, flipping through every second of the fight, anguished, reckless, trying to remember—had the thing bitten her? Had it broken skin? Had it—
His pulse roared in his ears, hammering so loud it drowned out everything else.
He was losing her.
His throat closed up. His fingers curled into fists.
He was losing her. He was losing her. He was losing her.
Again, and again, and again.
His vision tunnelled, narrowed down to the blood, to that slow, seeping trickle, red against her skin, a death sentence in real time. He swiped his thumb over the wound, barely thinking, breathing, hoping maybe it'll sicken him too, because he couldn't take another blow, another fight—
And—his finger nudged something hard. Not a claw mark. Not torn flesh. Not infection.
A splinter.
A sharp piece of wood, lodged deep under the broken skin.
Leela flinched, hissing in pain. “Ow.”
His entire world tilted, cracked, and realigned itself in the space of a heartbeat.
And then—he crashed. His whole body sagged, the relief so brutal, so fucking absolute, it nearly knocked him flat. His head dropped forward, breaths rattling back into him, shaking, breaking.
“You're fine. You're okay.”
It hit him so hard, he felt dizzy. Like he’d been standing at the edge of a cliff, ready to fall—and suddenly, somehow, he was back on solid ground.
His hands found her again, gripping her tight, pulling her into him, pulling her against him because he needed to feel it, needed to know she was here.
He pressed her face into his neck, arms locked around her, one palming her head, the other over the edge of her braid, holding on like his body was still catching up to what his brain knew now—that she was okay. That she was still here. That she was still his.
His heart was still hammering, still pounding out a brutal rhythm against his ribs, his breath coming fast, too hard, too jagged. All he could think about was how much he lived for this girl, that he couldn't take another step forward without her, that he'd lose all purpose in this damned world.
He turned his face into her hair, pressing a kiss there, desperate, lingering. He pushed his lips wherever he could reach; eyes, temple, ears, jaw; it didn't matter. As long he could convince himself she was real.
"You stay with me," he whispered, voice muffled into her hair. "You stay."
She didn’t have to say anything back. She just clung to him, hard, her fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, her breath still sharp, still ragged, still too goddamn close to slipping away from him.
After a long moment, she pulled away, a little more than uneasy, her hands shaking as she swiped roughly at her eyes, breath uneven, fingers bruised, arms bruised, skin mottled in dark, ugly shades.
Joel saw it all. The marks. How badly she was still trembling. How she still hadn’t fully caught her breath. And something inside him cracked—deep, marrow-deep, where all the old wounds lived.
He couldn’t lose her. Not ever.
Clenching his jaw, he reached behind her way too roughly, into her pack, shuffling things around until he felt it.
He found the knife. And pressed it into her hands, firm, insistent.
"Knife in your hands," he said, voice gruff, still rigid, still devastated. "Not your pack, you hear me?"
Leela nodded shakily, fingers closing around the handle.
And Joel just sat there for a moment, staring at her, still feeling the phantom panic in his veins, still trying to convince himself that she was okay.
That she was here. That he hadn’t lost her.
X
Tommy wasn’t buying it.
And it pissed Joel off. Piled onto the other—what? Five? Six? A dozen? He’d lost count—things already on his shitlist.
Still, he kept his distance. Kept Ellie back, too, for no reason, discounting the fact that she was immune.
Leela dragged the overflowing cart forward on the dead street, limping slowly. The old thing rattled, wheels stuttering over cracks in the pavement. Every so often, she’d stop—digging through rusted-out trucks, popping the hoods of long-dead cars, arms trembling as she reached in, feeling around for parts.
The afternoon sun beat down on them like a long-suffering punishment. It baked the asphalt and turned the air stuffy and dry. She was struggling. Joel could see it—the slack in her shoulders, the sluggish, tired way she moved, the way the limp in her step was getting worse. She was running on fumes.
He’d managed to pull the splinter from her calf, and cauterized the wound with the searing end of the rifle barrel, just in case. She’d cringed hard, let out a yelp, and gone stiff beneath his hands, but she hadn’t cried. Hadn’t fought him on it. Hadn’t even looked at him afterwards.
He’d bound it up tight with a strip of his flannel, close and snug. And that was that.
But fucking Tommy was still keeping his distance.
Joel glanced over his shoulder, scowling as his brother trailed behind her, still gripping his rifle like he was waiting for the worst. At least ten paces back. Observing for twitches. He wasn't wrong for being cautious, but Leela was seeing it, feeling it, how she was being treated like an inconvenience.
Ellie clucked her tongue from beside him, shifting uncomfortably. “You're such a cruel bitch, man,” she muttered. “She’s probably fine.”
“Probably ain’t good enough,” Tommy answered flatly. “Not takin’ any chances.”
Joel clenched his jaw, tension winding tight in his chest. Since when was his brother, the ex-Firefly, the bleeding heart, suddenly such a cynic?
“Joel?” Ellie shot him a look, voice careful, hesitant. A little afraid to ask. “It wasn’t a bite, right?”
His patience splintered as he bit out through his teeth, addressing his brother instead. “If I say it one more time, Tommy, it’ll be after I break your goddamn rib.”
Tommy scoffed, shaking his head. “Hey, don’t blame the messenger.”
Joel didn’t bother with a response—just slammed his shoulder hard into Tommy’s as he passed, enough to make his brother stumble, grumbling under his breath. Thought it would make him feel better, but surprise, surprise; he should've just tripped the son of a bitch on his ass.
He didn’t care. Not about Tommy’s paranoia, about the way he was still watching Leela like she was a loaded gun with a faulty trigger. It made Joel feel like shit.
Now, he refused to believe in a lot of things, but he believed in his own eyes. And his eyes told him she was not infected.
So he strode ahead, sifting into his pack, and digging out his water bottle. Hadn’t refilled it in two days, but she needed it more than he did.
He reached her side, matching her pace. “Have some,” he said, holding it out.
Leela didn’t look at him. Kept walking.
Joel ground his teeth, his grip on the bottle tightening. “Drink.” His tone brooked no arguments.
She sighed, glancing at him sideways, eyes dull, vacant. “What if I’m infected?”
Joel nearly stopped in his tracks. “You’re not infected,” he muttered, exasperated. “There's no sign.”
She let out a breath, shaking her head. “God, I’m such an idiot.”
Her voice was thin. She pressed the heel of her palm into her forehead, hard, like she could grind the thought out of her skull. Punish herself with it.
“You were right, Joel. I’m always thinking—but it’s never about the right things. Maya, my research, my home... this is all on me.”
Joel frowned, something uneasy twisting in his gut. "Look, what I said earlier—how I—”
"I don’t care anymore,” she cut in, her voice barely above a whisper. “I deserved that.”
Joel felt that like a gun wound with no clean exit. She said it like a fact like she'd decided this. Could she not stop being so goddamn awful to herself for two seconds? Maybe not lay a bad trip on herself every time something went south?
His grip on the water bottle tightened. He took a breath and fought for patience.
"You didn't deserve shit." His voice was lower now, rough around the edges. "You fought your ass off, and you’re still here. You survived. That’s it. End of story, movin' on."
She didn’t answer. Didn’t look at him.
Joel hated this. Hated watching her walk like that, shoulders hunched, eyes distant, like she was already halfway gone.
Like she wasn’t even trying to hold herself together anymore.
He shoved the water bottle toward her again. “Drink the goddamn water.”
Joel watched as she took the water bottle, hesitating for just a second.
Then she raised it to her lips and gulped down what was left, fast, like she hadn’t realized how thirsty she was until now. Water spilled from the corner of her mouth, slipping down her chin, but she didn’t bother wiping it away. Just drank until the bottle was empty until she had to stop and take a breath.
Joel let her have that moment. Then he took the cart handle from her grasp and took the load off her. Leela didn’t argue. Just fell in beside him, silent, exhausted.
It was just then that Ellie's complaints started up. When Ellie's grousings about 'severe FEDRA-level slavery,' got on his nerves, Tommy finally threw up his hands and called for a break.
They stopped at the next street corner, gathering under the shade of a souvenir shop. Tommy passed out rations—peanut butter sandwiches from Jackson, stale at the edges but still good enough. Ellie tore into hers immediately, swinging her boots where she perched on the ledge of the broken storefront window, crumbs scattering at her feet.
Joel didn’t even have to look at Leela to know what was coming. She hesitated, turned the sandwich over in her hands, once, twice—like she was waiting for some spark of appetite that never came.
"I’m not hungry," Leela muttered, setting the sandwich beside her knee before pushing herself up.
Joel watched as she stepped away, moving toward the shop entrance like she was just stretching her legs like she hadn’t been looking for some rest since they sat down.
He sighed and let her go.
Ellie frowned, still chewing. She glanced at the sandwich Leela left behind, then at Joel. "She eat anything today?"
Joel shook his head once. "I don't think so."
Ellie sighed. Then she dusted off her hands and hopped down from the ledge, following after her.
By the time Ellie caught up, Leela was already inside, wandering between toppled racks and glass cases that had long since been looted. Her fingers trailed over warped magazines and stacks of yellowed postcards, her touch too soft, like she was afraid anything more would make them crumble.
Ellie grabbed a few postcards from a rusted wire display, flipping through them. Bright colours, frozen places—little glimpses of a world that didn’t exist anymore.
"Hey," Ellie said, nudging one toward Leela. "What about this? Looks so cool."
Leela blinked like she was only just realizing Ellie was there. She glanced down. A postcard—a sun-soaked coast, palm trees stretching lazily over white sand. Probably reminded her of her before home, her lip twitching up a little.
Leela flipped it over, scanning the faded text. “Mallorca.”
“You been there?”
A pause. And then, a small nod.
Ellie plucked another—this one softer, the colours faded from time, the name written in neat cursive along the bottom. “An...ti...bees. Anti-bees. Never even heard of that.”
Leela didn’t even glance at it, and nodded again. “Antibes. France. Been there, too.”
Ellie studied her, then stuffed the postcards into her jacket. "Shit. You’ve been everywhere. Awesome."
Leela didn’t say anything or smile back. Didn’t brag, the way Ellie probably wanted her to. She continued to flip through the postcards like they were meaningless. Like they weren’t memories at all.
Joel exhaled, rubbing a hand over his beard, his eyes never leaving her. She looked so small in there. As if she could’ve been just another part of the abandoned store—one more thing left behind.
“Joel.” Tommy’s voice cut through his observation, low and careful.
Joel barely glanced at him. Just kept chewing through the sandwich Leela had given him, eyes still on the store.
Tommy hesitated. “What’s the plan if she turns?”
Joel stopped chewing. The words landed like a slow knife to the ribs. He wanted to put a hole through that window just listening to it.
He swallowed, rolling his jaw. “I said she ain’t gonna turn.”
“I know, but—” Tommy exhaled, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “Look, I believe you. But I gotta ask, ‘cause if you’re wrong—”
Joel turned to face him fully now, expression hard as stone. Seething. “Tommy.”
“Would you shoot her?” Tommy asked, blunt.
Joel barely chewed his last bite. The bread felt dry in his mouth, sticking to the roof of his mouth like dust, but he swallowed it down anyway, his eyes locked on the store where Leela was standing, a little more life in her eyes as Ellie attempted to cheer her up with her endless supply of puns.
Tommy’s question still stuttered his mind. Would he shoot her? Could he shoot her?
Joel wanted to say yes. He wanted to say he wouldn’t hesitate, that if she turned, he’d do what had to be done. That’s what he was good at, wasn’t it? Putting things down when they needed to be. Bear the brunt of the hard decisions.
But the words didn’t come.
Instead, his mind raced ahead of him, flashing through all the things he didn’t want to see. Leela, breathing hard. Weeping. Pleading with him. He could hear it now, could picture it like it was real like it had already happened. Her voice breaking. That sharp, desperate shake of her head. Those big, dark eyes, utterly empty this time, hollow, her veins crawling black, twitching.
Please, Joel. I don't want to die. Would she fight him? Would she try to run? Would she make him do it?
Or worse—would she accept it? Would she nod, take one last breath, close her eyes and wait for the bullet?
His stomach turned. He knew Leela, even at times like this. She’d make it easy for him. She wouldn’t beg. Wouldn’t run. Wouldn’t force him to wrestle her to the ground. She’d just—let it happen. Face his rifle head-on. Make it quick, Joel. I don't want to feel a thing. And that thought was worse than anything.
Joel exhaled slowly, rubbing at the knot forming between his brows.
But it didn’t stop there. Because then came the next part.
Maya. God, Maya.
His throat tightened, his chest constricting at the thought of her alone in that house, waking up hungry, crying, waiting for a mother who was never coming back. Waiting for Leela.
If she was gone—if Joel let that happen—what happened to her daughter?
Would he just hand her off to Maria without a second thought, because her mother's murderer couldn't touch a hair on that sweet head without tainting it? Or would he do it himself anyway, raise her, love her, stay with her in that big white house, tell her about a mother she’d never remember if only through pictures?
Joel inhaled sharply, cutting that thought off at the root. He couldn’t go there. Couldn’t let his mind wander any further down that road.
His hand flexed where it rested on his knee, fingers twitching to his pant pocket where the imprint of the little button embossed on his thigh, the one that Maya had picked off the street last night and passed to him with that soul-crushing, gummy grin of hers.
The answer should’ve been easy.
It should’ve been an immediate yes. He should’ve said it by now.
How could he go back to being the man he'd been desperately trying to outrun? He wasn’t one to pull the trigger just because something looked bad anymore.
Because he knew better. Knew what it meant to lose. Knew what it meant to take. And the sheer fucking burden of it didn’t sit right on his soul.
Joel sighed, fiercely shaking his head. “We’re not havin’ this conversation.”
Tommy didn’t push, but Joel could feel him watching. Waiting.
And Joel hated it. The doubt, the uncertainty, the way it stuck to him like blood on his hands. Because the truth was—If it came to that, if she was turning, if there was no saving her—Joel wasn’t sure he could do it.
X
By the time they reached the lake, the more relaxing route toward Jackson, the day had worn them all thin. Relief was sweet, to Leela more than the others.
They deserved this breathing spell, maybe that's why Tommy took this trail. It had been miles of hot sun, dry wind, and half-dead exhaustion that hardened into the bones. Too many things had happened—too many conversations left half-finished, too many wounds, seen and unseen, still bleeding under the surface.
But here the air was clean, touched with crisp pine and cold water. The lake stretched out wide before them, the mountains cradling it like a secret, their peaks softened by the golden evening light. The cabins stood quiet among the trees, their wood dark with time, their windows empty.
Joel slowed his horse, taking a breath, letting his shoulders drop just a little.
He imagined Maya here, toddling in the shallows, barefoot and giggling, a little bucket hat over her feathery curls, stuffing her tiny fists with pebbles and leaving baby footprints in the wet mud. Happy. Safe. With her parents. The kind of afternoon that should’ve been normal for her.
He missed her. Too, too much. He absently rubbed the button at his pocket, bearing a small smile. Had it been really been the whole day? He couldn't wait to get back home, have her breathe out that panting, hitchy breath of laughter as she came wobbling for him.
Still, it was nice here. Peaceful. And for a second, it felt like they weren’t running.
He glanced over at Leela.
She was staring straight ahead at the lake’s smooth, glassy surface, her fingers slack around the reins of her horse. Not moving, not speaking, just looking.
“Actually kinda pretty, ain't it?” he murmured.
She only let out a quiet breath.
“Yeah,” she said eventually, voice barely above the hush of the wind.
He studied her for a moment—the way she looked at the lake without really seeing it, the way her voice didn’t match the lightness of her words.
She was doing that awful thing again. Reaching for something just out of her grasp. Trying to picture something that wouldn’t come.
Joel sighed and swung off his horse, moving toward hers. He took the reins, steadying the animal before tilting his head up at her.
“Go on, then.” He nodded toward the water. “Let your hair down for a bit. We're close to town anyway.”
She shook her head, refusing to meet his eyes. “I'm good.”
“Now, darlin’—”
“Joel.” He heard it then—the edge to her voice. The exhaustion. “I'm not in the mood. Just go.”
Joel clenched his jaw till something popped. He didn’t let the disappointment show and didn’t press the issue. He knew better.
Just nodded once and turned away, walking toward where Tommy and Ellie stood by the lake, rolling out the tension from the day.
The breeze cooled off the water, lifting the heat that had weighed heavy on them. But Joel still burned not just from the sun, but from something else, a displaced load in his chest. He needed quiet.
He let himself wander, boots moving on their own past the cabins. The dirt was loose beneath him, old pine needles crunching, the scent of damp earth dense in the cooling evening. The distant rustle of birds carried over the water, but Joel barely heard it.
He was still too full of her voice. The way it wavered. The way she looked at him, absolutely devastated, before she had sighed.
He willed himself to focus on something else. Just the ground beneath him. Just the sky above him. Just breathe in, breathe out.
Until he saw it. He had to do a double-take, just to make sure he wasn't seeing stuff.
A cabin, the same size as the others, but this one—
This one was burned to hell. The entire thing had been gutted—charred black, the roof caved in, the porch sagging on its last, miserable legs. Windows blown out, the edges jagged with soot. The wood still smelled like it had burned recently, that sick, acrid stench of an electrical fire curling up in the back of his throat.
Joel stopped.
His muscles coiled tight, readied, breath slowing as he scanned the surrounding area.
The other cabins were untouched, not a mark on them. But this one had been burned down to the skeleton.
Something about it didn't sit right.
Slowly, Joel turned his head, looking over his shoulder. Ellie and Tommy were still by the lake, too far away, Ellie skipping rocks, Tommy saying something, hands moving as he talked. Leela was out of sight, hidden by the cover of trees and cabins.
Joel returned to the cabin in the spirit of inquiry, stepping onto what was left of the porch. The boards creaked, soft under his weight, and when he pushed open what remained of the door, the smell hit him like a gut punch—smoke, damp ash, something rotted.
The fire had torn through the inside just as bad as the outside. Everything was gone.
The walls were scorched, furniture reduced to blackened skeletons, and the mattress was little more than charcoal and wire. The space had been stripped of warmth, of life, reduced to nothing but ruin.
“Jesus.” The word barely left his lips before he saw them.
Two bodies.
Scorched. Twisted. Unrecognizable. Stilled in the exact positions they had died. One was closer to the bed, curled inward like they’d been trying to protect themselves from the heat. The other sprawled nearer to the door, obviously in an attempt to escape.
Joel knew that stance. He’d seen it before. Run and burn.
The uniform was barely there—scorched black, peeled away in places, but the collar remained intact enough to tell the story.
He crouched, eyes tracking across the floor, the details unravelling themselves in layers. Former FEDRA, probably. Runaways. Recently turned raiders. Even through the charring, he recognized the insignia on the camo-green collar.
Joel nudged what remained of the skull with his boot, the brittle bone breaking apart, collapsing inward like a dry leaf.
“Probably fuckin’ deserved it,” he muttered. But it didn’t bring him any comfort.
Something was off.
This wasn’t a FEDRA outpost. Wasn’t a checkpoint, a patrol route, or a resupply station. The room was too small, too personal. The furniture—what was left of it—wasn’t a regulation. The scattered remains weren’t military-grade. Yet, the whole place stank of it. Tyranny. Wealth. Power. Drugs. Rot.
Joel’s eyes roved over the wreckage. The fire hadn’t taken everything, though.
There, right by the bed—melted plastic, warped glass. Empty pill bottles and liquor containers. Loose zip locks, some of them still filled with white powder Joel used to begrudgingly peddle back in Boston. Ration packs from the QZ were torn open, contents spilling out like someone had been too impatient to open them properly.
It wasn’t a checkpoint.
It was a hideout. They must’ve holed up here for a while, waiting something out.
His gaze caught on a backpack, half-buried in the charred remains, its contents spilt out like someone had gone through it in a hurry. Charred clothes, a lighter, a flashlight, and utensils.
And a shoe. Small. A size too slight for a man’s foot. The soft leathery edges curled and blackened, but the tag inside was just barely readable beneath the soot.
Joel bent, brushing his thumb over it, knocking away the ash. The letters beneath made him snort. Some fancy Italian brand. Expensive. His mind flicked back—Leela’s house, her endless closets, neatly lined with shoes that didn’t belong in this world.
No wonder. It finally made sense for rich assholes to like places like this. They came out to the middle of nowhere to fuck around, get high, waste their shit on things that didn't matter.
Joel tossed the shoe aside and straightened, moving deeper into the wreckage. His hands brushed the charred edges of furniture, fingertips finding the brittle remnants of things that had once meant comfort—pillows turned to dust, a mirror warped in the heat, a chair crumpled inward.
Then he saw the rifle.
He smirked, his lucky day. Sure, it was smaller than his, the wood stained dark, almost black beneath the soot. Sturdy, thirty calibre, American-made, definitely not the kind of rifle you wouldn't see a FEDRA soldier have. It had been tossed aside near the backpack like someone had discarded it in a hurry.
He knelt, running his palm over the stock, feeling the grit of ash give way to smooth wood. The engraving beneath was faint, hidden in the dark, but as he brushed away the dust, it came through—delicate but unmistakable.
Cherries.
Joel heaved out a breath. His fingers stilled over the engraving, his pulse hammering against his ribs. A tiny mark, burned beneath layers of soot, was almost innocuous.
But he’d seen this before.
A different rifle. A different home.
A cowboy hat. A sunflower. A cherry.
The third missing rifle. One for each member of the family.
His stomach clenched. He could see them in his eyes—lined up in Leela’s living room, the weapons she never used, never even acknowledged. The ones that were hers but weren’t hers. Polished. Preserved. Like artefacts. Like gravestones.
His throat went tight, air pushing through his nose in a sharp, uneven breath. And all at once, his body knew before his mind could catch up.
Someone had been here. Not passing through. Not scavenging.
She had been kept here.
Joel’s body locked up, a sick load clinching in his gut as his gaze swept the room again—now searching, understanding.
The mattress—charred down to its skeleton, coiled metal peeking through, the last stubborn remnants of sheets melted into the frame.
The belt.
His vision sharpened. The straps melted into the mattress frame. The scorched edge of a leather belt, its buckle twisted from heat. The dark stains, layered beneath the soot, soaked deep into the wood. A clean through the knot.
Someone had fought like hell.
Joel exhaled through his teeth, his knuckles whitening where they curled at his sides.
His brain was putting it together faster than he wanted it to.
The burned clothes in the corner—ripped at odd angles, tossed aside like garbage.
The splintered chair—one leg broken, shards of wood scattered like someone had slammed it against the floor, against a body.
The walls—scuffed, handprints smeared past the soot, the echo of someone pushing away, fighting, failing.
That sinking feeling became madness, nausea heaving through him.
On the floor—long, thin, small. A black hair ribbon. Burned at the edges, and melted in places, but the middle of it was untouched. Still soft. Still delicate. Still, something that had once belonged to a girl. He'd seen Leela use it on her braids hundreds of times.
Joel’s breathing went ragged. His pulse pounded in his ears.
It felt like poison in his veins, the slow drip of information into his head.
The way she always kept her back to the wall. The way she flinched—not much, just barely—but enough, whenever someone moved too fast, whenever a shadow crossed her path the wrong way. The way she never talked about before Maya. Maya, god, Maya.
His chest squeezed, he had to press his palm just to make sure he wasn't about to pass out. His jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it.
The fire had tried to erase it. But it hadn’t.
The proof was here, in the remains. The belt. The bedframe. The ribbon. The rifle.
Joel turned back, his gaze landing on the scorched, skeletal remains near the door. His stomach twisted, white-hot rage flickering through the nausea.
He looked at them, looked at what was left of them, and felt nothing. No pity. No hesitation. No misery.
Whoever had done this—whoever had burned this place down, made sure it would never stand again—they had done the world a fucking favour.
He could see it then.
He didn’t want to, but his mind pulled it forward anyway, like a dark thing rising from deep water, clawing its way into the light.
The mattress sagging under the force of bodies. The fight. The struggle. The burn of restraints against soft wrists, the sharp crack of something breaking—bone, furniture, someone’s resolve. The walls shaking from the force of it. The air stifling, sultry with sweat, with smoke, with the stench of men who took what they wanted, heady from a trip, and left behind the wreckage.
When the screams began, his gut twisted, nausea kicking up sharp and fast.
Joel jerked back, sucking in a breath like he’d been underwater too long. His stomach lurched.
No.
Joel swallowed hard, his mouth tasting of ash and bile. He got the hell out of there, boots scraping over scorched wood, his breath coming too fast, too uneven. His pulse roared against his skull, his stomach rolling, his whole body burning like he’d swallowed the poison of this place whole.
He turned, pushing through the ruined doorway, shoving out into the evening air.
The scent of fire clung to him. Smoke. Rot. The sounds.
He braced his hands against his thighs, head ducking down, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.
Breathe, he told himself. Forget it. Breathe.
But it wasn’t working.
The memories weren’t his, but they were in him now, crawling under his skin, working their way into the deepest crevices of his mind.
Joel had seen a lot of evil in his life. But this—this was something else. Worse. Something he should’ve never learned. And for the first time in a long time, he wished he had stayed the hell out of it.
So, he kept walking. Didn't look back. Fast at first, then faster.
The burned cabin shrank behind him, but its looming presence didn’t. It clung to his skin, sank into the seams of his clothes, and resigned heavy and dark in his lungs.
His boots pressed deep into the dirt, kicking up dust, dry pine needles snapping underfoot. He didn’t care where he was going, only that he was putting distance between himself and that place—that stain.
But the rifle was still in his hands.
His fingers tightened around it, feeling the soot, the grit, the filth of it digging into his palms, burning like it was branding him. He wanted to throw it. Wanted to drop it, bury it, let it disappear into the weeds, let the earth swallow it whole.
But instead, he kept walking.
Until the sound of laughter struck him. Soft, rolling over the water, tangled in the breeze. It shouldn’t have hit him so hard.
Joel’s head snapped up, breaths still ragged.
Ellie and Tommy stood too close together by the shore, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, swaying, singing—loud, off-key, godawful. The words didn’t even register at first, just noise. Just a sharp, jarring thing that dragged him back into the present too fast.
And then he caught it. The song. Total Eclipse of the Heart.
Jesus.
Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, and everything felt too abrupt. Disorienting. His mind is still stuck in that cabin, hearing things long gone, breathing smoke that was long gone.
He didn’t know what the hell he was expecting—maybe for the world to still feel like it was on fire. Like he was.
But here they were. Laughing. Singing. Having a great time. Like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t just clawed his way out of hell. His grip tightened on the rifle.
His gaze cut past them—to her.
Leela was still on her horse, watching them, shaking her head. Her shoulders had relaxed, the tension she had carried through the day bleeding away like it had never been there.
And then, suddenly—she smiled. It was small, barely there, but real. The kind of smile that sneaks up on a person, that slips past the cracks before they even realize it’s happened. Her head dipped like she was trying to fight it, but the corners of her mouth curled up anyway. Her lashes fluttered, shoulders trembling from quiet laughter.
Like nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t been here before at all. As if she hadn’t been trapped in that place, in that nightmare, in a past she never dared to utter aloud.
Like he hadn’t just seen the wreckage of it with his own two eyes.
Something crawled up his throat, hot and mean. A sick, twisting thing. That part of him wants to put it in Leela’s hands, make her understand what he now knows. To bring it all back despite that being his last intention.
Maybe Leela really had no idea. Maybe she didn’t remember. Maybe that goddamn fog—the one she was always lost in—had swallowed it whole. Spared her.
Mercy on her mind. Whatever void above was repaying her compassion. Or maybe she’d chosen to forget. Decided to ignore it. Or maybe the pain of remembering all the horror inflicted made her lose sight of where it happened. He wasn’t sure which was worse.
Either way, Joel didn’t have the fucking right to take that from her.
His fingers uncurled from the rifle’s stock. That nausea crept back in, a slow, curling sickness that seeped into his bones.
His knuckles ached. He hadn’t realized how tight he’d been holding it—like it was the only thing keeping him upright, like it had latched onto him, burned into his skin, clung to him like a brand. It wouldn’t let go until he did.
His gaze dropped to the wood. Soot. Grime. Filth. The feel of it in his hands was unbearable. It sat there, heavy and wrong, its history seeping through his fingers like a sickness.
And there, beneath all the muck—the cherry. Easy. Innocent. A goddamn lie.
Joel swallowed thickly. His pulse pounded against his skull, a deep, insistent throb. He didn’t want to think about what it meant.
Simply let the rifle slip from his fingers. It fell soundlessly into the brush, swallowed by the dark, and disappeared into the damp earth. Gone.
His feet moved forth before his brain caught up. The path blurred beneath him, his boots scuffing against the earth as he veered off, crouching low, hands skimming the damp ground.
He needed—something. Anything to pull himself back, to ground him, to wipe the feeling of fire and metal from his hands. Though, the practical part of his head shouted, asking, what the fuck he was doing.
His fingers brushed against something soft.
A flower. Small. Wild. Purple. Delicate. Whole. Untouched.
It didn’t belong here, in the filth, in the destruction, in the wake of something so goddamn ugly. And yet—here it was. Sharing its likeness to someone he knew.
Joel plucked it without thinking.
And then he was walking again, his boots moving steady, purposive, toward her.
Leela turned when she noticed him walking toward her, her head tilting just slightly, dark eyes flicking up to meet his. A question there. A quiet curiosity.
Joel didn’t say anything. He just held out the flower.
She blinked. First at him, then at his hand.
Her lips parted. The warmth in her expression softened, deepened. For a second, she just looked at him, searching his face, like she was trying to understand something he wasn’t saying.
And then—her smile widened.
Not much. Just a small curve of her lips. But real. Honest. Breaking his miserable heart with that smile that was spoken for in his name.
She reached for it, took it carefully from his fingers, rolling it between the pads of her fingertips for a moment. Then, with the same careful precision, she slid it into her hair, tucking it near her neck. That violet bloomed against her like it belonged.
“Thank you, Joel,” she murmured.
Joel swallowed everything that burned in his throat and shoved it down where it would snuff out sooner or later. He simply managed a nod.
Then he turned, clearing his throat, his voice coming gruff, unduly commanding. “Right, let's move. C'mon.”
Ellie and Tommy groaned, dragging their feet, still laughing, still complaining, still alive.
But Joel was already looking ahead, hands loose at his sides.
He didn’t glance back at the rifle. Didn’t check to see if it had sunk into the brush, lost beneath the undergrowth.
Let it be buried.
Let it stay gone.
X
The big white house welcomed them back like an old friend, its porch light casting a soft glow over the worn steps.
Joel barely had a second to register the warmth of it before Maya came stumbling toward them, bounding forward, her small legs rushing too fast for her body. She tripped, fell to her knees, and then—“Ma-ma!”
Leela was already there. She caught her before she could hit the ground, pulling her into her arms, holding her tight, like she never wanted to let go.
Joel sighed, sucking a deep breath in. All the warmth of the lights, the faint hint of grease from the basement, the herbs from the kitchen, the white curtains snapping away in the breeze. This was what coming home was supposed to feel like.
Leela clutched her daughter to her chest, her face buried in the dark curls, inhaling deep like she could breathe her in. A shuddering exhale left her, like she’d been holding it in since the moment she left this house.
She had faced death today. And now, she was holding her life in her arms.
“Did you miss me?” she murmured to Maya, oh-so-tender. She smoothed a hand over Maya’s back and scratched gently at her belly. “Yeah? You did?”
Maya giggled, squirming in her mother’s hold.
Leela kissed her temple, her forehead, her small, chubby hands. “I missed you, too, baby girl. Mama missed you so much.”
He had seen Leela exhausted when she was with their baby girl. Distant. Detached. He had seen her shut down, her voice hollow, her eyes unfocused, like she had learned how to live in a way that kept her just outside of it.
But this—right now. She was here. Completely in Maya's orbit.
Maya pulled back slightly, tilting her head at her mother with that childish wonder, watching her closely like she was searching for something—measuring the movement of her lips, the sound of her words.
With slow, wary fingers, she touched Leela’s mouth. She wasn’t just hearing her mother’s words. She was holding them. Keeping them safe. Then, just as slowly, she brought her hand to her own lips.
Joel’s lips coiled upwards. Another trick that Leela had taught her. A way to say 'I love you'. Little smartass was catching on pretty quick.
Leela let out a soft laugh, her nose stroking against Maya’s. “I love you, too.”
He turned away. This moment—it didn’t belong to him. He felt like a trespasser like he had stepped into something too soft, too sacred for his presence. For the first time in a long time, he felt out of place in this big house.
Maria seemed to notice. She rested a hand on his back, voice quiet. “You okay, Miller?”
Joel exhaled through his nose and lied. “Fine.”
Maria didn’t push it, but her hand lingered for a second longer before she stepped away. “You owe me for that shit you pulled today. Nearly cost me a horse.” And when Joel shot her a no-bullshit glance, she added, “And a stupid fuckin' brother-in-law. Whatever.”
Joel nodded, impressed. “Naturally.”
She snorted, shaking her head as she walked out.
Joel followed her to the door, pack still slung over his shoulder. His hand landed on it, ready to push it closed—but his gaze drifted past the porch, past the quiet street, to the house across from him. His home.
He definitely should go. He should walk out, shut the door behind him, and put some distance between himself and everything that happened today for a while. The words he’d thrown at her in this house. The way he had pushed it further at the store. The grim fucking cabin.
All of it should have been reason enough to leave. But he couldn't move.
He took a slow, thoughtful breath. Let the warmth of the house settle into his skin. Then, before he could think too hard about it, he clicked the door shut.
Because he was too fucking selfish to leave.
So, Joel dropped his pack by the door, shrugged off his jacket, and toed off his boots. The big, white house had whispered around him with its scent of candlewax, firewood and warm linens, but not in him. Not just yet.
His gaze flicked up, landing on Leela just as she gently tucked the flower behind Maya’s ear. “Don't you look cute, trouble?” she teased.
A lump formed in his throat.
Maya blinked up at her mother, chubby fingers reaching to touch the delicate petals like she could hold onto them. Her eyes, wide and round, tracked her mother’s face with something close to awe before breaking off to her signature, gummy grin.
Joel had a smile curve up for her in return when she reached for him knowingly. “Hi, baby girl. C'mere, let me have a kiss, too.”
He leaned down, palming her back, pressing his lips deep into Maya’s curls, having his fill of kisses. God, he fucking loved her. She smelled of soap and soft cotton, of warm bathwater and the sweetness of bedtime. Her tiny fingers found his neck, curling into his skin. For a second, he let himself stay there, let her hold him.
Then he pulled away without another glance, stepping back from the moment before it could swallow him whole, giving them some space.
He stepped into the kitchen instead, grabbed a glass from the overflowing drying rack, and filled it under the tap.
Then—the cabin.
It came back, unbidden, curling around his mind like smoke.
The stench of rot. The filth on the rifle, caked in soot and sin. The bones burned into the floor, the pills pressing into the soles of his shoes.
Joel squeezed his eyes shut. Tilted his head back. Drowned it all with a long gulp of water.
Good. Let the fire take them. Let them burn down to nothing, to dust. If it had been up to him, he wouldn’t have left a fucking trace of those motherfuckers, not even their bones.
A warmth settled on his back.
Joel's every muscle tensed beneath it. Two palms, pressed gentle between his shoulder blades. Silently calling for him.
When he turned and glanced down, Leela was standing there. Maya was gone—tucked away somewhere safely in the living room, her shadow padding across from surface to surface for trouble to cause.
Now it was just them.
“Hey,” he tried first.
“Hi,” she returned.
She was warily watching him. Her hands fidgeted in front of her, fingers twisting together. Obviously, there was something she was dying to say, ask, or do. Without even knowing it, he knew his answer would be a flat yes.
Joel cleared his throat, setting the glass away. “Y'know, I'm proud of you. You did really well today.”
He barely got to finish that last sentence.
Before he could say anything else, she stepped forward and looped her arms around his neck. Utterly winding him.
It wasn't just a hug. This was clinging.
She pressed close and warm, her body tipping forward, her very toes crushing against his own, as though not an inch of skin should go untouched, and he hardly had time to catch her. Her arms wound tight around him, slender fingers sliding up, curling into the back of his longer, greying hair, pulling just gingerly as they dragged against the grain.
She melted into him. Sank into his chest like it was the only place she could land. She was holding on. Staying.
And for a second, Joel just stood there, hands hovering, caught between instinct and hesitation.
Because this wasn’t for him. It was for her. He should pull back. Shouldn’t take something she wasn’t giving him, shouldn’t soak up the heat of her like he fucking needed it.
Then, she shivered. Just faintly. Just enough.
And Joel broke.
His arms locked around her, one gripping her around her waist, the other spanning between her shoulder blades, brushing against her long braid. He held her tight, holding her close.
Her heartbeat thrummed against his ribs, her trim abdomen crushed into his stomach and belt buckle, and each finger of his ruined hand depressed into a portion of her spine. A soft, fragile thing.
She was here. She’d always come back.
Joel turned his face, pressing his lips against the side of her head, breathing her in, his fingers tightening in her shirt like he could keep her there. Like he could hold her together.
The cabin. The filth. The fire—it was all gone. Burned away in the warmth of her, the scent of her hair, the way her fingers curled deeper against his skin.
And Joel, for all his anger, for all his ghosts, for all the things he did and did not deserve—held on.
She exhaled softly against his neck, her breath warm, and uneven. Her hands curled a little tighter against the back of his head like she could anchor herself to him.
“I’m going to get sick and tired of saying thank you, Joel.” Her voice was quiet, a little scratchy, like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to say it at all.
Joel huffed, barely a sound. His hand flexed against her back. “Then stop sayin’ it,” he murmured.
Leela let out something between a breath and a laugh, her body shifting against his. Finding her fit against him.
Joel felt her fingers at the nape of his neck, brushing against the rough curls there. It sent something tight through his ribs, something that coiled in his chest and refused to let go.
She was quiet for a long moment, just breathing him in.
Her voice was softer when she spoke again. “If something happens to me—”
Joel stiffened. His grip on her waist tightened like he could hold her in place like just the thought of losing her was enough to make his body rebel against it.
“Don't.” His voice was a warning, a plea, rough with something he didn’t want to name.
Leela didn’t let go.
Her fingers curled against the nape of his neck, grounding herself in him. Or maybe—trying to ground him. Trying to hold him there before she said something he wouldn’t want to hear.
“If something happens to me, I need to know that you'll take care of Maya.”
He knew why she was saying this bullshit.
She was only here by chance. By luck. A few inches, a second too slow, and she wouldn’t be in his arms right now—wouldn’t be pressing against him, wouldn’t be warm, wouldn’t be breathing, wouldn’t be looking up at him with those eyes like she was asking him for something bigger than a promise. Something final.
“Ain't gonna happen,” he muttered.
“Joel.” A soft plea, a tilt of her head.
He shook his head, jaw tight, chest locking up like a goddamn vice. “Christ, Leela. This shouldn't even be up for question.”
But she was insistent, her grip on him tightening, like she was afraid he'd pull away. Like she needed him to hear this. Accept this.
“Then promise me now.” The words barely held together. Cracked down the middle. “Not Maria. Not Tommy or even Ellie. You.”
Joel clenched his teeth, something raw scraping inside his ribs. All these promises he's been making. How were any of those fair on him?
“Joel, I don't have anyone else left. You have to understand how important this is to me.” Her voice was steadier now, but her hands trembled against him. “She’s all yours. She’s always been yours. My home, all my research, my daughter—you'll be there. It's all yours.”
His breaths ached, as if it was inside him, splitting.
This was fucking real. Not some passing thought, not some fleeting worry—this was her laying it out, putting her life into his wrecked hands, trusting him with it.
Maya wasn’t just hers. She was his, too.
She had been for a long time, hadn’t she? And if something happened—if Leela was gone—there wasn’t a damn force on this earth that would take that little girl from him. It didn’t scare him anymore.
“You don’t need me to put it in triplicate,” he murmured. “I'd do it without askin’.”
Leela exhaled sharply like she’d been holding her breath. “I know. Needed to hear it from you.”
Joel lifted a hand, threading his fingers into her hair, tilting her face up just slightly. “You’re both mine. Both of you.”
He made it quiet, severe, but unshakable. A vow, not just to her, but to himself. Because that was the truth. The thing he’d known for longer than he’d let himself admit.
They were his.
Leela let out a small breath—like this was the only thing she’d needed.
But then, after a moment—she spoke again.
“If this is about legacy or—” Joel started, but she cut him off before he could even finish the thought.
“I don't give a shit about legacy, Joel. Look at me,” she said, fierce in a way that left no room for doubt.
Her fingers dug into him, pressing at the base of his skull, as if forcing him to stay his eyes on her. To the sharp edges of her features, the slight furrow in her brow.
She meant this. She fucking meant it.
And maybe that shouldn’t have hit him as hard as it did, but Christ, after all this time, after everything she’d kept close, all the ways she’d pulled away—here she was, giving him this. Not just her daughter, not just trust, but herself.
Not the Leela who brushed things off with an easy laugh. Not the Leela who went silent when it hurt, shutting herself away before anyone could get too close. Not the one who had been worn thin by exhaustion, by grief, by everything this world had taken from her.
No—this was the one who fought. The one who was staring him down now, fire in her eyes, daring him to push back.
It struck him somewhere deep, somewhere below words, below reason.
This was her. All the dimensions. The burden of her intellect, the sharpness of her conviction, the softness that she didn’t let many people see. The mother of his child. The woman he—god, the woman he really goddamn loved.
“I want my daughter with you.” A beat. “With her father.”
Everything inside Joel went quiet, dead still, like his brain had to stop just to catch up to what she’d said.
His throat worked, but no sound came out.
Leela watched him, her hands solid against him, holding him in place. Not backing down.
“Now, I know we haven’t gotten down to talking about it because of everything—” she muttered carefully, “but you accept that, don’t you? That you’re more than just Joel to Maya?”
He should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve known.
Because wasn’t this the truth? Wasn’t this what had been sitting there, waiting, just waiting for him to stop being so goddamn stubborn and see it?
Maya didn’t just cling to him—she reached for him. She trusted him in that quiet, simple way children did when they knew, down to their bones, who their people were. Or maybe it had happened even earlier, when he’d first stepped into this, when he’d first decided—without words, without promises—that he wasn’t walking away.
And he’d never fought it. Never questioned it, never thought of her as anything but his. But hearing it—hearing it, out loud, no escape, no walking around it—
It was a thunderclap in his black sky.
His eyes flickered over Leela’s face, searching. Waiting for her to say something else, something to ease the way it was fucking ravaging him.
She only waited, knowing the unspoken.
Joel exhaled, slow, long. His fingers flexed in her hair, at her waist, at the places where she fit against him.
“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse, stripped bare for her to see.
He felt his past pressing against the edges of this moment—Sarah’s wide grin, her hand gripping his as she leaned on his side, in a home full of possibilities before the world had collapsed beneath them. Ellie’s fire, the way she’d fought relentlessly against every part of him that had tried to keep her at arm’s length.
He’d been a father twice over.
And now—now he was being handed the chance again.
But it was different this time. Not just because it was Maya, because she was small and warm and already his—but also that he wasn’t alone in it.
Because this time, he wasn’t clawing through it with only guilt and hard work and grief and stubbornness and separation keeping him going.
This time, there was a warm home. A quiet life. Some room to grow. There was Leela.
Maybe that was the part that really undid him. Not just being a father again, but parenting with someone.
He thought of all those nights when she was too exhausted to function, but still got up anyway, still kept going, because that’s what she did. He thought of the hushed strength of her, the stubborn resolve, the way she had fought to keep Maya safe in a world that didn’t leave room for that kind of thing.
He wasn’t fumbling through it alone this time.
“Yeah,” Leela whispered her answer, as if reading his mind.
She tilted her head up, rising on her toes again—not much, just enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath against his jaw.
Joel breathed out sharply.
This was dangerous. This was slipping, past whatever line he’d attempted to keep between them for her sake. He should move. Say something. Break it up and put space where there wasn’t any.
Joel swallowed, hard. A little, idiotic, anxious part of him wondered if it had been that long and the fundamentals of a kiss had changed. There wasn't a textbook to flip here.
He had kissed women before. Had held them, had wanted them, had fucked them, and felt that pleasure only a woman could offer him when he hit the mattress.
Leela was different.
Not just because she was her, not just because she looked up at him like that—like she had never once questioned whether he was worth wanting, like she already knew this was happening, like she had already made up her mind. It didn’t matter to her that he was worn down, exhausted, and probably reeked of sweat and death and whatever the hell else he’d been working through that day.
No—she was different because he was different. Because it had been a long, long time since Joel had let himself want a woman like this.
Want without restraint. Want without thinking about the mess of it, the mistakes of it, the goddamn risk of it.
And she—God, she looked fucking stunning. Just like the first time he’d seen her, only now, it wasn’t from across the street. Wasn’t at a distance. She was here, close enough to feel, close enough to breathe in.
Her fingers curled deeper into his hair, and whatever was left of his restraint snapped like brittle wire.
His head dipped before he could stop it.
The first brush of their lips was hesitating—soft, careful, fucking fantastic, like neither of them were quite sure they had permission. Like they were hovering on the edge of something neither of them could name.
Leela stiffened—just for a second.
Joel felt it. The way she froze—like the reality of it had just hit her. But her hands stayed, one fisted against his shoulder, the other still tangled in his hair, gripping tighter, not pulling away.
A small, shuddering breath slipped from her lips.
Joel swallowed, trying to ignore the way she did that, the way her fingers tensed against his scalp, her lips parted, uncertain, and she sighed against him.
For fuck's sake, she’d never done this before. Not like this. Not the way it should be done, not to be had. She was waiting on him—watching him, trusting him to show her how.
His palm smoothed up her spine, patient, languid. Soothing. Sweetheart, you ain’t gotta be nervous.
Leela inhaled sharply. And her grip shuddered. Tentatively, like she wasn’t sure she was doing it right, her lips moved against his.
He could feel the way she concentrated, the way she was brooding in that shrewd little head of hers, and figured it out as she went, pressing a little too lightly, pulling back like she went too far, or wasn’t sure how much to give.
His chest clenched. Jesus.
She was trying. Trying so hard, even though she didn’t know how.
Joel let his other hand drift up—languid, knowing—fingertips grazing along the edge of her jaw, curving, pressing, tilting her just slightly. Guiding her.
Leela’s breath hitched.
Then, as if that small adjustment had steadied her, she softened entirely against him.
And Joel—yeah, he was fucking gone.
His fingers threaded into her hair, twisting into those wild, thick strands that weaved down into her braid, angling her deeper, letting her have all of him. Because that seemed to be all he could give her. Nothing but himself.
His lips moved against hers, gentle, sure, patient—like he was showing her how.
God, she was so fucking sweet. So nervous, so careful, but trusted him to lead her through it.
Her lips parted, a quiet, breathless sound slipping through—small, barely anything, but fuck, it hit him hard.
Joel groaned, low, deep in his throat, heat curling through his stomach. What he would give to push her up against that counter behind her, to have him pick apart that pretty pearl-buttoned night dress or bite off those bows and strings in those mind-bending backless tops of hers.
The thought only made his hand splay at her waist, pulling her flush against him, fingers pressing into the small of her back. Leela let out a soft gasp, her other hand sliding up, gripping at his throat, and she wanted more.
Well, he was already fucking ruined anyway.
His lips moved deeper into her, more certain, his fingers pressing into the curve of her jaw, tipping, angling—letting her feel it, letting her lead, letting her find her rhythm, letting her take what she wanted at her own pace.
And she did. She deserved that. Knowing she was in control of this.
He pulled back just an inch—just enough to meet her gaze, to give her a second to breathe, to make sure she knew—
But before he could, her lips chased his, and Jesus—
Joel laughed softly, deep in his throat, warmth curling through his stomach, twisting through his ribs. Alright, sweetheart. Whatever you need.
So he kissed her again. More. Deeper. As long she wanted. Till his lips went blue, till his legs went dead, till his brain was fuzzy, till she was sure she'd mastered the art of kissing.
Her fingers trembled against his neck when she eventually fell back on her heels, realizing—like this was finally sinking in.
Joel exhaled against her lips, gruff. “Good?”
Leela nodded—too fast, too eager. “Mhm.”
It was barely a whisper, barely there at all, but her hands were still on him, still keeping close, still wanting.
His thumb brushed over her jaw, soft, reassuring. “You sure?”
She swallowed, eyes flickering over his face, searching—like she was waiting for something. And then, so quietly he almost didn’t hear it—
“I didn’t know it could be like this.”
Oh, that knocked the wind out of him. The next time she said shit like that, he'd put his fist through a wall.
His hand lifted, threading through her hair with a tenderness that nearly undid him, coarse fingers dragging through the strands before resting at the nape of her neck. His thumb traced the soft skin there, his other hand smoothing over the small of her back, pulling her a breath closer.
“S’alright, darlin',” he murmured, brushing his lips against her forehead, lingering just a little longer than necessary. “Ain’t gotta rush.”
And that—that was it.
That was the moment Joel knew. And Christ, maybe that was the thing he never let himself want—never let himself hope for.
This wasn’t about grief. This wasn’t about making promises in the shadow of something terrible.
This was about life. A chance to do this again, but with stability. With reassurance. With her.
Leela was standing in front of him, alive, wanting, present. All his.
And somehow, despite all the shit they’d lived through, despite all the ways he had shut himself off over the years—somehow, he was too.
You and Joel continue to butt heads, but this time, he gets under your skin in a way you can’t shake. The tension isn’t just anger anymore—it’s something else, something that keeps you up at night.
amplified masterlist
amplified on ao3
word count - 4k
rating - E
chapter content - language, sexual tension, alcohol use, cigarettes, f! masturbation because the tension is starting to build baybeeeee
St. Louis, MO
Your alarm blares, the sharp, grating noise ripping you out of sleep. You jolt awake, blinking hard against the light filtering through the obnoxiously fancy hotel curtains. Your phone buzzes violently on the nightstand, and with a groggy groan, you fumble for it, barely cracking one eye open as you swipe at the screen.
And then you see them.
Three missed calls from Marlene.
Multiple emails from the label.
A text from Maria:
"Where the fuck is he?"
Your stomach drops. The sleep haze evaporates in an instant as you glance at the time.
11:00 AM.
Joel had a press interview at 9 AM.
And he did not show up.
You sit up so fast your head spins. Panic licks at the edges of your mind, but mostly, you’re pissed.
You tap open your inbox, scrolling past subject lines that scream disappointment in every corporate way possible.
One email from the publicist:
Joel’s absence at this morning’s interview is unacceptable. If he refuses to cooperate, this will reflect poorly on the entire tour.
Another from Marlene:
Figure it out. Now.
Your jaw tightens as you inhale sharply, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth to keep from cursing out loud.
Joel fucking Miller.
You shove your phone into your pocket and throw on a jacket, not even bothering to brush your hair properly. There’s no time. You grab your schedule, your phone, and every ounce of frustration boiling under your skin.
Time to find him.
And make him regret skipping that interview.
-------------------------------------------------
You stomp onto the bus, already mentally preparing for a fight.
The inside is too quiet—eerily so. No signs of movement, no indication that Joel even knows he’s in trouble. If he did, he’d probably be trying to smooth things over by now, offering some half-assed apology that didn’t actually make up for the shitstorm he just caused.
Your boots thud against the floor as you make your way toward the back.
Tommy is the first person you see, lounging at the tiny tour bus kitchen table, a cup of coffee in one hand and his phone in the other. He looks way too amused for someone whose brother just pissed off half the label.
He glances up at you, grinning like he was waiting for this exact moment.
“Mornin’, Boss Lady. You look pissed.”
You glare at him. “Where is he?”
Tommy smirks, jerking his thumb toward the bunks. “Still asleep.”
You stare at him, incredulous. “Are you kidding me?”
Tommy shrugs, entirely unbothered. “Man had a late night.”
You resist the urge to strangle him. Instead, you march past him, determined, already bracing yourself for whatever excuse Joel was about to mumble when you finally shook him awake.
Tommy calls after you. “Be gentle with ‘im, now.”
You don’t even turn around. “Not a chance.”
You push open the door to Joel’s section of the bus, expecting resistance.
Instead, you find him sprawled out on the bed, fast asleep.
His breathing is slow and steady, one arm slung across the slope of his stomach. He looks too damn peaceful for someone who just made your morning hell.
The room smells like him.
Cedar. Whiskey. Faint traces of leather.
It’s annoyingly pleasant, and you hate that you even notice.
You take a deep breath and shove down any thoughts that aren’t pure frustration.
“You missed the interview.”
Joel doesn’t move at first. Then, finally, he groans, shifting just enough to prove he’s actually awake. His voice is rough, still heavy with sleep when he mutters:
“Mm. Didn’t wanna do it.”
Your patience, already razor-thin, snaps.
“Not an option.”
Joel exhales, rolling onto his side, still not looking at you. “It is if I don’t show up.”
Oh, he is testing you today.
You march over and slap his foot. “Get up.”
Joel cracks an eye open, smirking slightly. “Y’always this bossy first thing in the morning?”
Your stomach does a weird little flip—because that tone? Teasing. Rough. Amused.
No. Absolutely not. We are not doing this.
You double down, ignoring the way he looks at you. “Get. Up.”
Joel groans but finally sits up, rubbing a hand over his face. He stretches, muscles shifting under his shirt, and you hate that you notice. His voice is still thick with sleep when he mutters:
“You know, you’re cute when you’re mad.”
Oh, he is asking for it.
You glare, about two seconds from smacking him again, but then you notice something—the tension in his shoulders, the way he rolls out his neck before scrubbing a hand through his hair.
Something clicks.
"Why are you still on the bus, Joel?"
He sighs, reaching for his coffee cup on the nightstand, even though it’s long since gone cold. He doesn’t answer right away, and for a second, you think he’s going to dodge the question entirely. But then, he shrugs.
"Hotel beds ain’t mine."
That shouldn’t be an answer, but somehow, it is.
Joel apparently is always like this. Hotels feel too sterile, too temporary. Every night it’s some different, impersonal room that doesn’t smell like him, that doesn’t feel like his space. The bus, for all its cramped, messy, lived-in chaos, stays the same.
It’s familiar. Reliable. Something he can actually claim.
And if he was really drinking last night, if sleep didn’t come easy—then yeah. He would’ve come back here. Where the walls don’t shift and the silence isn’t deafening.
You exhale, tapping your fingers against your arm. You get it. You do.
But he still missed the goddamn interview.
"That’s real sweet, Joel." Your voice is dry. "Truly. But next time, you let me know before I have to clean up your mess."
Joel smirks around the rim of his coffee cup. "Sure thing, Boss Lady."
Oh, you are going to kill him.
You exhale, struggling for patience. “Joel, I’m not in the mood.”
He grins, slow and lazy, stretching like he’s got all the time in the world. “Seems like you’re always in a mood.”
You glare at him.
“You can’t just skip things because you ‘don’t feel like it.’ The label is on my ass. I’ve been dealing with the fallout from this. You made me look like an idiot.”
That gets his attention.
The smirk fades—just a little. His expression shifts, something flickering behind those tired, whiskey-colored eyes. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, watching you carefully.
“I ain’t tryin’ to make you look bad, sweetheart.”
The first moment of hesitation.
And for a second, just a second, he almost sounds sincere. Like he actually gives a shit about how his choices affect you.
But you’re still pissed.
You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “Then act like it.”
You take a step closer, planting your hands on your hips. “No more skipping. No more making me chase you down. If I have to drag you to every single interview, I will.”
Joel studies you for a long moment.
His gaze flickers—just for a second—down to your mouth.
Then he sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw, and mutters, “Fine.”
You blink. That was way too easy.
Your suspicion must show because his smirk is back in full force, slow and smug and infuriating.
“But if you’re draggin’ me anywhere, you better buy me dinner first.”
You resist the urge to scream.
Behind you, Tommy chokes on his coffee. Loudly.
Tess, passing by like she planned this exact moment, lets out a low whistle. “Damn. I like this one.”
You inhale deeply, clench your jaw, and turn on your heel, storming out before you let him see just how much he’s getting under your skin.
You hear Joel chuckling behind you.
This is far from over.
—----------------------------------
After your argument that morning, you think Joel will finally fall in line. He agreed to stop skipping things. He agreed to let you do your job. You think you won.
You were wrong.
Joel doesn’t skip things anymore. But he’s late to every single thing. Press meetings? Twenty minutes late. Soundcheck? Walks in just as it’s supposed to be over. Crew meetings? Acts like he’s never heard of them. He’s doing it on purpose.
And you are livid.
The crew is tiptoeing around the rising tension between you two. Maria warns you to pick your battles. Tess finds it hilarious. “Oh, honey, you think talking works on Joel? Good luck.” Tommy is placing bets on how long before one of you snaps.
It all comes to a head during soundcheck for the Chicago show. The band is already set up, waiting. The label rep is there, watching. You check the time. Joel is fifteen minutes late.
And then, finally, he strolls in—casual as hell. No rush. No apology. Just grabs his guitar, adjusts the mic, and acts like nothing is wrong.
You see red. Your whole body tenses. You march straight toward him, hands clenched into fists.
You don’t care that people are watching. You walk straight up to him, stopping just short of invading his space.
Your voice is low, sharp, dangerous. “Do you think this is funny?”
Joel barely looks at you. He’s adjusting his guitar strap, completely unbothered, fingers deft and practiced as he tightens it over his broad shoulders. His forearms flex, tanned skin dusted with dark hair, veins prominent. A muscle jumps in his jaw when he shifts, but his expression remains neutral, unaffected.
“Do I think what is funny?”
You step closer, voice rising. “You. Blowing off the schedule. Making me chase you down. Making all of us wait for you.” Your breath is short, shoulders tight with frustration. “I don’t care how long you’ve been doing this. I don’t care how talented you are. This tour doesn’t revolve around you.”
Joel finally meets your eyes, and that damn smirk tugs at his lips. His dark brown eyes, deep-set and knowing, flicker with something dangerous. “I mean, technically, it kinda does.”
You inhale sharply, furious.
He is so frustrating. So impossible.
“You are—” You stop yourself, jaw clenching so hard it aches.
Joel tilts his head, watching you carefully, like he’s waiting to see where you’ll go with this. His thick brows raise slightly, his gaze sharp but unreadable. “I’m what?”
His voice is lower now. Teasing, but with an edge.
Silence stretches too long.
You suddenly realize how close you are.
The heat radiating off his body, the whisky, the leather, the cedar. The slight stubble on his jaw, just enough to be rough under a palm, the way his lips part slightly like he’s about to say something—but doesn’t. His dark eyes flick downward, just for a second—to your mouth. Then back up.
Your breath catches.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
Tommy’s voice rings out from behind a keyboard, loud and obnoxious.
You and Joel immediately step back.
Your entire face burns.
Joel clears his throat, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking something off. He looks away, jaw ticking, but you don’t miss the way he rubs a hand over the back of his neck, fingers pressing into the muscle like this—whatever this is—is getting to him more than he wants to admit.
Tess smirks, amused as hell. “Well. That was interesting.”
You exhale sharply, turning on your heel.
You are going to kill Tommy.
You are going to kill Joel.
And then you are going to quit and run away forever.
Joel? He’s watching you, his dark gaze unreadable.
And for once, he doesn’t look so smug anymore.
——————————————————
After soundcheck, you step outside, the evening air cool against your flushed skin. You lean against the side of the tour bus, closing your eyes, inhaling deep, trying to push down the frustration coiling tight in your chest.
Your hands grip the edge of your jacket. The way he looked at you—too close, too damn smug, too much. It was a game to him, wasn’t it? Push and pull, test your patience, see how far he could go before you snapped. And the worst part? You almost had.
The door creaks open behind you.
You hear the sound of boots on pavement. Heavy steps. Familiar.
Not now. I need space. I need to—
Joel leans against the bus beside you, his shoulder just a few inches away from yours. He doesn’t say anything at first. Neither of you do.
The quiet stretches. The sounds of the city hum in the background, distant and meaningless.
Finally, Joel exhales, voice rough. “Didn’t mean to piss you off. That bad, anyway.”
You don’t look at him. Your jaw tightens. “Yeah, well. You did.”
A long pause.
You expect him to leave. To shake his head, mutter something under his breath, and walk away like he always does when things get too real.
But he doesn’t.
You finally turn your head—and find him already watching you. His gaze softer now, not sharp with teasing but something closer to regret. His dark eyes, usually unreadable, are clearer in this moment, something else pushing past the usual arrogance.
He scratches at his jaw, looking away briefly before sighing. “I wasn’t tryin’ to hold out on the band. Just—” He exhales through his nose. “Been doin’ this a long time. Got my own way of handlin’ things. But I get it. I do. Ain’t fair to the rest of ‘em.”
It’s not a full apology, not quite. But for him? It’s something.
Your chest tightens. You almost say something—almost—when the door swings open again.
“Oh good,” Tommy drawls, stepping outside. “I was worried y’all were actually gonna kill each other. Looks like you’re just eye-fucking instead.”
You groan, covering your face with both hands. “Jesus Christ, Tommy.”
Joel just laughs, shaking his head. A low, rough sound, warm in a way that makes your stomach twist.
The tension shifts—not gone, not by a long shot.
But different. Lighter.
Still there.
It’s late after the show. The adrenaline is finally wearing off, leaving exhaustion in its place. The crew is already breaking down the stage, the rumble of equipment being packed up filling the space. The venue is mostly empty now, except for a few lingering fans and some VIP guests milling around.
You’re half-dead on your feet, mentally running through tomorrow’s schedule, already bracing for another long day.
A few feet away, Joel is talking with Tommy, his voice low, relaxed. He’s still drenched in sweat, curls sticking slightly to his forehead, the collar of his shirt damp where it clings to his chest. He looks tired, but settled—like the stage is the only place he ever really breathes.
He’s not looking at you.
But you feel him there anyway.
Ignore it. Ignore him. Focus on work.
Then you catch sight of them—Henry and Sam, still buzzing with excitement over in VIP.
Sam is barely containing himself, bouncing on the balls of his feet, talking fast with wide, expressive gestures. Henry listens with a fond shake of his head, steadying his little brother with a hand on his shoulder. They’re replaying the setlist, mimicking the guitar solos, caught up in the magic of it all like they don’t want the night to end.
Joel glances their way. His body language shifts. His expression softens.
You don’t even have to think about it—you look at him at the exact same time he looks at you.
No words, no explanation. Just a silent agreement between the two of you as your gazes flick from each other back to the two boys he had invited onto the bus after their last show.
And maybe that’s what still gets to you the most. How effortlessly generous he can be, when he chooses to be.
You and Joel step outside for a moment, standing near the open bus door. The cool night air is a relief after the stuffiness inside, the quiet settling between you in a way that feels almost... comfortable.
Joel pulls out a cigarette, lights it with practiced ease, then—out of habit—tilts the pack toward you.
You shake your head. Not falling for the “gritty rockstar” aesthetic tonight.
He smirks, tucking it away. “Suit yourself.”
You cross your arms, sighing. “So. What’s the plan?”
Joel exhales smoke, watching the stars. “They stay.”
You blink. They were sweet enough but a guy and his kid brother on tour?
Joel gives you a look, like you’re supposed to just read his mind. “Ain’t good havin’ ‘em sittin’ ‘round with nothin’ to do if they’re comin’ to the shows anyway. Find ‘em somethin’.”
You cross your arms tighter, tilting your head. “Are you asking me or telling me?”
Joel smirks slightly. “Figure I’ll get a better response if I ask.”
You pretend to think about it. But you’ve already decided. “Fine. Henry can help with load-in. Sam can do merch runs.”
You raise an eyebrow at him. “But I’m not babysitting them. That’s on you.”
Joel snorts. “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”
Frank passes by, hand in hand with Bill, grinning as he heads toward the busses. “Look at that. You two finally agree on something.”
Joel glares at him. You roll your eyes.
But later that night, when you see Henry and Sam grinning as they settle into the crew tour bus, wide-eyed and practically buzzing with excitement, you don’t regret it.
Maybe Joel was right about this one.
But you’d never tell him that.
————————————————————-
Cleveland, OH
The night is winding down, but you’re still wired from the show. A few days have passed since the last one, and the rhythm of tour life is settling in again—same routine, different city.
Tonight’s set went well—mostly.
The crowd was electric, and Joel fed off it. But he pushed himself too hard.
You noticed it halfway through.
The way his voice strained on the last chorus, how he barely hit the note when it should’ve been effortless. He covered it well, adjusting his tone, letting the band carry him, but you saw it. That flicker of pain in his expression, the slight tension in his jaw before he forced himself through the next song.
The second he walked off stage, you knew what was coming.
Now, he’s sitting backstage, alone in his dressing room, finishing off a beer, rolling the bottle between his fingers. Every few moments, his hand drifts up to his throat, rubbing absently like he can feel the damage. He’s trying to play it off, pretending nothing’s wrong.
But you’ve seen this before.
And you don’t wait for him to admit it.
You grab a water bottle from the cooler and shove it at him. “Drink.”
Joel looks up, unimpressed. “I’m fine.”
Your patience is nonexistent at this point.
“You’re not fine. You pushed too hard, and now you’re paying for it.”
Joel leans back in his chair, watching you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s an edge to his smirk, something deliberate about the way he holds your gaze.
“You always this dramatic, sweetheart?”
You exhale sharply, stepping closer. “You hired me to keep this tour running. That means keeping you running. So when I tell you to stop, you stop.”
Your voice isn’t playful anymore. It’s sharp. Unyielding.
Joel’s jaw tightens.
He sets the beer bottle down a little too hard, the glass clinking against the table. His posture shifts—shoulders tense, eyes darker.
Then, low and slow, he mutters, “I don’t like bein’ told what to do.”
You step closer, refusing to let him intimidate you.
“And I don’t like babysitting a grown man who doesn’t know how to take care of himself.”
Joel’s eyes flash, his hands clenching into fists against his thighs. His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking, his breathing slow and controlled—too controlled, like he’s holding something back.
Then he stands up.
Too fast. Too close.
Suddenly, he’s right there, heat radiating off him, overwhelming in a way that makes your skin prickle.
Your breath catches.
You don’t back up. Won’t give him the satisfaction.
But now you’re chest-to-chest, and the space between you is nothing. The air thickens—charged, pulsing with something unspoken, something that’s been building under every argument, every sharp glance, every power struggle that neither of you are willing to lose.
Joel tilts his head slightly, his voice a quiet drawl, low and teasing but with an edge. “You really think you can control me, sweetheart?”
Your pulse jumps.
You should still be furious, should still be yelling.
But your voice comes out quieter than you expect. “I think you need someone to.”
A flicker of something dark passes through his expression.
His gaze flickers down, just briefly—to your lips, then back up. His breathing is heavier than it was a second ago, his broad chest rising and falling just a little too deep, a little too slow.
The way he’s looking at you makes your stomach tighten, heat curling at the base of your spine.
And for a second—just a second—you think he’s going to kiss you.
Your throat feels tight. Your body tenses, bracing for something, but you don’t even know what.
Joel’s fingers twitch at his side, like he’s seconds away from reaching for you. Like he wants to.
And that realization is what makes you finally step back.
You swallow hard, putting space between you, needing to breathe, needing to think.
Joel watches you, his smirk slow, knowing. His voice dips lower, rougher. “Look at you. Little thing like you, runnin’ around tellin’ me what to do.”
He shakes his head, exhaling through his nose. “You’re young, darlin’. You really think you can handle me?”
Your stomach twists—part frustration, part something else—but you shove it down. You won’t let him win.
You square your shoulders, ignoring the way your skin still feels hot from being that close to him. “I’ve handled worse.”
Joel chuckles, deep and raspy, like this—getting under your skin—is exactly what he was hoping for.
You groan, shoving past him, desperate to escape whatever the hell just happened.
“You’re impossible.”
His laughter follows you as you go, warm and knowing.
“But you like it.”
——————————————————-
Later that night, in the quiet of your bunk, you try to shake it off, try to focus on anything else. But the tension lingers, seared into your skin, pressing against your thoughts in a way you hate.
But the memory won’t leave you alone.
The way he looked at you. The way he stood so damn close, heat rolling off his body, making it impossible to think straight. His voice—low and rough, teasing but with an edge, curling in your ear like a taunt that refused to leave you.
And his face—
The hooked curve of his nose, sharp and strong. The deep-set, dark brown eyes that had flickered to your mouth, just for a second. His jaw, stubbled and tense, like he was holding himself back. The way his lips had parted, just slightly, like he might’ve said something else. Or done something else.
Your hand drifts lower before you can stop yourself.
It’s just frustration, that’s all. A way to get it out of your system.
But when your fingers slip beneath the waistband of your underwear, your breath hitches, and it’s his voice that echoes in your head.
“You really think you can handle me?”
Your stomach clenches, thighs pressing together as a shiver runs through you. You bite your lip, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers brush over slick heat, teasing, testing, imagining the roughness of his hands instead. The way his calloused fingers might feel against you, dragging slow and deliberate, making you wait.
Your hips roll, back arching slightly as your fingers rub light circles, the pressure already building, coiling hot and low in your stomach.
You imagine him watching you. His expression, dark and amused, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. The way his lips might quirk, the way he might mutter something low and filthy under his breath as you whimpered for him.
And the way he would lean down, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a teasing drawl.
"That all you got, sweetheart?"
Your breath catches, your fingers moving faster, desperate, chasing the edge as pleasure rolls through you. You imagine him holding you open, his fingers slipping into your cunt, stretching you, teasing, drawing it out, making you beg, making you wait.
A muffled gasp leaves your lips as your orgasm hits, waves of pleasure crashing over you, your hips bucking against your fingers. You bite your lip to muffle a groan, still stroking yourself through it, riding the high, chasing the aftershocks, desperate for release.
Your breathing slows. The tension slowly leaves your muscles.
And when you finally catch your breath, reality sets back in. Staring at the ceiling of your bunk—you feel worse.
Because it didn’t help.
It didn’t shake the feeling, didn’t erase the way your body still wants.
You turn over, pressing your face into your pillow, exhaling sharply.
"OH LOVER BOY!" || 28 Days of Love: A Valentine's Challenge + Series
day twenty-six: possessive
ᰔ pairing: joel miller x reader
ᰔ summary: you and joel spend a friday night at the bar, which ends up with bloody hands and a hospital visit.
ᰔ author's note: a change of plot in the ninth hour thanks to that one picture. it's past 10pm and i'm writing like a madman. send help please god. inspired by this picture ✋😮💨
ᰔ content warning: no outbreak but canon typical violence, irritable joel, bar setting, alcohol consumption, creepy bar patrons, reader gets hit on, blood, hospitals, doctors, strong language
"Are you sure you want to go in? We can head back home and watch a movie," you offered. "Let's go out another night."
Joel shook his head, his hand extended out to cut the engine of the truck. He wanted to give in to your offer— turn right around and drive straight back home. Dread had filled him the minute he sat in the truck.
At the beginning of the week, you had asked to go out to the bar on Friday. Some of your friends were supposed to be getting together for drinks and pool. You agreed, and they urged you to bring the guy you had been seeing. When you brought it up to Joel, he surprised you with a nod and a 'sure, it'd be nice to get out'.
"We'll have a good time. Figure it'll be good to let your friends see I'm not just some cranky bastard," Joel huffed out a laugh. He had an amused smile on his lips as he climbed out of the car.
"Oh, I don't think you'll be less cranky," you chuckled. "That's okay. They know I like them bitchy." You put a hand on his chest and kissed him once he was close enough. Joel rolled his eyes; you swore they'd fall out of his skull with how often he did it.
"Bitchy? That's a new one." Joel opened the door for you as the two of you approached. You glanced over your shoulder.
"No it ain't. No one's bold enough to say it to your face," you chuckled.
Like most dive bars, the place was packed for a Friday night. The crowd ranged from long time regulars that regaled with each other to college kids that were too proud of their fake ids that no one really cared about.
You scanned the crowd to find your friends, who were tucked in the back. They were all gathered around a pool table and on what seemed to be the second round of drinks. You slipped your hand into Joel's and led him through the crowd. Before you got too far, he planted his feet. You turned, a look of confusion written on your face.
"I'll get us some drinks," Joel offered. You nodded and thanked him with a kiss. His hand slipped out of yours— he already knew your drink of choice. The two of you hadn't been together more than a few months, but he paid enough attention.
You joined your friends and gave the round of hugs and greetings.
"No 'Joel' tonight?" One of your friends teased as they elbowed your side. You shook your head and crossed your arms.
"Nope, but I did pick up that hot guy at the bar on the way in," you teased back. Every set of eyes turned to the bar to analyze the man in the flannel, his back turned to you.
"Bitch, that's fucking Joel. You posted a story with him in that same shirt a week ago," another friend chided. You cackled as she punched your arm. Your other friends waved you off or flipped the bird.
None of your friends had met Joel yet, but they had seen and heard more than enough about him. They knew he wasn't very social so as soon as you said he would come along, there was a buzz of excitement.
"He offered to grab us some drinks. What was I gonna do, say no?" You watched as two of your friends argued over the rules of pool. They fought like this every time, so you tuned them out.
Joel returned with two drinks in hand, a beer and one of your old faithfuls. He slipped a hand onto the small of your back. Your shirt shifted and you felt the press of his fingertips against your skin. A small shiver came over you.
"Guys, this is Joel. Joel, these are my friends." You went through the group and introduced everyone by name. Joel, ever the southern gentleman, shook everyone's hand and gave a polite hello.
You stuck close to Joel as the two of you settled into the group. He fit in easily as he jested with your friends. He even offered to play a round of pool with one of the guys— totally unprompted!
As you watched him and chatted with a friend, you noticed how quickly your drink had disappeared. With a small pout, you held your glass up.
"I'm going to get another drink! Be right back," you yelled over the loud background noise. He gave a nod, and you slipped him to head for the bar.
Since you had arrived, the bar had only grown more rowdy. It seemed the football team from the local college had finished their practice and wanted to party. You couldn't blame them, considering the drinks were cheap and it wasn't a far drive from the stadium. Still, you had to practically elbow your way to the bar.
As you waited for the bartender to finish with their current task, you felt a presence beside you. That, and you could practically smell them from where you stood. God, college boys smelled just as bad axe-laden middle schoolers.
"You all by yourself?" You almost didn't believe the boy was talking to you. If not for him pressing closer to you, you would have ignored him all together.
"No," you replied. "I'm here to grab a drink for myself and my boyfriend." You tried to move away, only to end up squished between an older woman and the man with no clear sense of personal space.
"I don't see him," he chided with a smirk. "Isn't that what they all say? I've got a boyfriend, a girlfriend, a partner— yet no one by their side."
You whirled around with a raised eyebrow.
"You do know that I don't have to stand near him all night, correct? Just because we're not next to each other doesn't mean I don't have a boyfriend," you returned. The boy rolled his eyes and leaned on the bar.
"Baby—"
Your skin crawled at the name. Nothing angered you more than some shitty pet name from some random guy who didn't know you. The only person who deserved to call you baby was across the bar and in the middle of a pool game.
"I'm not your baby. Don't call me that," you snapped. "Can I just get my drink in peace? I'm not going to be polite next time." You turned your shoulder, your back to him as you waved down the bartender. She was on her way to you when a hand landed on your waist. It made your skin crawl as you launched yourself away from the bar.
"What, baby? You a fuckin' prude or something? Savin' yourself for your little imaginary boyfriend?" The tone in his voice had you seeing red. Your fists balled up and your expression twisted into one of rage.
"Is this how you pick people up at the bar? How's being an idiot working out for you?" You had to take a deep breath before you went in swinging. It had not been the first time you had been in a bar fight, and it seemed old habits died hard.
"Worked every time before. C'mere, baby, I'll buy you—"
You watched the scene play out in slow motion. One minute, the idiot's hand stretched out to grab for your hand. In a blink, a big, calloused hand grab his wrist and yanked him away from the bar.
Joel looked enraged. You had seen him angry plenty of times, but this was different. His lips were downturned, but the look in his eyes scared you. Not for yourself— god, even the idea seemed ridiculous to you— but for the dumbass.
"Choose your next words carefully. Say baby one more time, pretty boy." Joel's tone sent a shiver down your spine. It was almost like he was begging the boy to do something dumb.
"Get the fuck off of me, old man. Like you have a better chance with the bitch."
Oh.
Yeah, this boy was gonna die. Time stood still as you watched the football player try to deck Joel with his only free hand. In one swift move, he yanked the boy's arm forward and threw him onto the ground. He managed to land a punch that sent a crack so loud that the bar fell into a hush.
The boy yelped and tried to swing back, but Joel was quicker. He had at least fifty pounds and half a foot on him. That, and a load of unbridled rage. He didn't take kindly to harassment, but to insult you in the process? Call you a bitch?
You stood, your mouth open in pure shock. Truth be told, you were glued to your spot. Two men managed to pull Joel off, while a few other bystanders tried to stop the boy's scrawny friends from getting the same ass-whooping.
Finally, as if your brain seemed to come back to Earth, you blinked and lurched towards Joel. You blatantly stepped over the boy to get to your boyfriend. His hands were bloody and his expression was soured.
"Hey, hey— Joel, baby, take a deep breath," you muttered. The two men who held him back lead him towards the exit, and you followed. One of the guys opened the door, and you took his spot as you guided him outside. You thanked the men as you managed to unlock the truck bed. Joel sat with a heavy sigh and murmured a thanks under his breath.
"Can I see your hands?" Your voice was soft. The air was cool and loud with the sound of the frogs all around. Joel was silent as he let you hold his hands. He sucked in a sharp breath when you fiddled with a few fingers.
"This looks broken," you frowned. "We need to get you to the hospital." You didn't care that Joel's hand was full of blood, or that his hackles were still raised. If you weren't so concerned, you'd be in shock still.
"It can wait until tomorrow," Joel gruffed. He never meant for it to happen, him beating the living daylights out of the idiot, but he'd be damned if he'd let someone talk about you like that. If anything, the kid's lucky enough walking away alive and talking.
"Please," you asked. "What if it's something serious?" If something bad happened to Joel, especially after he got hurt defending you, you'd be beside yourself.
By some miracle, or maybe the worry written all over your face, Joel conceded with a nod. He got off the edge of the truck bed and began for the driver's seat.
"Oh, absolutely not. I'm driving. Go." You weren't going to take no for an answer. Joel gave you the keys before he climbed into the passenger seat.
The ride to the hospital was short and silent. It wasn't uncomfortable, but you weren't sure what to say. How did you thank your boyfriend for beating some guy's ass? It was more than some verbal acknowledgment— did you buy him dinner? Suck his dick? All of the above?
You helped with the check-in process once at the hospital. As the two of you waited to be called to the back, you laid your head on Joel's shoulder.
"Thank you for defending me. I don't know what that guy's problem was." You felt Joel's jaw rest against your head. He reached over to hold your arm with his uninjured hand.
"Dumbass was too big for his britches. I only caught the tail end, but I figured it out real quick when I saw your face. If I hadn't'a swung first, it woulda been you." Joel knew that, no questions asked. If someone was going to get charges pressed, he'd rather it be himself than you.
"Shit, you're right. Though my uppercut wouldn't have done much, at least compared to your hit. I mean goddamn," you chucked under your breath. "You damn near knocked him into next Tuesday."
"Still wouldn't have been enough if I had. Who calls someone a bitch like that? Fuckin' vile, that piece'a shit," Joel grumbled under his breath.
Once he was called to the back, they made quick work on setting his hand in place. Joel bit back a groan as they popped his fingers into the right place and put a brace on his hand. He was sent off with a prescription for painkillers and an order for no heavy lifting. That hurt him more than anything else.
"Shoulda just put me down instead," Joel grumbled as he followed you out of the emergency room. You held good arm as you guided him to the truck.
"It won't be that bad. Maybe you'll actually get some rest," you lightly teased. Joel attempted to chuckle, but it just came out as an amused huff. He didn't even try to go for the driver's side. Not like he'd be able to drive for another week, at least.
"Don't go for miracles," Joel warned. You rolled your eyes, a small smile on your face.
"Eh, I'll take my chances."
Despite the unfortunate circumstances, Joel actually did rest. You thanked him with words, dinner, and a few orgasms to show how truly thankful you really were. No one had stuck up for you like that, and to have someone defend you like that...
Joel deserved more than you could ever give, but you'd try your damnedest for him.
summary: you're known for your kindness and sunshine personality, but they make it impossible for joel to have you for himself. and one thing you know about joel miller, is he isn't a patient man.
warnings: 18+ (minors dni), DDDE 🕊, age gap, dark!joel, naive!reader, virgin!reader, dubcon, toxic relationships, corruption kink, humiliation kink, dacryphilia, stalking and kidnapping themes, oral (m. receiving), fingering, power imbalance, lowkey breeding and praise kink, use of multiple pet names, what am i even doing atp ijbol
word count: 4,354 words
side note: this request made me go against my morals. yes, this blog has morals. no matter what filth is going on, consent is sexy my dear fellow citizens, don't forget it! also please forgive my first ever lousy attempt at a dark!character IJBOL
If It Feels Good, Then It Can't Be Bad
In a world ravaged by death, violence and hopelessness, you came like a ray of sun into Joel's life: a bath of sunlight to shine upon his otherwise dark life; to cast light to fight the shadows ever-present on his eyes.
The first time you said his name, even if it was just to repeat it after he introduced himself, Joel knew he was done for.
Your sweet disposition and voice dripping in honey. The soft bat of your eyelashes, and the fact you weren't aware of it, making him squirm whenever you looked in his direction with those doe eyes and best girl smile.
Joel thinks you're a force of nature, yet soft, like the wind: you'd brush past things, just enough to be noticed, but the right amount to knock someone off their feet if you wanted. Still, you seemed to wield this power with benevolence, true to your kind character.
You'd sometimes come over by his house, with a tray of fresh baked cookies or homemade meal, to repay for favors that had started to sound like excuses to be close to him and his musky scent. The way you moved at ease around, like you'd carved a space in those four walls, his home, so easily fitting into his life, akin to falling dominoes. It was also the way you trusted him, staying so close to him in a house blocks away from Jackson's populated busy streets; you could scream for help and no one would hear you. That was you: too kindhearted and innocent, always seeing the best of people.
Maybe that's why you didn't catch the dark when he looks in your way. You don't see him standing outside your house, in that empty dark alley, gaze trained to your window facing the street. After weeks, he'd come to know you only sleep with a big worn t-shirt and your underwear. Joel imagined you wearing his own, the pattern of the flannels decorating your skin. Once, while you were on patrol, he snuck into your house and took the used panties laying in the bin, later pistoning his cock to the scent of you, nose buried in the fabric.
He was obssesed with you: with your scent on the mornings (floral), your hair that fell as waves (he prefered when you used ponytails, definitely not imagining a makeshift one he would do to you), with the inviting peak of your cleavage during the summer, or in your sweet innocence that wafted through the air in an intoxicating yet alluring thick coat of cinammon, smelling as the cookies you're always making. Joel wanted to have you. To taste you. To make you his. He wanted all: your shaky breathing in winter, skin devoid of scars and hurt, your sweet smiles and naive nature.
So he persisted until you spent more time at his house than your own, until Ellie started seeing a mother in you despite your young age, until you gave him a soft kiss to his lips, and he lost himself to the fire, the flames burning until he managed to have you under him, squirming as he pumped his thick calloused fingers in and out, doing circles and then curling them, your pretty pussy gushing out liquids he'd obscenely lick afterwards. Good girl, praising. One day, I'm gon' give you the real thing. Then, Joel would remove damp strands from your face and press his soft and broader frame against your own, curves matching his edges, fitting in like pieces of a puzzle. He'd hold you and whisper I got ya', promising to protect you and never let you go, and while it made your chest flutter, it too felt a threat. Like when he'd bruise your arm for holding too tight, be it someone who talked or saw you longer than he liked. You said he was hurting you, but Joel chuckled, replying: "How can love hurt?"
It wasn't something you could stop, Joel would learn: everyone orbits around the sun, captivated by the light. You had all Jackson wrapped around your finger, him included.
You lived to love, giving and receiving that warmth you so easily carried despite the cruel and harsh word just outside the gates. Everyone wondered how broody older Miller got with young sweet you. It made no sense, but Joel made sure to rub it on their judging faces, parading you like a prize, by obliging Tommy to be your only patrol partner, since he didn't trust anyone else around you; he hated loosing sight of you. He too would suck on your skin, despite your cries of pain, so the whole town could see you were his: that he owned you and your tender fragile heart.
People didn't get that Joel's love was like a heavy blanket: warm, but suffocating.
And they too didn't get that meant Joel needed you like oxygen to breath. No, instead they went about their day making sure to bask in your warmth, relishing in your light while he was pushed to the shadows. All of Jackson was hellbent on making sure you spent time with everyone but him, whether it be helping with tasks that weren't yours because you couldn't say no, or just any excuse to spend time with you since that's how much everyone liked you.
And Joel Miller is not a patient man. He could only take so much after losing what he's lost.
So, today, when he shows up at your door, unannouced as you help take care of some neighbour's kid while their mother is out on patrol, his deep brown eyes carry a shade of dark you can't quite place.
"Joel?"
He doesn't greet you, instead, forcing his lips on yours, his tongue shoving its way inside your mouth.
"J-Joel!" you manage to squeak after he pulls out, "what are you doing? There are kids in the room!"
But he's too entraced by your swollen lips, rapid breaths and erratic heart. Your pupils are blown wide, and Joel just happens to love your big round pure eyes that stare back at him in disbelief.
"Don't care" he replies, voice gruff. Of course. "Came to remind ya' 'bout me"
You smile sweetly. "Why, Joel? How can someone forget about you?"
Your sugary tone and good heart; he can't get mad at you. But his blood boils in a feeling he knows all too well, creeping its way up his throat in a bitter taste that makes him clench his fists until they turn white. You're blissfully unaware, just as the kid that plays in your lap. His breath hitches and blood rushes to his cock.
(You. Full as he spurts his seed inside of you, dripping from your spent cunt. Big round belly carrying his child. Maybe that way, all prying eyes will learn. He'd have you all for himself, move you into his house, and you'd be too busy with your own baby to waste time with the rest of the town)
"Maybe if ya' weren't so goddamn busy with all of fucken Jackson you'd know what 'am talkin' 'bout"
Your face falls at his bitter tone. "Joel, I'm sorry-"
But he doesn't let you finish. He never does. Instead, he speaks until words wound your heart and then he'd say I'm sorry, I'm sorry until his voice drowned in your chest, where he'll hid his face. You forgave him every time.
(Knew he got mean when he was nervous, like a bad dog. That he'd bite, because he'd been too long bearing teeth to know how to be soft―but you let him try)
"Come today to my place" he says today instead.
What?
"What?" you repeat out loud.
The kid in your lap giggles, toothless grin in display, completely oblivious to the situation unraveling in front of them, the atmosphere charged.
"Later" he's turning his back, boots echoing on the floor as he reaches for the exit. "Don't forget it"
And then the door slams. You look down to the kid, who gives you a puzzled look.
"I know" you reply, stroking their head. They close their eyes, content, but all you can think of is Joel. "I know"
But the truth is you don't.
The last thing you remember is sitting on Joel's house. Ellie was with Dina, and the quietness of the house gave you a sense of peace, even if it ran deeper than other times. A single candle flickered in the table he had set, and you joked you didn't know he was capable of good things.
"Oh, sweetheart" he laughed, "I'm capable of lots of things"
He served you food he cooked, and when you questioned the odd gesture, he told you there was always a first, but his words carried an underlying tension you couldn't shake. You ate in silence, and then he gave you a cup of wine. Drink, voice a low rumble. Your body felt warm, and after a few cups, dizzy.
"Joel?" you asked, dropping the cutlery on the floor. The sound jolted you awake, but your body didn't respond.
"I think ya' need sum rest, baby" his steps drawing closer, but his frame so far away.
You think he placed you in your bed, the blankets over you.
But you're under. Drowning.
"Mornin', sweetheart" a voice draws out. You raise from the bed, a sharp pang hitting you. "Take it easy"
"W-what happened?"
"Nothin', y/n" him saying your name always brought you comfort; put you at ease. "But we've plenty of time for that. No funny bussiness from fuckin' ass Jackson"
You raise an eyebrow at that. Then, you look around, and it takes you a while to understand what's actually happening.
This isn't Joel's house. Your eyes dart to the bed, fast and panicked. This aren't your bed covers either. Or worse, neither his.
"Where are we?" your voice comes out smaller than you intended. You look at him, body trembling. "Joel?"
He doesn't answer, instead, walking in silence towards the open window.
"You cold?" he closes it, and the suffocating feeling of being trapped augments. "Your body's shakin', baby. Why don't you put the covers on again-"
"Don't touch me!" you scream, and you hate the way his face falls. But then the glimmer you love on his eyes is absent, replaced with dullness. Then, something akin to a burning rage replaces it, yet he's quick to mask it.
"No need to shout, baby" and he sits on the bed, despite on your insistence to withdraw from his presence, "no one's gonna hear ya"
You just then realize you're in the middle of nowhere, only trees being seen behind the window he's closed. How could this be the same man who tenderly kissed you before leaving you at your doorstep?
"I-I don't know what's happening" your voice wavers and you hate it, "but let me go"
"So you can go back to fuckin' ignorin' me?" Joel barks. You jump out of the bed, naked feet against cold floor. The temperature hits your bare legs. Bare legs?! You were wearing jeans. Had he-
"Joel" you seethe his name.
He chuckles, but its devoid of joy. Of any emotion, actually.
"I ain't touch ya" he knows you so well, guessing the fear in your eyes. "Not yet"
Your voice is thick and hoarse with emotion. "W-what is that supposed to mean?"
"You think I would'a sit waitin' 'till ya' had the nerve to fuckin' look at me?" he gets closer, and you start to cower and tremble in fear.
"W-what?" you shake. "Please, Joel, just tell me what's happening! I don't get it-"
You walk backwards until your back presses against the wall. He chuckles, licking his lips like a hungry wolf; Joel's got you cornered.
"What's there to not understand? Jackson's taken too much of your time. I'm gonna just take back what's rightfully mine" you start to piece the pieces together, and your stomach drops with uncertainty. You feel lightheaded and at unease. "Cuz you can't say no, can you, baby?" Joel laughs darkly, like he's making a fool out of you. "Hope you don't say no to me now"
You remain quiet, your shaky breaths and uneven sobs the only sounds in the room. What is there even to say? That you can't help what's in your nature? That you'd deny helping others? That it's okay he does this in the name of love?
"Ya' gonna play hard to get?" his boots rumble menacing as his steps draw him closer, "like you ain't beggin' for 'tis"
Joel Miller wasn't a patient man. He yanks you by your hair, and you scream at the action, his breath gracing your face.
"If ya' want things to go smooth, ya'nswer when I talk to ya', get it?" Joel roars through gritted teeth. Droplets of saliva sprinkle over your skin, and you squirm.
"O-okay" you manage to nod, whimpering.
"Aw" he coos, and it's scary how fast Joel's switched. "See? It ain't hard to be a good girl fo'me. Just like y'are in town" Joel chuckles. "Jackson's girl"
The nickname feels like a slap to your face. Tears begin to fall from your eyes before you can stop them.
"No need to cry, baby. I'm gon' treat ya' like I always do: right" Joel grabs you by your chin roughly, digits coloring your skin purple. "That if ya' cooperate"
Joel never imagined to hurt you, but as you pathetically wail and fat droplets run through your face, eyelashes adorned like snowflakes by tears, he thinks you're the prettiest thing in the world, his throbbing dick approving.
"But you know what?" his grip on your hair tightens, "don't stop. Ya' got yourself a pretty face when you cry"
"J-Joel" you beg one more time, but he can see your pupils blown wide and the faint whiff of your arousal in the air.
"Fuck, baby. You into 'tis?" you whimper. "S'fuckin' sweet but ya' can't help wettin' yourself f'r me now"
He forces you on your knees, and you shake in fear, hiding a barely concealed cry.
"That's right" Joel looks down at you, darkly chuckling. "Love how ya' look like 'tis"
You gulp as you're face to face with his hard dick, something you've always wanted to try, but now you're body feels like it's not your own and your mind's numb. You can't think straight as his free hand pulls his worn jeans down, his big hand pushing you against his clothed crotch, and you feel the pulsating dick against your cheek.
"Feel that, sunshine? That's how bad I missed ya" Joel's hand now removes his underwear, and then looks at you, carressing your cheek gently. "Will ya' be a good girl and show me ya' missed me too?"
But before you can provide an answer he shoves his half hard cock in your mouth. You try not to gag, having never done it before. In many ways, Joel had been your first: the first fingers to touch your pussy, not even your own. When you straddled his clothed dick, and he kept encouraging you with low grunts and soft moans that were like music to your ears. Or when your tiny hand wrapped around his girth, and you helped him come like he did without a helping hand. My pretty little helper, he had whispered, gotta show you how to use y'r mouth.
"Wrap y'r lips 'round me, baby" you do, but it's hard when he's so big. "Don't worry, I know you'll try y'r best. Now lick down there"
Your tongue travels through a sloppy and slick trail to his underside.
"Yes. God. Run y'r lips along it" Joel's breath hitches. "Fuckin' expert, baby. Keep goin"
You do. Saliva pools in your mouth, and you want to pull out, but he must sense it, so he grabs your hair rougher and keeps you in place.
"Not yet, baby. What's the rush?" he grabs your hand and places it in the base of his cock, stroking your shaking palm. "Ain't no one gonna interrupt us here no more"
You try licking a bit, but it isn't working anymore.
"Here, let me help ya"
Joel's voice comes out strained, but then his pushing your head with his hand by your hair, making it bob at the same time your hand does a move, all in one fluid rush. He's so big and hard, his girth slips from between your lips. Drool runs down your chin as you try to take him all, especially when Joel keeps pulling you closer, thrusting his hips at your messy minstrations, and when you almost cough his cock out, moans sounding more like gasps for air, he forces more inches in, his tip hitting the back of your throat.
He'd be lying if he said he wasn't turned on by the way you sounded in the verge of suffocation, salty drops mixing with your spit and his precum, lips swollen and doe eyes wide. Chocked sobs and sucking sounds bounce off the walls, aside from his grunting and moaning.
"Needed to have ya', baby" he throws his head back, grip on your hair loosening. "Makin' me feel so good"
It gets to a point where his encouraging leaves a warm feeling in your chest, and your panties dampen as you clasp your thighs together, searching for some friction.
Maybe it's the fact that it's your first, or maybe it's him. Joel, with his closed eyes and open mouth, lips parted as needy groans and ragged moans fall from them. He's so fucking lonely and touched starved, you can't help but feel bad for neglecting him to the point he's taken you hostage in the middle of nowhere just to have you.
A particular thrust of his hips into your face makes his full cock hit the deep of your throat. Your nails dig at the skin of his thick thighs, the suffocating feeling augmenting, but all he does is moan at the burning sensation. And then it comes: the hot white ropes that make your suffocation now feel like drowning, his seed in your throat and dribbling down your chin with silver spurts of saliva. Your eyes fight to stay open, and Joel sees that.
"Sleeping, baby?" he pulls out, and you cough for air, falling to the floor with your hands. "Won't let me thank ya' for 'tis favor?"
Again without giving you room to reply, he's carrying your body like it's nothing, dropping you on the bed as you try to push him off, but his weight pins you down against the soft mattress. Joel chuckles as you squirm, pleadingly. His eyes darken with a primal all-consuming need to have you, fingers digging in your soft thighs as he pulls them apart roughly, your dripping clothed cunt exposed to him. His head dives in, giving your underwear a proud lick. Just like others time, a moan you can't stop falls from your lips, far too learned and reflexive.
"So sweet, sunshine" he whuspers lovingly, "and s'wet. I think you're ready"
Your mouth conjures something akin to a no, but your treacherous folds moisten up, and your cheeks heat up with rage and shame. He rubs his calloused pad on your clothed pussy, hard hand over your stomach.
"Will finally show ya' what'a good dick feels like"
He starts by pushing his fingers in your pussy, smearing the coat of wet slick over his fingers and your walls.
"That's enough" he decides. No sweet caring touches, no preparation and definetely no kisses because you've been a bad girl: ignoring him to favor others, like you don't know he'd die for you. Kill for you. He's devoted to your religion, holding onto you like a prayer, his faith in you the only thing keeping him sane. But maybe he isn't, Joel thinks as he aligns his cock to your puffy entrance and you whimper quietly, because this is your first and instead of taking his time he's shoving himself inside like an animal, too far gone by the possesiveness that chokes him and the pent-up frustration of weeks without your touch and pussy. Now, he'll finally make you his.
Joel throws his head back with a soft groan as his tip enters your soft folds.
"S' gonna hurt" he warns, voiced reduced to a low rumble that tickles your ear. "But you've hurt me too, baby. Hurt me when ya' preferred Jackson over me. 'S alright, we even now" he pushes in forcefully, and you choke out a sob. "I hope 'tis never happens again and you've learned y'r lesson"
His thick and big length goes through your tight walls. A scream dies in your throat, mind blank at the painful burning sensation. You can't even breath, feeling full as he slides in and you try to adjust. You're at his mercy, under him. Joel groans when droplets of blood fall to the sheets, in a more frustrating tune when he can't fully bury himself in since you're too tight, but soon enough Joel picks up a pace, starting his strokes.
"S' tight but so pliant fore'me. Maybe next time, since you such'a dick hungry whore" you whimper at his words, "slurpin' my cock first like a starved slut and now takin' it like a fucken cocksleeve"
He keeps sliding in and out, and there's a point when the burn doesn't feel like a fire but like a warm layer. He holds himself by your hips, his digits bruising the skin as he goes deeper with each thrust. The older man pounds into you, delighted at your responsive mouth, long gone the cries, now replaced by insistent muffled moans.
Your tits bounce under your shirt. Well, his. If he wanted to fuck you, he wanted you to be his. That you smelled like him. Made it clear by your marks and your clothes. You belonged to him, and when he sees your jiggling breasts under the pattern of his flannel, just like he had imagined all those times watching from outside your house, he buries himself to the hilt.
"Sorry, sunshine. Had'a make sure I was your first" but you know damn well he isn't, by the wicked gleam. "Cause you're only mine, you heard that? Gonna ruin this pussy for anyone of those fuckers in town, thinkin' they have a chance with 'cha. What have you told 'em, baby? They thinking they can come and take what's mine. Well, I'll gladly show 'em"
You gasp, pussy gushing inviting as his pelvis slaps against your ass. Joel's mouth falls open as he moans carelessly; in the middle of the forest, being heard is the least of his concerns. Your tight untouched walls wrapping around his aching cock drives him crazy, knowing he was the one taking you.
"Gon' fuck 'tis sweet untainted little cunt 'til it drips with ma' seed"
Your hands instinctively go for his shoulders, and you find yourself lost when his gaze meets yours, eyes completely gone and loosen curls sticking to his damp forehead.
"That's ma' girl" your stomach tightens at his low voice. "Hope you enjoy da' ride, sunshine"
Fuck. Your body trembles, silky walls fluttering and clenching at the new sensation, muscles tense then relaxed, your breathing hitching as a low, guttural sound erupts from Joel's throat, deep inside him as the rumble shakes his panting chest.
"Breath, baby" he removes some strands for your hair.
His cock grinds against your most sensitive spots, and when he feels your pussy clasp around his throbbing length, he knows you're done, desire coursing through his veins as his fingers find your swollen clit. He rubs the sensitive nub in tight, quick circles, his other hand slidibg to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your damp hair as he pulls in for a deep, hungry kiss, swallowing your weak wails.
"Breath" Joel repeats. "I got'cha"
It's like an explosion, your release. Your pussy clenches and spasms around his cock, walls fluttering wildly as you come undone. You now quiver and tremble under him, body overwhelmed, but he doesn't stop to admire his work of art, far too enthralled in the task of coming himself.
"M gonna cum inside of 'cha" warning not question, "you'll be a good girl and take it all, yeah?"
Unexpectedly, Joel captures your lips in a desperate kiss, swallowing your scream as he fuckes you through your climax, tethering close to overestimulations. He grips your hair again, now by the back of your neck, keeping you in place as he devours your mouth, tongue delving deep to taste and feel your sweet flavor.
His orgams hits him like a train, balls tightening and cock throbbing inside your fluttering heat. He slams forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt inside your trembling cunt, finding his own release.
"That's my good girl" Joel purrs, voice a low, satisfied rumble. "Takin' my cum so well, like your pussy was made for it"
He rocks his hips gently, semi-hard cock against your sensitive walls, mixing his hot seed deeper into you. Joel loves, he's so sure of it. How else is he supoposed to describe this all-consuming feeling that forbids him from thinking straight, all reasoning be damned?
"You're mine now, sweetheart" he murmurs, breath hot against your ear. "Forever"
Joel can feel his cock soften inside, but makes no effort to pull out. Instead, he rolls your bodies to the side of the bed, that dips under your combined weight. He spoons you from behind, dick still nestled warmly inside your dripping cum-filled cunt. He drapes his strong arm around your waist, holding you close, alluding the sentiment of never wanting to let you go.
"S'much for takin' you all the way to the fucken woods" your eyes drop, dangerously close to falling. He chuckles at the sight, maybe at the though his cock had tired you this much. "Maybe I'll do it more often if those Jackson fuckers ain't learnt their place"
Summary: It's a day out on the town, and Jackson has much more to offer than just a home and traded goods. Perspective, comfort, and a nice helping of lovesickness—all of which catch Joel's eye.
a/n: did you know you can only mention fifty people in a post? that's just plain boring. and no more than five people in a comment? RUDE. and did anyone else see that SNL episode with Pedro and his hip thrusts, and just fucking die? yeah, me too. also - i had so much FUN writing this chapter, the feels, the angst, the yearning, the loooove. thank you all so much, and I hope you like this long ass chapter!
Joel didn’t like looking in the mirror for too long.
It wasn’t vanity—never had been—but it showed too much. Told the truth in ways he didn’t much care for. The deep lines, the greying scruff, the years stacked on top of each other like weathered wood, each one heftier than the last. He preferred the delusion, the easy forgetfulness that came with living day to day, not thinking too hard about the good ol' days or how much he wished time hadn't gotten his hands on him. But today?
Well, today he damn near felt good in his own skin.
The clothes, that Leela generously offered, helped. Goddamn, they smelled amazing. Fresh. Worn but not ragged. The denim was sturdy but soft, the fleece underlayer warm and snug. The shearling jacket fit like something out of another life—one where he had more time, where he cared about how he looked. Even his boots, though a little tight, made him feel like he was standing taller. He couldn't even pronounce the brand of the damn thing—French apostrophes, all that fancy bullshit—but whatever it was, it smelled nice, felt nice.
Oh, for sure: Ellie was bound to give him shit. Tommy even more so.
But really... he couldn't give a flying fuck. Today he felt like he was Joel from Texas again. Like he wasn’t some worn-down relic with a bad knee and a worse past.
On the note of Leela, the big, white house across the street was officially back in order. Finally functional after hours of wrestling with the complex fucking wiring, one of the few cons of such a massive home. Not that it had been much of a fight after the resident brainiac showed up—Leela had already pinpointed the problem in minutes and quietly rattled it off like it was second nature. All he had to do was be her muscle, follow along and weld it. It was more attractive than any love or sex this world had to offer.
Catching his reflection again in the front mirror of Leela's home, Joel ruffled the front of his hair, combing down the longer strands at the back, brushing at his jaw, at the scruff that had grown heavier these days, adjusting the collar, smoothing out the sleeve.
He hadn’t meant to get this caught up in it, hadn’t meant to feel this—what, good? Yeah, good. Christ, what a joke.
He’d just turned to grab Maya's baby blanket off the couch, the breathy voice from the stairs made him stiffen.
“Jesus, Joel.”
He looked up.
Leela was halfway down the staircase, cradling Maya against her chest. She wasn’t wearing the usual loose nightgowns or sweats she’d holed herself up in for months. No, this time, she was in clean, fitted jeans, and a long-sleeved shirt in that same soft blue he liked on her. Her hair was brushed smooth down her back, tucked behind her ears, not tangled and loose like usual.
For the first time, he really saw her. Not just the soft, exhausted mother. Not just the lonely woman who never let anyone too close. Her. Tall and breathtaking. Arch calves, thighs, the swell of her hips, the softness at her love handles that hadn’t quite gone away after childbirth.
And because life had a twisted sense of humour, because the moment was already damn near suffocating from seeing her, she had to go and hit him with—
“I thought you were my dad from the back.”
Joel took that one like a sucker punch straight to the gut. He had to fight the instinct to wince, to let it show. At least she didn’t say granddad, he reasoned, trying to patch up what little was left of his dignity. Small mercies.
He exhaled, fixing his fist into the coat pockets, forcing himself to smirk. “Yeah? He must’ve been one hell of a good-lookin’ guy.”
Leela huffed out a laugh, resting the baby’s cheek against her shoulder. “He loved suede. A huge show-off.”
“Well,” he drawled, tugging at the sleeve, “that's where we disagree. At least the man had taste.”
“He also loved polka-dots,” she pointed out.
He clicked his tongue. “I take the fifth, thanks.”
That earned him another laugh, light and easy, like he’d actually said something funny. He didn’t think too hard about how that was probably all he was to her—just some seasoned guy lending a hand. A reliable acquaintance. Nothing more, nothing less.
But then, feeling excluded, Maya let out a breathless little giggle—one of those soft, airy sounds she always seemed to save just for him—and he feared for whatever was left of his soul, crushing.
Maya was grinning up at him, tiny fists wriggling in her mittens, legs kicking against Leela’s side, looking like a baby worth a thousand pictures in a camera. Bundled up in a white cotton onesie, all warm and snug, her beanie perched on her head with those stupid little ears sticking up like a baby bear. Everything was a size too big like she was still growing into the world.
Joel clutched at his chest, mock-staggering back. “You’re breakin’ my goddamned heart, doll,” he murmured, unable to resist a toothy grin, as he held out his arms for her. “Look at you. C’mere, beautiful girl. G'morning.”
Maya squirmed excitedly, tiny mitten-clad hands grasping the air, and as Joel habitually pressed a warm kiss into her cheek, tempted to steal four more, he caught a glimpse of the gold ‘L’ embroidered on the chest of the onesie. Leela’s old hand-me-down that had survived the test of time.
“Lost an eardrum trying to get her into that,” Leela admitted.
She shook her head but passed Maya over, cracking her knuckles absently as she stretched out her arms, unease becoming her. He adjusted Maya against his side, settling her little weight against him. That was her seat for the rest of the day today.
Then, as if debating something, she asked, “Do you really think it’s fine? Bringing her outside? I'm worried she'll fall sick or...”
Joel arched a brow. “I told you. You’re not goin’ there without me, and Maya’s not goin’ anywhere without either of us.”
Leela chewed on that, still unsure.
Maria had been insistent about her showing up, about giving her insight into the lightning harvester with workers—the innovation she’d designed, the one they were planning to station right outside the dam. The whole quadrant was already in progress, groundwork was being laid, and people getting involved. The biggest project Jackson had taken on in a long while.
Even after Joel had warned Maria that Leela was banged up and still on the mend, she'd cherry-picked the argument and cornered him by labelling him an 'overbearing son of a bitch who was getting on her last nerve'. He'd essentially shut up after that since Maria still scared him witless.
"Look, I've got the kid. You do your thing," Joel said, adjusting Maya as she wriggled against him. "I'll just hang back at the square with Tommy and the rest, stay close by. I'll check up on you after."
Leela pressed her lips together, clearly thinking it over.
Joel tried his hand at persuasion. “Y'know, you've been holed up here for three months.”
Leela blinked. Like she was only just realizing it. Her brows furrowed, fingers lifting as she counted—one, two, three. Each number dropped a new rock in Joel’s stomach.
“More, actually.” Her voice was distant like she was doing the math in real time. “I delivered Maya at home. Nearly... eight months now.”
Eight months. Eight months since she’d stepped beyond these walls, since she’d breathed fresh air, and been around people.
He hadn’t let himself think about it before—hadn’t wanted to—but now the image was there, unshakable. Leela, alone. Covered in sweat, spasming in pain. Bloody, weak, feeling like she was dying, like the walls were closing in, like no one in the world could help her. The raw struggle of it.
His stomach turned. No—Maria would’ve made sure she had someone. She had to have. Someone must've heard her.
Joel was aware of what that kind of loneliness did to a person. How it made you shrink, made you start believing that was all there was—that the world outside didn’t need you anymore. And she’d stayed in here. For eight goddamn months. That wasn’t living.
He cleared his throat, forcing the thought away. No use stewing in it.
“Well,” he muttered, his hand reaching for the door handle, “’nuff said. Let’s get this show on the road.”
X
People in Jackson knew Joel Miller.
Same as Maria. Same as Tommy. They knew him for his angry brow, the way his mouth rarely broke from that grim, set line. They knew the sharpness in his eyes, the way he cut through a room without saying a word. They knew he was a hardass bastard. He didn’t make small talk. Didn’t go out of his way to be liked. He knew he scared off plenty of folks just by standing there, arms crossed, expression set like granite. And that suited him just fine. People left him be.
So seeing him now—walking through town cradling a baby instead of a rifle, with a woman most thought was a ghost at his side—that was gonna be the topic of the damn day.
He could feel the looks, hear the murmurs, the way conversations stuttered as he passed. And he did not give a shit. Let ‘em talk. Let ‘em wonder.
It wasn’t like he was breaking news—his neighbours saw him come and go from her big white house as he pleased. Enough times that people could put two and two together. But this? Out in broad daylight, baby in tow? Now what the hell was going on?
Joel wasn’t the kind of man people expected to be carrying a baby. Much less one that looked at him like he hung the damn moon. And yet, here was Maya, snug against his chest, her tiny fingers curled into his fleece collar, drooling on his coat like it belonged to her.
And Leela—well. She was another matter entirely. She wasn’t just quiet. She was tense. She kept close, but not close enough to touch. Her shoulders were drawn up, her hands flexing and unflexing like she was trying to shake off the feeling of being watched.
And it wasn’t hard to guess why.
People hadn’t seen her in months. Half of Jackson had probably forgotten she even existed. The other half had started whispering about why. Joel had heard it in passing, plenty of rumours. Theories. That she was still sick. That she was holed up with her baby because she was too ashamed to be seen alone. That she was broken, not quite right in the head.
He knew better. He knew she was just trying to get by. Trying to put herself together while holding onto a child that didn’t feel quite like hers yet. And this? Being out here? This was the most out of her comfort zone she’d been in a long time.
Joel kept a steady pace, letting Leela take in what she hadn’t seen in months. He pointed things out as they walked—the grocery store with the fresh carrots now, thanks to the greenhouse. The bar with the good music. The repair shop he visited often. The little barbecue place that always smelled so mouthwatering it was damn near criminal.
He did it all for her. To keep her focused on something else—something that wasn’t the way people watched her. Wasn’t the way she was already winding herself up, bracing for something bad that wasn’t coming.
Joel kept a close eye on her, shifting Maya in his arms, pretending not to notice the way her breathing went uneven. The way she stiffened every time someone got too close. The way she gripped Joel’s elbow a little tighter like she had to remind herself he was still there.
Then, like it was nothing, like this was any other day, he muttered, “Y’ever had barbecue before?”
Leela blinked, like the question startled her. “Yeah?”
“Yeah?” He echoed with a smirk, shifting Maya higher in his arms who was listening to his voice drum in his chest. “That didn’t sound real confident.”
She let out a breath, still gripping his jacket tight. “I have, just… not in a very long time.”
“Well,” he drawled, eyes on the path ahead like this was already settled, “when you’re done with work, I’m takin’ you out. Get you a nice smoked brisket. A big slice of pecan pie with cream. How 'bout it?”
Leela glanced at him, agape. “I don’t... you don’t have to—”
“I know,” he cut in. “I want to.”
She didn’t say anything. A moment later, he felt her hand slip lower, brushing against his wrist. Just a light touch, nothing much. But Joel knew what it meant. The world around her was too much, too fast, too loud. Drowning in the noise of it all.
So, soft and low, he asked, “D’you wanna head inside for a bit?”
Leela barely hesitated. Just nodded once, fast, reaching for Maya like she needed something to anchor herself.
But Maya wasn't having it at all. She whined a stubborn noise, little hands grasping at Joel’s coat, face burrowing into the material, refusing to be handed off when she had just gotten cosy.
And maybe Joel imagined it—but he thought he saw something in Leela’s eyes splinter, that little rejection cutting deeper than it should’ve. A flicker in her dark eyes she buried quick. It looked a hell of a lot like hurt.
But she didn’t say anything. Didn’t react. Just let her hands fall, face blank and turned for the closest door.
Joel followed without a word, close enough, an arm outstretched around her, never touching, his presence simply a buffer between her and the rest of the world.
Inside, it was quiet. The clothing store, he quickly realized. The shelves were full but mismatched, stocked with whatever could be traded, salvaged, or repurposed. Nothing had price tags—Jackson ran on barter. Jackets, boots, canned food, and old records. Everything was up for negotiation. You talked it out with the shopkeep and settled on a fair deal.
Leela didn’t say a word. Just let out a slow, shuddering breath, stepping into a corner aisle, hidden away, and pressing her slick palms against the wooden shelf.
Joel watched her quietly, stroking Maya's back. Eight months locked up in that house, barely speaking to a soul. Now, she is back in the thick of it, remembering how to breathe in open air. No wonder, she looked like she was trying to find her footing. It made sense; people forgot how to be around people.
It was something he'd seen before. The way a person stepped out of the dark after too long, how the world suddenly felt like it could swallow them whole. Some folks got jumpy. Some shut down. Leela was somewhere in between—standing still, silent, stiff as a board, like she was trying to keep herself from bolting.
He’d seen that before, too.
Her fingers curled into the edge of the shelf at her back, grip tightening, knuckles white. She shut her eyes, breathing slow, deliberate—like she was trying to disappear inside herself. Trying to access some space within herself where the world wasn’t pressing in on her.
Yeah. He knew that look all too well now. She was trying not to cry.
Joel shifted his weight, glancing down at Maya, who was blissfully unaware, busy gumming the edge of a scarf she’d pulled off the shelf.
He cleared his throat. “Hey.”
Leela flinched—not much, just a little twitch of her shoulders—but it was enough to tell him that, for a second, she’d forgotten where she was. She blinked, pulling back from wherever she’d gone in her head, and looked at him.
Joel didn’t do the whole let's-address-this-nonsense, so he reached for the first thing that might pull her back. He grabbed an old record from the shelf and held it up. “Wanna put that fancy record player to use?”
Her expression softened instantly. She reached for the record, fingers tracing the edges like she was handling something precious. He eventually noticed the label—The Beach Boys, Wild Honey. What was with him, her and the sixties music?
“I have this one,” she mumbled.
An unsurprising turn of events. “’Course you do.” Joel sighed, sliding it back onto the shelf. "Hard to spoil a rich girl.”
She huffed out a laugh, tired, but at least it was real. She picked up a cloudy snow globe next, giving it a shake, eyes tracking the upending snow inside. “Don’t care for money anymore.”
Joel watched her, watched the way her fingers moved over the glass, trying to wipe away the dust. The way her shoulders had started to relax, just a little. He figured now was a good time for a distraction.
He tipped his chin at her. “You’re sittin’ on a gold mine, darlin'. You got salt. Basil or whatever.”
Her head tilted. "Seasoning makes me rich?"
"You ever eaten twenty years’ worth of QZ ration packs?" He scoffed, thumbing through the record covers. "Tryin’ to remember what real food tastes like while chewing expired crap they call 'dehydrated bolognese'?"
She actually laughed at that—not a breathy little huff, but a real laugh, short and amused. Then her eyes picked up that spark, a sharpness brightening her. “I make my own salt, actually. It’s a chemical reaction. It's fascinating, the sedimentation from caustic soda and—”
Joel lifted a hand to interrupt her, making a 'whoosh' motion over his head. “Alright, you lost me at ‘chemical.’ But if you got some to spare, I'd love to start saltin' my eggs in the morning.”
Her grin widened, but before she could respond, the door clattered open.
Maria swept in like a windstorm, hardly stepping inside, just enough to hold the door open. Clipboard in hand, she scanned the shelves, eyes flicking from one thing to the next, already onto whatever task she had next.
When she finally spotted Leela, she barely paused. “C’mon, kid, people are waiting for you. Let’s go.”
Leela stiffened, a shallow breath catching in her throat.
Joel caught the way her fingers tightened around the snow globe. The way her gaze flickered toward the door, then away just as fast—like she couldn’t look at it too long like it was something too bright, too overwhelming. She had just started breathing again.
He was about to say something—tell Maria to give her a damn minute, at least—but Leela nodded at her before he could get a word out. “I’ll be right there.”
But he saw the way her throat worked, how her hands wouldn’t quite let go of the shelf behind her. Then, she glanced back at him. A flicker. Hesitation. Like she was searching for something—a push, a reason to stall.
Joel had no goddamn clue what to do with that. Flash her a thumbs-up? Offer some dopey, generic shit like, “You got this”? None of it seemed right.
Maya—still happily oblivious, still gnawing on that damp, probably filthy scarf—grinned up at her mother with a gurgle, all gums and trouble. Her small hand finally reached out to her mama like her own little vote of confidence.
Leela’s expression softened, melting at that. She pressed a kiss to Maya's mitten, cupped her cheeks, and pressed another kiss to her head, lingering for a moment, breathing her in. “Don’t miss me too much, baby girl.”
And Joel—who was just holding the kid, who had nothing to do with that kiss—felt it all the way to his goddamn toes, until he curled them tight.
His throat closed when Leela straightened, and before he could react, she reached out, squeezing his shoulder. A quick thing, warm, shocking and grounding, there and gone.
“Take care of her, Joel,” she murmured.
She didn’t wait for a response. Didn’t hesitate this time. Just turned and walked toward the door, already steeling herself for whatever was waiting outside. Maria scarcely gave Joel a second glance as she hooked an arm around Leela’s shoulder, guiding her down the street, toward the dam.
Joel let out a slow breath through his nose, shifting Maya in his arms. Take care of her. Like that was even a question.
X
So, this was it. Joel hadn’t done something like this in a long time.
Running errands. Moving through town without it being about work, about survival, about making sure no one was about to freeze or starve. Just walking, going slow, letting himself ease into the rhythm of a day.
It was stupid how much he liked it. Maybe it was Maya in her room that was his arms, the warmth of her little body tucked up against him, the soft sighs and quiet sounds she made as she drifted in and out of sleep on his chest. Maybe it was the feeling of just being—going from place to place with no rush, no urgency, no reason to keep his hand near a weapon. It had been a while since he felt this liberated.
And yet, for all that, it was also the most uncomfortable he’d ever been. Because everywhere he went, people noticed him.
Or more specifically, they noticed her.
Maya was the newest baby in town, and in a place like Jackson—where everyone kept track of every fucking thing—that meant she was an instant celebrity.
It started at the main square. Joel had barely stepped inside before an older woman behind the counter lit up, clasping her hands together. “Oh, well, would you look at that.” She leaned forward, peering at Maya like she was a new puppy. “Aren’t you just the prettiest little thing?”
Joel braced. He was never good at shit like this—casual conversation, polite interactions. But he was prepared to nod, maybe mutter something noncommittal. Didn’t get the chance.
Before he could step away, the woman moved in.
“Can I see her?” She was already reaching like she might touch her, and instinct had Joel stepping back, moving Maya’s weight against his chest, his free hand flexing at his side.
The handsy woman noticed, laughing lightly. “Don’t worry, hon, I won’t take her from you.” But then she looked up, past Maya and her face dropped like a corpse wearing boots. “Oh. Joel.”
Yeah. Exactly. People never approached him. They let him pass, they let him do what he needed to do, and they didn’t ask for more than what was necessary. But now? Now he had her snug to his chest, and people suddenly thought they could get in his space, that they could smile at him like he was one of them.
“Right,” Joel muttered, clearing his throat. He took a step back, putting more space between them. “Gotta—uh. Got things to do.”
And he left before she could say anything else.
But it kept happening. Like having a baby made you instantly likeable. Erased everything that people deemed you unlikeable for.
A pair of young women on the street whispered to each other behind their hands. The Miller baby. Even some guy he didn’t know—a carpenter or a repairman or something—told over his shoulder to his friend while passing him, “Is that the little Miller baby?”
He didn’t answer. It wasn’t. But he hated how the words stuck to his skin, how they lingered. Feeding him false truths.
Maya, for her part, handled the attention in the same way she handled everything. She stared, wide-eyed, for a few seconds before burying her face in his chest, hiding against him.
Which—fair. Joel had the same damn instinct.
After a while, he just stopped slowing down, stopped making eye contact, and stopped acknowledging the people trying to grab his attention. By the time he hit the shop that traded in home goods, his patience was running thin.
He bartered for his coffee first. Priorities. He was low on supply, and he didn’t feel right starting a morning without it. Then, a stop at the shelf where he found some candles. The kind that a hifalutin name, like lavender or some other flower he couldn’t name. He wasn’t proud of what he’d had to trade to get them, but if they helped Leela sleep, he figured it was worth it.
Then, while shifting the baby bag on his shoulder, he saw it—some worn-down, wooden playthings on one of the shelves, a sad little collection of toys no one had much use for.
The kid had nothing. Leela didn’t seem to know enough to engage her in play. Honestly, Maya’s biggest laughs came from him, from just seeing him come in through the door and the way he bounced her when no one was looking. She didn’t have a stuffed animal to chew on, a rattle to shake, nothing. That sat wrong with him.
He reached out, fingers brushing over a carved horse with rounded edges. But before he could test it in his palms, Maya twisted in his arms, a tiny frown forming on her face.
The warning signs.
Joel sighed. “Ah, shit. Really, sweetheart?”
The fussing started slow—grunts, little unhappy noises, fidgeting with her mittens. It was hunger, he knew that much, and he hadn’t exactly planned on stopping somewhere good for it.
He glanced around, eyes landing on the worst place he could think of to feed a baby. He looked up to the sky instead, hoping for some cosmic assistance. Test him, test him, and test him again.
The fucking bar.
Well, then. It should be empty at this time of day. He'll take what is given.
Joel stepped in, scanning the dimly lit space for judgmental stares, the door swinging shut behind him. No one. It smelled like old wood and stale beer, the kind of place that felt settled into itself, like it had been standing for a hundred years and would stand for a hundred more. Even Tommy was behind the counter, rummaging through shelves, looking for something that clearly wasn’t there.
Joel exhaled sharply and shook his head. “Caught you at the right time.”
Tommy barely glanced up. “Look who it is. Papa Joel.” Then he did look, properly this time, and his smirk widened. “And look at you. Hell, you wearin’ cologne?”
Joel grunted, shifting Maya higher in his arms. “Shut up.”
“Not my fault you look—” Tommy gestured vaguely at all of him, “—like you popped outta Sears catalogue.”
Joel scowled. The swanky clothes. Right. But leave it to Tommy to make a damn thing of it.
Instead of answering, he settled onto a stool, already halfway to getting Maya’s bottle ready. She'd gone quiet, watching him move, which was never a good sign. Not for long, anyway.
Joel gently adjusted her in the crook of his arm, tucking the bottle against her lips, and that was it. The instant it was him feeding her, the second she got comfortable, her hands started roaming. She did this thing every single time. Feeling. Grabbing. Claiming.
And today, like always, they landed on the scar on his wrist. That big, pale line that ran jagged up his wrist into his forearm, from a blade that had nearly done more than nick him. A raider that he'd shivved in less than two seconds once the bleeding started.
In cruel irony, Maya was obsessed with it. She smoothed her tiny mitten over it, again and again, like she was trying to figure it out, her hand bare speck against the scar. Then she started digging her little hand into it, gripping it like she could peel it off him like it was something separate from his skin.
If Joel took his arm away when she got her claws in, her hands floated after it, waiting. A small whine, and she even gave up on the bottle.
“What?” he asked her, a single brow arched. “Aren't you hungry?”
She moved her head when he tried to push the sipper against her lips. Little smartass. A small, give-it-back-coo, brows furrowed, fists still waiting within her mittens. He missed seeing those little fingers already.
“Yeah, yeah. I ain’t goin’ anywhere, baby girl,” he sighed, letting her have his hand again. His voice was barely above a rasp, more to himself than anything. Not like she could understand, anyway. But talking to her—talking at her—had become something natural. Like breathing.
Immediately, she latched onto it again, tiny fingers curling around the scar like it belonged to her. Just let it happen. Couldn’t do a damn thing with her around. She had all his attention.
The silence between them stretched, like something Joel could settle into. Maya kept her hold on him, even as she finished eating, even as her round eyelids drooped with sleep.
His free hand, the one that had been absently nursing the cold whiskey glass, came up to trace down her nose. That tiny little twitching nose. She scrunched it at the sensation, gave the smallest little sigh—then she was out. Just like that.
Ahead, Tommy took a sip of his drink, still watching. Not saying anything. Not yet.
Then, after a beat, he sighed. “So, you’re really gonna do this?”
Joel blinked, caught mid-motion, his fingers coming up against the cool glass of his drink. He knew what Tommy's 'this' implied, he didn't even have to point it out. Joel hadn’t thought about it, not in words. Not in the way Tommy was asking. But the question hung there between them, waiting to be acknowledged.
His first instinct was to scoff. Shake his head. Deflect. Like he always did.
But instead, he just sat there.
Maya was still curled against him, warm and impossibly small. Her fingers had loosened in sleep, no longer gripping his wrist so fiercely, but every now and then, she’d twitch, like she was reaching for him even in dreams. Like she knew exactly where she belonged, in the arms that were always ready to catch her.
Joel swallowed, jaw working, eyes fixed on the grain of the counter. He could feel Tommy watching him, waiting.
Then came the shrug. That half-assed, useless shrug. A non-answer, because he wasn’t ready to say it out loud.
Tommy snorted, shaking his head. “Bullshit.”
“Ain’t that simple. You know how it is with her mom.” The words came out rougher than Joel intended like he was trying to shove them between himself and whatever his shitty brother was about to say next.
Tommy, of course, wasn’t buying it. He leaned against the bar, arms folded, giving Joel that look—the one that said he was already ten steps ahead, already seeing straight through the seven layers of crap. Joel hated that damn look.
“It’s already simple,” Tommy said, voice even. “You just don’t wanna admit it.”
Joel scowled, shifting Maya higher in his arms, adjusting her like it was nothing. Like she wasn’t the thing anchoring him in place.
“The hell does that mean?”
Tommy huffed a laugh, shaking his head. Then he just gestured—a lazy flick of his fingers toward Maya, toward the way she was curled into Joel’s chest, tiny and warm and completely at home.
It made Joel pause. The way Tommy was looking at him. The way he didn’t say what he meant, just let the silence speak for itself.
Joel swallowed, jaw tightening.
“It means you already decided,” Tommy finally said. “You’re just waitin’ on someone else to say it first, you pussy.”
Joel’s fingers curled tighter around his drink. A muscle jumped in his jaw. Because Tommy wasn’t wrong. He fucking hated that Tommy wasn’t wrong.
This was what he did. This was how it always went. With Ellie. With Sarah. He didn’t decide—he just let it happen. Let them carve out their space in his life, let them claim him before he ever had the guts to admit it. Because once you said it—really said it—that was it. No taking it back. No pretending you could walk away.
And Maya… she was already there. Already in. And fuck. Tommy must’ve caught the shift in his expression, because his posture eased, his voice dropping into something quieter, something real.
“Y’know,” he said, softer this time. “I’ve missed seein’ you like this.”
Joel exhaled sharply through his nose. “Like what?”
Tommy tilted his head, studying him. “Like you still give a damn.”
Joel scoffed. “That’s real cute, Tommy.”
“I’m serious.”
And Joel knew he was. Could hear it in the way Tommy’s voice had lost its usual sharpness, in the way he wasn’t teasing anymore.
Tommy wasn’t just looking at him now—he was seeing him.
The way Joel had melted into this. How he hadn’t put her down, hadn’t even tried. How his hand, scarred and mangled, still rested against the small of Maya’s back, gently rubbing circles as if he needed to make sure she was still there.
Joel looked away. Something crawled up his spine, sharp and unnameable. He didn’t like being seen. Not like this. Not even by Tommy. So he went for the easiest thing—the simplest way to cut the tension.
A half-hearted mutter. A low, unconvincing, “Yeah, well.”
Tommy’s smirk returned, slow and knowing. “Poetic,” he drawled.
Joel shook his head, finally taking a drink. “You talk too damn much.”
Tommy chuckled, tapping his fingers against his glass. “Yeah, well,” he mimicked before his voice softened again. “You don’t gotta say it, Joel.” He gestured toward Maya, still curled against his chest, safe, home. “You’re already doin’ it. Even if you got fuckin’ old.”
“Guess I had to, didn’t I?” he muttered, adjusting Maya against his chest, making sure her head rested easy against his chest.
Tommy didn’t argue. Didn’t need to. They both knew the truth of it.
Joel had aged in ways Tommy never would, in ways no one who hadn’t lived what he lived could understand. His life had been gunpowder, dirt and blood. But still—there was something about this, about sitting here, not rushing anywhere, not killing anything, not surviving, just existing.
Something about her. She had her little hands on his shirt, curled tight in sleep, and he knew without a doubt that when she woke up, she'd reach for him again.
Yeah, this was what getting old was.
X
It wasn’t so abnormal anymore, Joel thought, being here like this. A weekend evening, in nice clothes, at a restaurant, beer in hand, sitting around a table with family. Nothing left to rock the boat.
For a long time, this kind of thing had felt impossible. Something for other people. Other lives. Even in Jackson, even after all these years, he still sometimes caught himself expecting the old rhythm—always waiting for something to go wrong.
But here he was. Sitting in a booth at the barbecue joint, letting the warmth of the moment settle in. Maria was talking a mile a minute, Tommy was stretched out beside her, looking half in disbelief, and across from him—Leela cradling Maya, quiet as ever.
Joel took a slow sip of his beer, tearing his eyes off her, half-listening as Maria went off, excitement lighting up her face.
“—seriously, I’ve never seen anything like it,” she was saying, gesturing so wildly she nearly knocked over Tommy’s drink. “Fixed the whole irrigation backup in minutes, Joel! Got the system running smoother than it ever has, and on top of that—this little Einstein somehow managed to work out a whole fucking ration adjustment in the same damn hour.”
Leela’s face went warm. She waved a hand, dismissing it. “It wasn’t that complicated. The whole system just needed a pressure bypass to reduce cavitation in the main feed lines. And the rationing—honestly, it was just a matter of optimizing caloric allotments based on intake efficiency per household.”
A stunned hush.
Tommy blinked. Joel just stared in amazement. Maria narrowed her eyes like she was trying to do the math in her head.
“Right,” Tommy finally muttered, dragging his drink closer to safety. “I totally knew what all that meant.”
Joel huffed a laugh, shaking his head. And a little proud of her. “Christ.”
Leela frowned, looking between them. “It's all just calibration.”
Maria snorted, nudging Tommy. “I think that just proved her point.”
She was surpassing expectations with Maria fuckin' Miller. That had got to count for something. It was rare, too, to watch her this spirited, this excited. Even rarer that Tommy wasn’t the loudest one at the table.
"Well," Tommy said, smirking as he raised his glass. "Guess it's good to have a genius in your corner sometimes."
Joel smirked too, but his gaze flickered sideways again, back to Leela. He couldn't help himself to another look, and another, and another. Total headcase conduct.
But she wasn’t looking at any of them. She sat beside him, holding Maya close, not engaging much, just keeping her eyes down, drifting between the door and Maya in her bouncing lap. Every now and then, she’d offer a thin, polite smile—one of those distant ones, not real, not reaching her eyes. Present, but not fully there.
Joel noticed it all. The way she sat just a little too stiff, the way her fingers fidgeted lightly against Maya’s back. The way her shoulders didn’t fully relax, even though she was surrounded by people she trusted. She was clearly still agitated with something. Maybe the attention? The restaurant? The smell of the food? Perhaps Maya? Or was it himself?
Joel sipped his beer and let his eyes linger on her for a second longer, about to change the subject, before Tommy—that big-mouthed bastard—broke the moment.
“Leela’s birthday’s comin’ up in a few days, right?” he said, nodding toward Joel like he expected him to confirm. “You two got plans?”
Joel damn near choked. He shot Tommy a glare so sharp it could’ve gutted a man. Wanted to kick him square in the balls. What was this little shit implying? And her birthday? He didn’t even know. Then again, he wasn't big on celebrations anyway.
Leela, to his relief, didn’t seem to care much. She just shook her head. “No plans.”
Maria, of course, had other ideas. Plans. To put that unused, exquisite dining room in her home to good use.
“Dinner, then,” she announced, already scheming, her face bright with it. “Your place. You don't have to lift a finger, the menu’s on me.”
Leela hesitated. “Um...”
Joel was ready to witness Maria take a licking for the first time ever. He could see the wheels turning in Leela's head, the way her fingers curled into Maya’s blanket. She looked down at the baby, who was happily slapping her little hands against the table, amusing herself, laughing that hiccuping laugh, at the sound.
Joel couldn’t help but smile. He reached out, brushing his knuckles over Maya’s chin, and she let out a delighted squeal, and tried to catch his hand before he returned it to his glass.
Leela exhaled, barely a smile on her lips, blindsiding him with: "I think that'd be nice. I could make something, too. With seasoning." And she flashed a knowing grin at Joel.
He bit his smile into the rim of his beer glass, meeting her eye. "Amen."
“Sweet,” Tommy grinned. “I’ll let Ellie know.”
When the food arrived in a leering waitress's arms, Joel didn’t touch his plate right away. He was too busy looking at Tommy’s. A full rack of ribs, juicy, glistening with sauce, looking like the best damn thing on the table. Regret burned in his gut.
Tommy, the smug shithead, was already smirking, rolling back his sleeves. “Something wrong, big brother?”
Joel grunted, reaching for his beer instead of dignifying that with an answer. His brother had no one to impress, Maria was well-versed in Tommy-isms. Joel had played it safe. Ribs were messy. Hands-on. Fucking delicious. If he were alone, or if it was just Tommy, he’d be going to town on them.
But with Maya switching from his lap to Leela's lap half the time? With Leela, this smart, stunning girl, sitting beside him, barely eating, her shoulder brushing his every now and then? He’d gone for the safe, decent option. A nice slab of brisket. Neater. Quieter. Civil. Less of a goddamn spectacle.
Across from him, Maria was already chatting about something—town expansion, hydroponics for the greenhouse, that kind of thing. Leela was listening, but not really. Not engaging entirely. Her gaze stayed down, distracted.
And then there was Maya. For all her adorableness, she was being an absolute menace. Squirming. Reaching. Grabbing. Her big eyes were all stubborn, yet curious. Joel felt her shifting in Leela’s lap, wiggling against her arm, determined to smack her little hands onto her mother's plate.
“Maya, please,” Leela whispered, exasperated, nudging her hands away. Even positioning her farther on her lap.
Of course, it didn’t work. Maya let out a loud, insistent whine—real dramatic-like. Another scream of objection, fists squeezed like she was throwing a fit, and smacking for the plate again.
Maria chuckled. “Kid’s got some lungs on her.”
Leela huffed a small, tired laugh, but Joel could see her struggle even if it was hilarious. Trying to keep handsy Maya at bay while attempting to cut her steak one-handed. She wasn’t doing a great job of it. Fork in one hand, knife awkwardly angled in the other, barely making progress.
Joel didn’t think about it. Didn’t need to.
He just reached over and swapped their plates. Simple. Quiet. Didn’t make a thing of it. Just slid his brisket—already cut—toward her, nudging it a little farther from Maya’s reach.
Leela stilled. And glanced up at him, astonished.
Joel kept his eyes on his own plate, reaching for his knife. Shrugged, like it was nothing. “Go on,” he urged. “The best thing you'll put in your mouth.”
Tommy cleared his throat, catching onto the innuendo. Joel imagined sticking his knife into his eye.
Leela hesitated. Then, after a beat, he heard the soft clink of her fork against the plate as she speared a piece. A grateful smile came alive on her face while she chewed, a genuine one. He'd learned to tell the difference now.
“Thank you, Joel,” she nodded.
Joel nodded back, a tight smile stretching on his lips. Took a bite from his plate. There was nothing else to be said. The message was clear: I've got you.
Oh, Joel didn’t miss the looks either. Maria’s subtle smirk behind her glass. Tommy’s full-blown, shit-eating grin. The two of them watched like they were studying a goddamn exhibit every time Joel so much as glanced at Leela or reached out for Maya.
Fuck them. He ignored it all, chewing through another bite of steak, keeping his focus where it needed to be. Maya was calm now. Full belly, busy little hands—playing with his own hand now, like it was her favourite toy in the world. Leela, finally eating without interruption, though still too quiet.
Joel didn’t say a damn word about any of it. Even when Maria started up again.
“What I'm saying is, that the town’s growing,” she said, wiping her mouth. “More people settling in every month. It’s getting to the point where we’re running low on homes.”
That got Joel’s attention. His chewing slowed, a sliver of suspicion creeping in. Tommy wasn’t looking at him. That was the first red flag that he'd learned from one of the more recent dinners in the Miller household.
“Couple of new families coming in next week,” Maria continued. “One’s got three kids. You believe that? Haven’t had that many young ones in Jackson in a long time.”
Joel grunted. More people. More mouths to feed. Meant the town was growing, sure—but also meant more risk. Running this place with a tight ship was already starting to show. And Maria wasn’t done.
“Thing is, if we keep expanding at this rate, we’ll have to start repurposing old homes.”
There it was. Joel was halfway through his beer when he heard more of this.
“You know, Joel,” Tommy started his tone too goddamn casual to be anything but questionable. “If push comes to shove, we could always put your place up for new tenants.”
Joel’s grip tightened on his glass. He didn’t blink. Didn’t look at Tommy right away. Just kept chewing slow, steady, like he hadn’t heard a thing.
Because he knew what this was. He knew Tommy and that arrogant little edge in his voice, the way Maria was staying too quiet, swirling her drink like she wasn’t waiting for impact.
It was a set-up. Fishing. Looking for a reaction. Confirming some inside hunches. And Maria took the shot before he could load his own.
“We’d put you up at ours, sure enough,” she said, breezy, easy.
“No kidding. You're family, can't just chuck you on the street as much as I want to,” Tommy added, mockingly, grinning like a jackass.
Joel set his drink down with a little too much pressure, the sound a noisy thud. Finally, finally, he levelled a look at Tommy. He didn't need to say a damn thing. Because whatever was on his face? It was enough.
Tommy coughed, glancing away as if he felt the heat of it. He knew what would follow if he spoke another word. Maria, to her credit, held his stare, only raising an eyebrow.
Joel’s jaw flexed, real slow. The urge to tell them both to go straight to hell was right there, burning at the back of his throat. And he would have. Would’ve shut the whole damn thing down, hard. But before he could, Leela beat him to it with—
“I have spare rooms in my place,” she said, casually. Like she was discussing the weather. “If that happens, Joel could take one. Stay as long as he wants.” She used Maya's arm to motion a wave. “Maya would love that, too.”
More silence. She was just full of surprises today, wasn't she?
Tommy, who had been bracing for impact, looked like he’d tripped over his own damn feet. Maria, mid-drink, paused. Chewed on her cheeks. Like she was recalibrating the entire situation.
And Joel? He didn't even know what to do with that. For a second, all he could do was stare at Leela, completely gobsmacked. What she'd suggested was to take it to the next level, in the most casual way. Yeah, just stay with me and my kid, forever, I guess. Doesn't matter.
Leela didn’t look up. Didn’t seem to notice what she’d said. She just kept wiping at Maya's mouth and hands who'd started to entertain herself by blowing raspberries, and bouncing her gently like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Joel exhaled through his nose. A slow, heavy thing. “It's all a big 'if',” he muttered, edged with finality.
Maria recovered first. Pulled a face that said she was perfectly fine with it. “Yep.”
Tommy, still catching up, pressed his lips together. “Just wanted to make sure of something,” he muttered. “Pretty sure now.”
Joel didn’t ask what. Just picked up his beer again, and took a slow, measured sip. His glare at Tommy, though? Firmly in place.
They left the restaurant together, in cackles of laughter that was at the expense of Joel's face, making their way up the same street where their homes resided, boots crunching against the frozen dirt road. The air was sharp, biting, but Joel barely felt it.
Maya had run herself ragged. After all her theatrics inside—her constant wriggling, the battle for the damn steak, the way she’d made herself known to the entire damn restaurant—she’d finally given in.
“You feelin' cold, baby?” he murmured.
She was in his arms now, bundled up and warm, her bunny-ear beanie snug over her head. Her tiny nose was red from the cold, her cheek pressed against the fabric of his jacket, picking at a loose lint on his sweater. He tucked closer, safer, pressing a warming kiss into her sleepy head.
Joel caught up with Maria before she could reach Tommy and Leela ahead. His breath came out in slow, even puffs, but inside, he felt a little less steady. Hadn’t planned on asking. Hadn’t even realized it was sitting there, coiled tight in his chest, until the words were already forming.
"Hey," he said lowly, his voice carrying that weighted kind of hesitation. "Can we talk?"
Maria arched a brow before smirking. "If you’re about to chew me out, it was Tommy’s idea. You know we haven’t had new people settle in for months."
Joel barely registered it. Just shook his head. Not about that.
His gaze flicked toward Leela’s back—small, quiet steps beside Tommy’s like she wasn’t all the way there. His jaw tightened before he spoke. Carefully.
"At the dam today." He paused, feeling the words thick on his tongue. "Did she seem… alright to you? Seem a little off?"
That smirk faded. Maria exhaled, her face shifting into something more careful. "Wouldn’t stay in the room with all the workers," she admitted. "Spooked her out. After that, I just let her stick by my side in the office."
Joel frowned.
"Must’ve been a trigger," Maria added, quieter now.
He only nodded. He didn't need to say what they both already knew.
He watched Leela a little longer, the way her hands stayed tucked inside her coat sleeves, the way she wasn’t engaging much with Tommy’s easy conversation. There was something… too still about her.
"She’s been quiet all night," he muttered, mostly to himself.
Maria nudged him lightly. "She’ll be fine, Joel. Baby steps."
Joel pressed his lips together. He wasn't a believer in the process of baby steps. Either you healed or you rotted in the filth of guilt or devastation for the rest of your life.
Maria gave him a sideways glance, one of those knowing looks. "You look good together."
Joel let out a breath. Not quite a scoff. Not quite anything. "Thought lawyers didn’t bullshit," he muttered.
Maria shrugged easily. "I don't. Sure, you’re," she cleared her throat, shooting him a look. "Let’s say ‘well into your prime’—and she’s… not. But I can tell she trusts you absolutely."
Joel said nothing. Only bit down the small grin that broke through his lips, staring at his boots. Coming from Maria, point-blank like that, it meant a lot.
Up ahead, Tommy was acting like he hadn’t just pulled that shit back in the restaurant, talking easy, hands in his pockets, like he was the picture of innocence.
Joel narrowed his eyes. Yeah, alright. That jagoff needed to be put in his place.
He picked up his pace, stepping just ahead of Tommy, and without breaking stride, swept his leg out.
Tommy didn’t even get a chance to balance before he was airborne—arms flailing, momentum carrying him forward—a sad, "What the fuck!"—then crashing face-first into the snow with a solid thud.
Maria burst out laughing. Full-on, bent-over, hands-on-her-knees laughing. Leela, though—she gasped, her eyes going wide, clearly more horrified than she needed to be.
Joel just kept walking, adjusting Maya, who let out a startled little giggle like she understood the exact kind of justice that had just been served.
"Fuckin' deserved it," he grumbled.
X
Maya was bawling at the big white house’s door, tiny fists clutching his shirt like letting go might break her little heart. And maybe it would—maybe that’s why Joel hesitated, his hands hovering at her back, torn between unwinding her grip and holding her tighter. Damn it, he didn’t want to go, either.
If he peeled her off him and stepped away, she’d do the sweetest thing that always got him—cover her eyes with her hands like she’d seen her mother do, weeping like his leaving was the greatest tragedy of her small world.
“He’ll come back tomorrow, Maya,” Leela tried, rubbing absently at her belly. “He has to sleep, too.”
Maya wasn’t convinced. She wriggled in her mother’s hold, stretching her arms out toward Joel, demanding, no—pleading—to be held. Then she wailed, loud and unrestrained, the kind of cry that could bring a whole street to a standstill.
Joel exhaled, a smile creeping onto his face despite himself. God, this girl was breaking his heart.
Leela shifted Maya against her chest and patted her back. “Do you want to stay a while?” Her voice was softer now. “Until she falls asleep?”
Joel didn’t even pretend to hesitate. His arms were already reaching for Maya, lifting her effortlessly out of Leela’s hold. The moment she settled against his chest, her tiny hands fisting into his shirt, her cries turned to hiccups, then sniffles.
“Gonna be a handful when she gets older,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to her damp cheek.
Leela rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her palm, stifling a yawn. “Gosh, please don’t remind me.” She nodded toward the stairs. “I’m gonna get changed. Help yourself to anything.”
Joel watched her retreat up the steps, back hunched with exhaustion. At the landing, she disappeared into the hallway, and he found himself standing there a moment longer than necessary, listening to the creak of the floorboards as she moved through the house. He liked that about her—the way she kept reminding him to make himself at home like she knew he hadn’t quite figured out how to.
Maya was still sniffling, the last remnants of her earlier tears damp against Joel’s shirt. She stirred against him, adjusting in his arms like she was making herself right at home. Safe. Where she belonged.
Joel smoothed his palm over her back and felt the way she breaths puffed against his collar, her little chest rising and falling in a slower rhythm now. She was alright. He did that.
"You missed me already?" he murmured, rubbing a thumb under her damp eye.
She didn’t answer, just breathed out a soft, shuddering coo.
Yeah. That was about what he thought.
He bounced her gently as he moved through the living room, shifting his weight as he glanced around, looking for something to keep her mind off whatever had gotten her so worked up in the first place. His eyes caught on something up on the shelf, half-forgotten.
That record player he'd been gawking at for weeks. Not just any old thing, either. Glass case. Dark mahogany. Expensive. Fancy, like the rest of Leela’s place.
There was already a record inside. Percy Sledge. Gold, fucking gold. The glossy cover sat neatly on the side like someone had meant to come back to it and never did.
Joel exhaled, dusting off the lid before flipping it open. “Haven’t heard this in a long time,” he muttered, mostly to himself. Then, glancing down at Maya, "You wanna hear some music, baby girl?"
Maya blinked up at him, her earlier tears forgotten, and let out that breathless little panting laugh she did when she was excited. Her small hands clapped together in that uncoordinated, barbed motion that made her look like she was still figuring out how her own fingers worked.
Joel grinned. “Yeah, me too.”
He brushed away the dust, set the needle down, and let the music cut through the quiet.
The room filled with the low, honeyed croon of Percy Sledge, velvet-smooth, drifting through the air like something out of a different time.
Joel felt her still in his arms, eyes going wide as she stared at the record player, completely awestruck. Like she was trying to make sense of where the sound was coming from.
He poked a finger into her squishy thigh. “Never heard real music before? You like it?”
Maya was so curious, watching the record spin, producing music, head tilting in that goddamned adorable way of hers, like she was putting all her baby brainpower into figuring it out.
Joel’s chest ached. It was a deep, familiar thing, the kind of ache that came from having too much and knowing it was, perhaps now, all his to keep.
He shifted Maya in his arms, kissing the top of her bunny-eared beanie. She smelled like warm blankets, like home, even though he’d never had a home quite like this before.
"You wanna dance with me, darlin’?"
She gasped, her whole body jerking in excitement, arms flailing like she couldn’t believe her luck. Then came that breathless, hitching laugh—the one that made her whole face crinkle, her tiny chest heaving like she could barely keep up with herself.
He’d never heard her laugh like this before. Was that the first?
So he lifted her high into the air, listening to the way she squealed, legs kicking like she was soaring. That same laugh again—bright, bubbling over, pure sunshine—rang through the room as he pulled her back into his chest, then did it again. Twice. Thrice. Oh, his back was going to pay the piper, but for that laugh, it was fucking worth it.
She was weightless, and for a moment, so was he. The world didn’t feel so heavy when he had her in his arms like this.
His eyes caught on something in the doorway.
Leela. She was watching.
She had changed into that same white nightdress, the one with the pearl buttons he liked more than he should. Loose fabric brushing just above her ankles, a sleeve slipping off her shoulders. She was leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, fingers touching her lips like she was trying to trap the smile already there.
Joel didn’t stop moving, just slowed a little, swaying Maya in his arms, pretending like his chest didn’t feel too goddamn tight at the look on Leela’s face. If he stopped, the moment might end, and he wasn’t ready for that.
Leela wasn’t looking at him, not exactly. Her eyes were on Maya, wondering, at the way she was still laughing, still catching her breath, little fingers clinging to the fabric of Joel’s shirt like her whole world was nothing but him and the feeling of flying.
He'd never had anything like this. Something whole, real, his. Could this moment get any more perfect? And then he had the thought—
He wanted to dance with Leela.
It settled deep in his chest, curling between the cracks. Maybe he’d wanted that for a while now. Maybe that was why his hands always hoped to reach for her when it was without Maya, why his pulse kicked up when she got too close, why he always noticed when she was around—soft, careful, like someone who didn’t want to take up too much space.
He huffed, dipping his head down to whisper against Maya’s temple, his voice all low and warm—"Gotta give your mama a turn, huh?"
He lowered Maya onto the couch, kissing her nose, making sure she was snug, and safe between the sunken cushions. She was already grabbing for her baby blanket, nibbling on the edge of it, still watching him with that shining little grin. That was enough confidence to power him up.
Joel knew better than to ask Leela. Knew better than to want. She’d probably turn him down. Politely. And somehow, that would hurt worse. Brushing him off like a stranger.
But he asked anyway.
He turned around and didn’t say a word—just held out his hands, just a little. Not a grand gesture, nothing obvious, just enough. Just enough that she’d see it, that she’d know. He wants her close.
Leela’s gaze flickered, something changing. Her lips parted, just barely, and for a moment—a long, slow, aching moment—he thought she might step forward, might meet him where he stood. A silly pipedream.
Joel was too goddamn old for his heart to be pounding like this. Like some stupid kid, all restless hands and reckless hope, hoping the girl he liked would share that feeling with him. It had been a long time since someone made him feel like this. Hell, he wasn’t sure he ever had—not like this. Not with something this soft, this easy, this whole.
He blamed that when she looked away, the moment unravelling.
Blamed the gap, the years that stretched between them, the life he’d already lived, the losses already burned into his bones. The grey in his hair, the angry brow, the lines on his face. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not for him. Not anymore. But then—why did he still want? Why, after all these years, after everything, did he still feel this?
The way his chest clenched when she hesitated. The way his palms itched, waiting, wanting. The way he caught himself hoping—hoping—like some love-struck fool that she might actually step forward.
He exhaled slowly, telling himself it was fine. Telling himself he was being ridiculous. She didn’t owe him anything. He should’ve known better, should’ve kept his hands where they belonged... anyways, what else could he offer her?
And then she did. She moved a little. Leaned off the doorway. A few slow, quiet steps forward. Hands knotted behind her back, shoulders tense, reluctant to give in.
His breath caught in his throat.
She wasn’t looking at him—not at first. Her eyes dipped downward to the boots on his feet, flickering uncertainly, almost like she was working up the nerve to do something.
And then she glimpsed his hands. The callouses. The mangled skin. The years of work, of war, of violence. Of a life that had been anything but easy. The way his fingers curled just slightly like he wasn’t sure if he should be offering them in the first place.
For a moment, she hesitated. And he thought, yeah, that’s about right.
And then—slowly, so slowly—she slipped her hands into his. Her fingers were slender against his, swallowed within his own, cool and soft where his were rough, ruined. It had been so long since anyone had reached for him first.
He didn’t move right away. Just felt it. The way she fit there, the shape of her hands in his, like it wasn’t a mistake. Like she wasn’t regretting it.
All those lifetimes, chipping away parts of him, making space for her hands to be there. And fuck, if that didn’t scare him more than anything.
The scratchy record spun on, Percy Sledge’s voice melting into the room, velvet-smooth. What am I living for, he sang on, if not for you?
Joel swallowed thickly.
Slowly, he guided her hand to his bicep, barely pressing down. She was tense, wound tight like she’d bolt if he moved too fast. So he didn’t.
"You good?" he checked in.
She nodded, glancing up, baring a gentle smile.
His own hand skimmed her hip—ginger, careful—before settling there. He let her other hand hang from his grasp, mid-air, not forcing it, not demanding more than she was willing to give. Leela was stiff against him, like this was too much for her. Like it had been too long for her, too. Like she was afraid of him. Of this. My god, it burned.
So he eased. Dipped his head, rested his nose against her hairline, and just swayed. Joel couldn't cut a rug or shake his hips to save his damn life, but he could feel. And shit, he felt so good.
She was right there. Right where he wanted her, but not as close as he wanted, although he completely dwarfed her. He could feel the tension in her frame, that deep-rooted hesitance like she wasn’t sure she was allowed this.
Joel knew that feeling all too well. So he let her lead without leading. Let her find the pace. Even if it was fucking killing him.
Even though his body ached to pull her closer. Even though his fingers twitched where they rested against her hip, wanting to dig in, to hold, to keep. He wanted her warmth pressed tight to him, her weight resting against his chest. Wanted to feel her relax, not just in body but in heart.
He’d spent years running on instinct, on gut, making quick decisions with deadly precision. But he’d never been this meticulous about anything before.
And then—he felt it. The shift. It wasn’t big, not something he would've noticed a while ago. Now he did. The way her breath came just a little easier. The way her grip steadied, not quite clinging but not pulling away either. She was letting herself be here.
And for the first time in some time—Joel wanted to feel, too.
So he let himself move with her. Not well, not smooth, not anything he’d want anyone else to see. But with her.
She laughed like he'd cracked something open in her, when he pulled her in, twirling her under his arm, snaring her against his chest before she could stumble. She laughed again when he spun her out, her head tipping back, black hair spilling like a dark halo.
"Never been spun around, my ass," he muttered against her hair as he spun her back into him, arms curling around her waist, anchoring her to him. "You're a natural."
Leela laughed, breathless, cheeks flushed. "Practice. Mom and I used to spin around for hours when it got lonely."
Joel stilled for just a second. He could picture it then—little Leela, small hands clutching at her mother’s as she twirled, all giggles and untamed joy. A warm, glowing memory, but edged with something else. The kind of happiness you cling to when there’s nothing else.
He hummed low in his throat, muffling a smile. Leela’s fingers curled against his back.
"Joel?"
"Mhm?"
She hesitated, just a beat. "I think you look really handsome today."
He stopped moving altogether. A strange, sharp thing twisted behind his ribs—surprise, confusion, something too damn soft to name. Handsome. Not tired, not rude, not old. Joel was handsome to her. The prickling memory from that morning, her mistaking him for her father went up in smoke.
For a second, he considered brushing it off, making some dry remark, giving himself an out. He wasn’t careful about much. Wasn’t the kind of man who tiptoed around what he wanted. Life had burned that out of him long ago. But right now? Right now, he was careful.
So, Joel did what he could; he held her tighter. Not much. Just enough. Just enough that she’d know he’d heard her.
And when he finally spoke, it was quiet, low, a little rough around the edges. "Thank you, darlin'."
Leela smiled up at him. And Joel—God help him. He let himself smile back.
As Percy crooned about his love growing stronger and his lover becoming a habit, they actually danced. However slow it was, there was a wildness to the way she moved, arms outstretched, the hem of her nightdress catching air, cheeks catching the low lamplight. The sharp pivot of her foot against the floorboards, the way her body dipped and twisted, loose and natural. She looked so young, so different from the woman he’d met all those weeks ago, that quiet, anxious thing who always kept herself tucked away.
This was the Leela he was falling for.
And he was so fucked. But for the first time in a long time—he was glad he was.
Joel barely had time to react before she was in his arms, knocking the wind out of his chest. Not swaying anymore, not laughing—just holding.
Her arms locked tight around his waist, cheek pressed firm against his chest like she was bracing herself. Like something in her had finally tipped over, finally let go, and she needed something to catch her.
And Joel—goddamn it, Joel wasn’t sure what to do. How to process this. She didn’t do things like this. Not the Leela he’d come to know. She was careful, always. Kept her distance. Kept everything measured. Even when she let people in, it was guarded. Always one foot out the door, always ready to pull away.
But now?
Now, she was holding on. Holding onto him.
Joel hesitated, feeling all of her against all of him, the heat, the muscle, the softness, the realness.
Then, slow and steady, he let himself move. One arm curled around her waist, the other settled at the back of her head. His fingers slid into her hair, pressing her close—not just to comfort her, but to reassure himself. She was here. He was here. They were here.
She wasn’t trembling, but she was tense. Her grip on him was firm, almost desperate. Holding onto something bigger than just this moment, nails digging into his sweater, something that must’ve been clawing at her for God knows how long.
"I needed this a lot," she muttered, voice barely above a whisper, muffled against his chest.
Joel swallowed. Shifted just enough to angle his chin over the crown of her head. "Anytime."
That was all he could say. Because what else was there?
He didn’t know how to tell her that she could stay like this for as long as she wanted. All night, all day, That whatever had been weighing her down before—whatever had kept her small, kept her afraid—it wasn’t going to touch her here. Not while he was holding her.
Although he wished the song could last forever, reality came a-knocking, and they answered. There was nothing awkward left to pick up, just a dreaming baby girl on the couch cushions.
After placing Maya in her crib and squeezing three deep goodnight kisses into her head, Joel left to cross the street. He turned around to see Leela by the big oak door, watching him go, a meaningful smile alive on her face. She waved him goodnight.
The heat in his cabin hit him first as he entered, sighing. Thick and suffocating. The fire in the hearth had burned too hot again, filling the place with a sticky kind of warmth that made his skin prickle.
Joel shrugged off that expensive shearling jacket, tossed it somewhere, and rubbed a hand down his face. It was too damn quiet. No soft breaths ghosted across his skin. No little palms clung to the fabric of his shirt.
Just the crackle of fire. Empty arms. The twisted sheets on his bed. And himself.
Joel sat down at the edge of the mattress, forearms braced against his knees, head in his hands. A million hazy thoughts swirled, smouldering, yet all he could look upon clearly was wanting to close the gap and kiss that girl in her living room.
Was this what he wanted? Would he really go through with it? If it all went to shit—if he fucked it up, if they got hurt, if she regretted letting him in—there’d be no one else to blame, but him. He would have done this to himself, some sort of screwed-up self-sabotage he thought he earned. Someday, when he kicks the bucket, all he is going to leave to that family is grief. Or not even that? Was he worth the suffering? Would they spare him a thought?
His fingers unconsciously drifted down, brushing against the cracked leather of his watch strap. That old, broken dial. The last thing Sarah had ever given him, the last vestige of her memory, hanging off his defeated body.
The hands were still stuck in place—frozen, unmoving. Just like he’d been for all those years. Until now.
Joel exhaled, slow and heavy, dragging a hand down his face. He was already in too deep.
summary: Joel’s delicate attachment to Leela and baby Maya deepens along with—her resistance, his denial, and the slow, inevitable way he’s always finding his way back to them. As they navigate a freak accident, Ellie sees it. He does too. Almost.
a/n: ah-woohooooo more of Joel being a thickheaded numpty, so enjoy! I would love to hear all your unhinged, lovely thoughts!
It had been a quiet few weeks for Joel.
Not the kind of quiet he liked—the stillness of early mornings, with the wind rustling the trees and a guitar strumming in his hands. No, this was the one that came after a storm, when the air was dense with the scent of rain and the world felt... upside down. Unsettled. The kind of quiet where the damage had already been done, and all that was left was to pick through the wreckage.
The kind of quiet that made a man think too much. It pressed into him, heavy and suffocating.
Since that night in the car, since he’d seen her unravel in real time, the tacit MO had changed. On more welcome news, Mal had stopped coming around. No thanks to him, of course.
Joel saw him through the window the first morning he returned to Leela's place. Mal was coming up the path with the same easy stride, hands in his pockets like he had a right to be there. God, just once, he wanted to knock the teeth off that goddamned kid.
Joel set down his hammer and exhaled through his nose. Bless Tommy for leaving the fun part to him. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and stepped out onto the porch before the kid could even knock. The heavy door groaned on its hinges behind him, and he let it.
Mal spotted him and gave a lazy wave, stepping forward. “Hey, man. I’m just here to—”
Joel shifted in front of him. Not aggressive. Just there. An immense wall of quiet warning.
Mal stopped short, blinking up at him.
Joel wasn’t even trying to stand taller, but he didn’t need to. He just crossed his arms over his chest, let his shoulders square out naturally, let his stance say everything. He wasn’t fucking moving.
The kid hesitated, confusion flickering across his face. “Uh—is there a problem?”
“I’ll take it from here,” Joel said, voice even.
Mal frowned. “What?”
“I said, whatever it is, I got it.”
There was a pause. A moment where Joel could see the gears turning in Mal’s head, where the kid was piecing things together a little too slow for his liking.
“Okay, but Tommy said—”
“Yeah, well.” Joel leaned forward, just enough to be felt. Watched Mal’s jaw tighten, and watched him shift back on instinct. “Not anymore.”
That finally landed. Mal thankfully rocked back on his heels and rubbed the back of his neck. He glanced past Joel, toward the house, then back, brows knitting together, trying to make sense of what was going on. What he'd done wrong.
"Uh... do you want help, at least?" he offered, cautious.
Joel let out a slow breath, something close to a laugh—if you could call it that. There was nothing warm in it. "You run along now."
Mal lingered for another second, like he wanted to argue, but thought better of it. And like a kid being told off, he tucked his tail and left.
Joel didn’t bother to watch him go. Just turned on his heel, grabbed the door, and went back inside. “Fuckin' pest,” he grumbled under his breath.
The house was quiet—only the soft creak of the stairs, followed by the sound of careful, steady footsteps.
He looked up and saw Leela was making her way down, one hand carefully bracing against the railing. She was in sweats and an oversized sweater, her hair pulled into a low-hanging bun. There was something different about her face today—sharper, cleaner, blanker maybe. Or maybe he was just seeing her in a better light now.
She caught him staring. "Was that Mal?"
Joel simply lied, "No."
She pressed her lips together. Not quite disappointment, not quite relief. Something in between. “Oh,” she said quietly. “Maybe later.”
Joel hooked a thumb through the loop of his tool belt, retrieving the hammer he’d slung there. He twirled it once, catching the handle in his palm.
“Don't worry about it. He’s a busy guy,” he said, keeping his voice light as he crossed her on the staircase. “Lots of shit to fix around town.”
More importantly, Leela didn’t ask why or how. Soon enough, she stopped looking for Mal. Didn’t even question when Joel started showing up every day instead with his old tool belt slung over his shoulder, standing at her door like it was the most unassuming thing in the world. She just looked at him—one glance, one unreadable flicker of those dark, tired eyes—and then moved on like it didn’t matter. Like he wasn’t there at all. Stiffing him, essentially.
And Joel knew that kind of distance. This gaping rupture, widened between people when something sore and hideous had been exposed. When someone had seen too much; known too much. Leela knew she’d overstepped, and now she was pulling back.
Joel knew that feeling. He’d done it plenty himself. That instinct to retreat, to pull the shutters down, to make yourself small. Hell, he’d lived it. Had become it.
So he let it happen. He let her pretend again. Didn't push, didn't say anything. He simply worked.
The nursery was coming together, slowly but surely. The pendant lights were fixed, casting warm pools of gold over the room. The shelves stood straighter, stocked with whatever Maria had been sneaking in—baby books, folded blankets, onesies, wooden toys. And the old fuchsia rug he’d found in Leela’s storage? It tied the whole damn thing together, like a relic of a forgotten life, all lived-in and warm for the baby girl.
Joel stood in the centre of it all, Maya cradled in his arms, rocking slightly on his heels. Not that she could appreciate any of this yet. A safe space of her own.
He had never been the kind of man who cooed at babies either. Hadn’t been that way when Sarah was small, hadn’t been that way in the years since. There was something about them—so soft, so fragile—that made him cautious, like he had to hold back, keep himself in check.
Maya made it easier.
"Hi," he whispered to her after her naps. "Did you sleep well? Huh, pretty girl? C'mere."
She made tiny, thoughtful expressions like she was really listening to him. Her little hands were always reaching, always curious. Right now, she was watching the lights with those big brown eyes, mesmerized by the slow shift of the shadows on the ceiling, her mouth parting slightly in wonder. Her fingers curled absently in his shirt, barely grasping, like she just liked knowing he was there.
She’d been a fussy one lately—tired, restless, wanting to be held more often than not. Lonely. And with a mama like Leela, who drifted too easily and got lost too deep in her own head, Joel figured it wasn’t a bad idea to show her around. Give her something new to look at.
“What do you think, baby girl?” he murmured, shifting her closer, his palm smoothing down her tiny back. “Did I do okay or what?”
Maya blinked up at him, her whole body stilling for a second before she let out a soft, breathy coo.
Joel grinned. “Yeah?” he chuckled. “That a yes?”
She wiggled in his hold, that gummy little smile coming alive, kicking lightly against his ribs, and Joel felt himself exhale—deep, easy, something loosening inside him. She liked it. The nursery. The lights. Him. Maybe none of it mattered in that little head of hers, but she wasn’t crying. She wasn’t fussing. She was looking at him like she trusted him, and God help him, but he wanted to deserve that.
He took her toward the shelves, kneeling carefully with her in one arm, balancing his weight as he pointed to the row of paint cans. “Alright, sweetheart. Let’s pick a colour. What’s it gonna be, huh?” He tilted them slightly, exposing the faded labels. “We got white. Some kinda blue. Green.”
Joel huffed a small laugh. “Yeah? That your favorite?”
Her fingers brushed the side of the can, fascinated by the cool metal, a quiet coo slipping from her lips.
Joel hesitated for a second, then gave in. He really couldn't help himself. At that moment, he just had to. Slowly, carefully, he shifted her closer, lowering his head and pressing a kiss to the soft crown of her unsteady little head.
She smelled faint and sweet as always, like baby powder and fresh linens, and he let himself linger for a second longer than he should have, feeling the heat of her through his shirt, the tiny weight of her against his chest.
Maya wiggled in response, not in protest, but excitement, legs kicking slightly.
Joel exhaled, something breaking loose inside him.
Before he could stop himself, he pressed another kiss to the side of her head, then another and another, half a laugh escaping him when she wriggled in delight, her little fists stretching open, her eyes squeezing shut like she could feel the warmth of it sinking in.
Maybe she could. Maybe she knew, in that small, primal way babies knew things, that Joel was someone safe. That he wouldn’t let her fall. That he really fucking loved her.
A rustle at the doorway made him glance up from a kiss. Leela stood there, her hand lightly braced against the frame, watching him.
Joel was caught off guard, leaning away from Maya a bit, settling her lower against his chest. “Hey,” he greeted, voice low. “Just givin’ her the lay of the land.”
Leela’s expression didn’t change. She only flashed a tight, fleeting smile before stepping forward, arms extending toward Maya. “You wanna take a bath with mama?”
Maya twisted in his hold, cooing eagerly now, little hands reaching for her mother. Even after everything, her mother was still her favourite person.
Joel let her go, careful as he passed her over to Leela. Their hands brushed, warm skin against warm skin, and he ignored the way it lingered, how her fingers barely curled in his before she took Maya into her arms.
“She’s been good,” Joel muttered.
Leela nodded, running a gentle palm over Maya’s back. “There’s lunch downstairs if you’re hungry.”
Joel studied her for a beat, his fingers brushing idly against his tool belt. “…Did you eat something?”
She hesitated. Too long. Then nodded, slow.
He didn’t call her on the lie. Instead, he nodded back, watching as she turned on her heel, shifting Maya closer against her shoulder. She left him with another tight, fleeting smile before disappearing down the hall.
Joel breathed out a sigh, glancing back at the half-finished room. Maya’s soft, content coos still lingered in the air. The green paint sat on the shelf, waiting.
And for some damn reason, he felt lonelier than he had in a long, long time.
It had taken him eleven days. Too long for a man like him. But he hadn’t rushed at all. He should’ve, but he didn’t. Had he been the same old Joel—good ol’ Texas Joel—this would’ve been a job done in a heartbeat. A blink, and he’d be out of her way. He wouldn’t have noticed things. Wouldn’t have lingered like a moron.
Maybe it was because of the way Leela barely spoke to him anymore. Or that she wouldn’t look him in the eye when she checked on his progress in clipped words and hums, wouldn’t even glance his way when she passed Maya to him like clockwork, a silent, wordless thing between them.
Maybe because when she leaves him standing at the porch at the end of the day, the door closing shut in his face, it didn’t feel like closing a chapter. It felt like a fucking wall going up.
Joel found her in the kitchen that evening, standing by the counter, wrist-deep in soapy water. It was late, Maya was snoozing her little head off upstairs, the house dim except for the overhead light humming low above them.
She didn’t stagger when he entered, didn’t look at him either. Just kept scrubbing the hell out of a plate, though he was pretty sure it was already clean. He dawdled near the doorway, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to figure out what the hell he was doing.
He should’ve left. Should’ve let the silence settle. But he couldn't just leave it alone.
Instead, he cleared his throat and stepped forward, leaning a hip against the counter. “Y’know, you got a dishwasher. It's half the effort,” he pointed out.
Leela gave a small huff. “Electricity’s scarce.”
Joel snorted. “So is water, darlin’.”
She finally glanced at him, just a flicker, then back to the sink.
He tapped his fingers against the counter, searching for something—anything—to keep her in this moment with him. “Made good progress today,” he said. “Maya... she tried to turn on her side. The nursery; well, I just need to fix up that dresser and—”
“Look, thank you. But I’m really tired, Joel.”
She said it without looking at him, her voice level, no bite to it. Just a statement. A locked door. He should’ve expected it, should’ve shrugged it off and moved on. Instead, something about the words, directed at him, sat wrong inside him. All that hurt-people-hurt-people-drivel that Maria used to say came back to bite him in the ass.
He hesitated, shifting his weight onto his feet. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I should get going.”
She said nothing. Just shut off the faucet, dried her hands on a towel, and walked past him, close enough that the damp heat of her skin lingered for half a second longer than it should have. And despite fighting the urge to glance back at her as she left the room, he watched her disappear down the hall.
Joel stood outside her door for a long moment, which he had conscientiously locked, staring at the chipped paint of the doorframe, jaw clenching. His eyes flicked to the porch swing. It swayed slightly in the cold breeze.
Was it juvenile to think maybe she’d prefer his company? Was it fucking brainless of him to crave somewhere to belong? A purpose? Was he meant to die alone in a strange house and surrounded by empty whiskey bottles? Maybe. Probably. But hell if he didn’t wish it anyway.
Joel didn’t want to admit it—not directly, not even to himself—but he wanted to talk to her. Not about anything in particular. Not about that night in the Maranello, or how her little, breathy laugh was possibly the best thing to hear after those roars and clicks of the world beyond, or why she’d started looking at him instead of through him.
He just wanted something. Because before, there had been something. It wasn’t like talking to most people, where you had to pick your words apart before they even left your mouth, where you had to navigate bullshit small talk or forced pleasantries. With Leela, it had been... easy. Unspoken. A warm kind of quiet, the kind where he didn’t have to think too much, where he could just be.
He'll admit it, just this once—he liked that about her. He liked that a moment didn’t have to be forced. That he didn’t have to overthink, that they had a rhythm, a delicate system between them, one that made sense even if neither of them ever put words to it.
But now?
Now, she barely looked at him. Nowadays, when she passed Maya to him, it wasn’t with that quiet, knowing ease or a friendly grin, no matter how tired it had been—it was mechanical, transactional, like handing over a set of keys. Like a reminder that he wasn’t supposed to be here, and he didn’t know what to call that. Didn’t like the way it made his instincts turn over, uneasy, in his chest.
All that lingering had finally paid off, and Joel had found his way in. He wasn’t going to show it, of course—wasn’t gonna give himself away like some fool—but damn if he wasn’t relieved.
After days of unending cold shoulders, after all that stiff distance, this was the first real opening he’d gotten. An excuse. A way to talk to her without forcing it.
He had been fixing a flickering wall lamp that had been bugging him for some time now, in the second-floor hallway, standing on a step stool when—
CRASH.
The whole house plunged into darkness. The light he’d been working on blinked out, along with the rest of them, and then—a groan. A pained, breathy, hitched groan from below. His entire body tensed before his brain caught up.
Then came the wailing. Maya.
Joel’s heart stammered, caught between two instincts. The damn near gutting sound of the baby girl's frightened cries and that groan—that voice—he'd distinctly heard from the basement.
Fuck. His feet moved before his mind did. He leapt off the stool, tools cluttering to the floor, ignoring the protesting ache in his knees as he tore down the hall to Maya’s room. She was red-faced, eyes squeezed shut, fists curled as she screamed, trembling from the shock.
"Hey, hey, Maya," Joel hushed, scooping her up into his arms, and pulling her against his chest. "S'okay, sweetheart. I got you. I got you."
He shushed her, palm stroking warm circles over her back, bouncing her lightly in his arms. His heartbeat was loud, hammering in his ears, drowning everything out but the damn groan still hanging in his mind.
Leela.
She was down there, in that cursed basement, alone. And that sound had been awful.
Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, pressing his lips to Maya’s head before pulling back. More for himself rather than her.
“I'm right here, baby. Nothin’ to be scared of.” His voice was steady—measured—but his hands weren’t. His grip on her was a little too tight. They trembled a little.
Maya sniffled, her cries quieting just enough to slow his pulse, and he took that as his chance. Keeping her tucked to his chest, he made his way down the stairs, near flying, boots thudding against the wood.
His breath hitched as he reached the basement door. “Hey, you down here?” he called, shoving it open with his shoulder, jogging down to the dim space below.
Then he saw her.
Leela was slumped against the wall, obvious that she had been tossed into it, her silhouette barely lit by the glare of an emergency lamp in the corner. She was gripping her shoulder fiercely, rubbing it like she was trying to erase the pain. Her fingers dug in hard.
The remnants of her little "science project" upgrade lay scattered around her. Loose wires, metal scraps, a circuit board still humming with life. The main plug socket was connected. Was she fucking stupid? There was a baby upstairs, and she was ready to risk her home for that dumbass machine.
And her face—Fuck. She had gone pale. Eyes squeezed shut. Her chest rose and fell like she was working through an intense wave of pain.
“Christ.” The word came out more like a breath than anything. Joel took a step forward, but when his eyes landed on the tangled wires, something burned under his ribs.
“The hell do you think you’re doin’?” His voice came out rougher than intended, fear clawing at his throat, disguising itself as frustration.
Leela’s eyes fluttered open, hazy but sharp. “I’m okay. I’ll be fine.” She held up a hand to stop him before he could kneel down beside her. “Just a bit of bruising. Maya first.”
Joel clenched his jaw.
She was right. Damn it, he hated that she was right. Maya, now hiccupping soft little breaths against his chest, was the priority.
“Right,” he muttered, though the reluctance in his voice was clear. He cast her one last look, making sure she was still upright, still breathing normal, before turning back up the stairs.
It took ten whole minutes to get Maya settled, and that was a miracle in itself. He'd resorted to pleading under his breath, but she had continued to watch him, eyes wide, refusing to let sleep take her like she knew something was wrong. She was perceptive. Just like her mother.
Finally, finally, her little lashes fluttered shut, her tiny hand still gripping onto his shirt.
Joel exhaled, relief going awash his tension. “Good girl,” he murmured, before unfurling her fingers from his collar, brushing a kiss over them and laying her back down.
Then he was sprinting again. Back down the stairs, faster than he should have been, hand gripping the railing tight.
Leela hadn’t moved much. She was still slumped against the basement wall, her breaths deep and restrained—like she was trying to breathe the pain away.
Joel came down to a crouch by her feet. “Hey.”
“I'm fine, Joel, really,” she assured quietly.
Though, he could tell she was pissed at herself. She hated being like this—vulnerable, hurting, unable to brush it off and acting like it didn’t happen. But Joel saw it. He saw her. How she'd tilted her head against the wall, eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling.
Leela truly was fine. Bruised, rattled—but fine.
Joel had checked her over once more, ensuring nothing was broken, no serious harm done, and he had to force himself to believe her when she said she’d be okay.
But her hands. Oh, Christ. The dim glow of the emergency lamp cast a dull shine over her skin, and that’s when he noticed—the raw, reddened patches along her fingertips. The unmistakable burn marks where the electricity must’ve bit into her.
"Shit." He exhaled sharply through his nose, scraping a hand down his beard as he stared at her fingers.
She must’ve seen the look on his face because she tucked her hands close to her stomach like she could make them disappear. “Seriously,” she murmured, voice hoarse. “I’ve had worse.”
Joel’s jaw ticked. She wasn’t wrong. And that made something in him burn even hotter.
“C’mon,” he muttered, nodding toward the stairs. “Up.”
Leela hesitated, but the way he stood—the way he waited—made it clear he wasn’t asking. So she sighed and pushed herself upright, and Joel stayed close, arms extended safely around her, watching the way she moved, the way her body reacted.
She didn’t stumble. Didn’t wobble. That was good. No concussion or broken bones. A knot in his chest loosened instantly.
Once they made it back upstairs, Joel had her sit at the kitchen table, lit up from the sunshine filtering through from the afternoon sun. He set a bowl of warm water down in front of her, the steam curling into the space between them. He grabbed a small tin of ointment after a bit of rustling through the cabinets, then a roll of gauze, then paused, eyes flicking to her.
She was watching him. Still. Silent. Waiting.
Joel breathed out, slow and even, then came back over, pulling a chair beside her. He reached for her wrist, gently, carefully, lifting her hands into his own. A silent ask. Permission. Lesson learned from the last time he'd touched her.
Leela tensed for half a second before sighing, letting him take them.
She was trying to play it off like it didn’t hurt. Like it was fine. But as soon as he dipped her fingertips into the warm water, she sucked in a quiet breath through her teeth.
Joel’s grip tightened just a little. He tried to squeeze everything he had felt these past few days into a single word—“Sorry.”
He worked, taking it slow, gently swiping away the dust and grime, watching the way her skin flinched under the heat. His thumbs moved gradually, steadily, like he was afraid to make it worse.
“Y’gotta be more careful,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Damn wires ain’t worth all this. Remember, you’ve got someone countin’ on you.”
Leela let out a soft, tired laugh. “I didn’t know I had a nanny now.”
Joel shot her a look. “You don’t. You got me.”
She blinked at that.
Her lips parted slightly, but whatever she was about to say, she thought better of it. Instead, she let him work, let him take care of her, and trusted his instincts, and that felt like something neither of them was ready to acknowledge just yet.
Once her hands were cleaned, he dried them carefully, mindful of the more sensitive spots, before smoothing ointment over each burnt fingertip.
Leela twitched. “Ow.”
Joel grunted. “Ain’t gonna feel good, but it’ll keep it from blisterin’ too bad.”
He finished wrapping the gauze around her fingers, slow and precise, making sure they weren’t too tight. Leela stared down at her hands when he was done, flexing her fingers slightly, testing the bandages like she wasn’t sure what to make of them. Three fingers on each hand.
Joel blew out a slow breath, dragging a hand down his face as he took in the house.
It was quiet. Too damn quiet. God, he hated this. That unnatural kind, where something had been cut short too suddenly—like the whole place had been stunned into silence. The shot-out lights overhead blinked weakly before finally dying out for good, leaving nothing but the cold creeping in from every corner.
It was already setting in. The draft slithered through the cracks in the windows, curling around his ankles, and sinking into the wood beneath his feet. The thermostat had shut off along with the rest of the power, which meant no heat. Not with how damn cold it got out here. Jesus, he'd forgotten to tuck some extra layers around Maya.
His eyes swept the room. A busted power grid. A rattled woman nursing bruises. A two-month-old baby upstairs who didn’t know a damn thing about survival, who didn’t understand that warmth wasn’t something she could just take for granted.
And this woman—this stubborn, frustrating woman—was already trying to stand up like she hadn’t just been thrown into a wall.
"I'll go check it out. Don't worry, Joel, I know what to do," Leela offered, pushing herself up.
Joel shot out a hand, firm, stopping her before she could get any further.
"You ain't fixin’ shit, you hear me?" His voice came out rougher than he intended, but hell if he cared. "Sit your damn ass down. You're stayin' at my place till I get this sorted."
The prospect did not sit well with her. He could see it in the way her jaw clenched, her eyes flicking to the window like she was already searching for another solution.
She shook her head. "I can't—"
"That's not an option."
She looked at him then, her brows drawing together. And he knew what she saw—knew she saw that hard-set determination in his face, the part of him that had already made up his mind.
What she didn’t see—what he’d never let her see—was the way his chest was burning with something too tight, too damn close to fear.
Because he’d walked into cold houses before. Knew what happened when the temperature dropped too low. Had seen bodies frozen stiff in the middle of the night, curled up as if that had been enough to keep them warm. Had seen what happened when people thought they could tough it out. He'd rather never see or smell that ever again.
Now, Leela thought she could tough it out. But he wasn’t about to let her gamble with a baby’s warmth just to prove a damn point. And if she thought this was some kind of negotiation, she was dead wrong. Because he wasn’t giving her a choice.
He exhaled slowly, grounding himself, softening the edges just enough so he wasn’t barking orders at her like some kind of drill sergeant.
“Just for a while,” he said, voice dropping lower. “Till I can fix whatever the hell you fucked up down there.”
Leela didn’t answer right away, lips pressing into a thin line. But she wasn’t stupid.
She glanced up toward the stairs, toward where Maya was still sleeping. Then back at him. Joel could see the exact moment she gave in. Her shoulders slumped as she relented.
He nodded, standing up, already running through what needed to be done. “Good. I'll go bundle up the kid.”
X
Joel hasn't exactly planned to have company. Ever.
Maria and Tommy showed up sometimes. Ellie, too—though not without complaint. She claimed the place smelled like old people and swore visiting would tank her cool factor. But even when they came around, he never let them stay too long. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen, before he was ushering them out the door with a gruff, Alright, get on, and some excuse about needing to be up early. It wasn’t that he didn’t like having people around. It was just—his place wasn’t made for that. He hadn’t made it for that.
It was single floor, nice and compact. He slept on the pullout couch in the living room. Not because he didn’t have that one really sweet bedroom, but because it was easier nowadays—closer to the door, closer to the window that faced the big white house across the street. His sink was a mess of dishes from last night, crusted over and rotting in the stale air. His cabinets weren’t stocked with food so much as they were with whiskey and coffee.
He came home. He ate. He slept. He woke up. Showered. Left. That was it. That was his life. It was enough and to spare.
So when Leela and Maya showed up at his front door, he wasn’t prepared. Not in the slightest.
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, stepping aside to let her in. “Come on, then.”
Leela ducked inside first, shaking the cold from her coat, eyes flicking around the place as if she were already judging him for it. And maybe she was. Hell, Joel sure as shit would. Because this—this eyesore—was how she was gonna see him. As some tired, deadbeat old man who hadn’t even tried.
Maya stirred against her chest, her little hands fisting in the collar of Leela’s coat.
Joel cleared his throat and reached for her automatically. He needed his calm here. “C’mere, baby girl.”
She squealed at the sound of his voice, squirming, her small fingers flexing, gripping the fabric of his flannel before she finally settled against him, warm and soft. Joel let out a quiet breath through his nose, a strange kind of tightness unwinding from his ribs. He hadn’t even realized he’d been bracing for something.
“She can stay with me,” Leela said softly, slipping out of her coat.
Joel shook his head. “Nah, you get some rest. You’re takin’ the room down the hall.”
Leela blinked, surprised. “And you?”
Joel busied himself with Maya, playing catch and release with her tiny fists, letting her grab onto his finger before slipping it away. “I’ll be fine. Got the couch.”
She frowned. “But you’ve got that bad back.”
Joel sighed, jaw twitching. “Yes, ma'am. Thanks for noticin’.”
Leela’s mouth quirked slightly, just a little, but enough that it softened something in her expression. “You should take the bed, Joel.”
He hummed, shaking his head, shifting Maya a little higher against his chest. “You just shot into a wall and burned yourself, darlin’. I think you’re entitled to a bed.”
She tilted her head at him, her brow pinching together like she was trying to figure something out.
Joel stared back, more stubborn than apprehensive, his grip tightening just a fraction around Maya’s small body.
He wasn’t sure what it was, that look of hers. But damn if it didn’t make him feel like he was seen in a way he wasn’t used to. Like she was really looking at him—not the grumpy bastard everyone in Jackson thought he was, not the fixer, not the old guy sleeping his way through life—but him.
Joel shifted on his feet, clearing his throat. “Look, you’re takin’ the bed, that’s that. Maya can sleep next to you, so she’ll be closer.”
Leela was still staring at him, quiet for a long beat.
Then eventually she sighed. “Okay.”
It wasn’t much, but it felt like that little something Joel had wanted. Like an inch of the cold between them had finally cracked, let some warmth in.
Look, of course, Joel had always known his house was too damn small. He just hadn’t felt it until now.
There was no privacy to be had, not really. The pullout couch in the living room faced the bedroom door, left cracked open just enough for him to see the gentle rise and fall of Maya’s little body curled against where Leela would sleep later. The bathroom was the only one in the house, meaning if she needed it in the middle of the night, she’d have to walk past him to get there.
Not much space. Not much distance.
So when he heard the soft shuffle of her feet against the wood floor, he wasn’t surprised. He didn’t even have to look up from the guitar in his hands to know she’d wandered further inside, drawn toward the small corner of the living room where he kept his workspace.
It was a cramped setup—a shabby studio table shoved against the wall, two half-finished guitars resting on stands nearby. He’d only just started working on them, but it gave his hands something to do, something to create.
Leela’s fingers grazed over the unfinished wood, her touch featherlight. “I didn’t know you were this talented. A luthier.”
Joel chuckled, leaning back against the wall. “Layin’ it on a bit thick.”
She ignored him, curiosity guiding her hands as she thumbed over the strings. A quiet hum vibrated through the air, not a real note, just a sound. She tilted her head, listening.
“Would you make one for me when you have time to spare?” she asked, glancing up. “I’d love to learn.”
Joel almost laughed, because—yeah. Yeah, he’d drop dead before refusing that. “‘Course,” he said, voice low but certain.
Leela’s eyes found it too easily, drawn in like a moth to an old light. He almost wished he'd hid it away.
The picture that had survived time and death, sat on the corner shelf, tucked between a coil of guitar strings and a worn-out rag, the frame dull with dust he never bothered to wipe away. The glass was cracked, a thin vein running through the top left corner, but it didn’t matter. The image was still there. She was still there.
Sarah, grinning wide, her curls bouncing as she leaned into him, arms slung around his shoulders. Joel remembered that day. He’d taken her out to some shitty little carnival on the edge of town, and let her sucker him into one of those rigged ring toss games. She’d won a stuffed bear—cheated, more like, because the booth worker had taken pity on her—and held onto it the whole night like it was the greatest thing in the world.
She looked happy. They looked happy.
And it hit him—like it always did, like it always would—how long it had been since he’d last heard her voice. Since she’d called him 'Dad!' in that exasperated, teasing way of hers. Since she’d looked at him like he was the safest place she’d ever known.
Leela didn’t say anything. She didn’t even reach for it, didn’t let her gaze linger too long. Just acknowledged it, felt it, then moved past it, like she understood that some ghosts weren’t meant to be disturbed. Let them rest.
Joel swallowed. It wasn’t often that someone gave him that kind of space—left his past untouched, let him sit with it without trying to crack it open.
She leaned back against the edge of the desk, brushing her fingers through her hair again—one of those little habits of hers, nervous and absentminded. The strands were overgrown, frayed at the ends, and he knew she probably didn’t have the time to fix it, or maybe just didn’t care enough to. He should tell Maria to give her a trim.
But, she wasn’t wearing that pearl-buttoned nightdress tonight. This one was blue. Smooth. Loose-fitting. The frilled sleeves barely touched her shoulders, and it wasn’t anything special, not really, but—he liked it. That colour looked pretty on her skin.
The thought settled in his chest like an itch he didn’t know how to scratch.
Leela watched her fingers trail absently over the wood grain of the desk. “I owe you an apology, Joel,” she murmured, her voice quieter now.
Joel listened and didn’t speak, just let the words settle between them.
“For how I’ve been treating you.” She swallowed, gaze flicking up to him, uncertain but steady. “You’ve only ever helped me, and you're so good with Maya. I know it wasn’t fair of me to just… shut you out.”
Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it.”
But she wasn’t convinced. She hesitated, jaw tensing, lips parting slightly before pressing shut again. There was something she wanted to say like it was dislodged deep, festering, in her chest.
“That night in the car…” She took a breath like it might help balance her. It didn’t. “It wasn't you. I had—before Maya, I was—there was—”
Joel knew that look. The way her throat bobbed, her fingers curling against the desk like she needed something solid to hold onto. Holding herself together. He didn’t let her unravel, just not tonight.
“Stop,” he said, gentle but firm. “You don’t have to explain.”
Leela blinked at him, studying his face, like she was trying to decide if he meant it. So he shrugged, forcing a small, easy grin.
“Perks of havin’ me around. I don’t care for the details.”
A small breath of laughter escaped her. Real, unguarded, softening the edges of her face. He loved to see it on her. “That's a relief.”
Joel leaned forward, rubbing his palm over his knee, the dull ache settling in from the long day.
His voice was lower when he spoke. “It’s just nice to be there, y’know?” He wasn’t good at this—saying shit like this—but it began to get easier with her. “With Maya. And you. There's more purpose than just shooting things beyond the fence.”
Something flickered across Leela’s face.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the desk, and her knuckles paled with how tightly she gripped it. “You’re welcome home anytime, Joel. My door’s always open for you.”
Joel’s chest pulled tight.
He looked at her. And he thought about that damn oak door, how she never locked it, how he’d always given her hell for it in his head. And how, for the first time, it didn’t feel like carelessness.
It felt like trust. Not in this boring town of survivors. But in the neighbour across the street who'd ferreted his way into their lives.
Leela took a slow breath, glancing down before meeting his eyes again. “So, you don’t have to come around just to fix things next time.”
Her voice was softer now. And then—something else. A small, almost shy laugh slipped past her lips, barely there, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to say this next part out loud.
“Come to eat. To talk. To see Maya.” A beat. “And me.”
Joel felt it then—the shift. It wasn’t big, wasn’t some grand, earth-shaking thing. But it was there. He felt it.
"Maya loves you so much."
Joel glanced at her, unable to hold back the sympathy. He should’ve just let it sit. Should’ve just nodded, grunted something, and let the conversation move on. But instead, he said, low, “That bothering you?”
Leela hesitated, but only for a second. Then she sighed, rubbing a hand over her neck. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe.”
Joel stayed quiet, watching her.
She let out a quiet, humourless laugh. “It’s just... I don’t feel like her mother. Not really.” Her voice was even, but he could hear the strain underneath, the sharp edge of something she didn’t want to say aloud. “I do everything I’m supposed to. Feed her. Hold her. Change her. But it’s just... a list to get through.” She exhaled, shaking her head. “I thought it would be different. I know it's such an awful thing to say.”
Joel felt that like a punch to the gut. He knew what she meant. Knew how goddamn isolating it could be—to go through the motions, do the right thing, and still feel like you’re on the outside looking in.
“She’s yours, darlin',” he said after a moment. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing—at making sense of feelings, at giving comfort. He was trying. “That’s what matters. Sometimes it's not a magic switch, you can't just flip it on and feel it. Sometimes, you grow to love someone. Over time, energy, effort.”
Leela scoffed, quiet, barely there. “That all it takes?”
“No,” Joel admitted. “But it’s good enough.”
She finally looked at him then, something cautious in her expression, something raw. He didn’t push. Didn’t try to say anything else. Just let the silence stretch, easy and open, not asking for more than she was willing to give.
Leela swallowed, nodding slightly, like she was tucking the words away, considering them.
The space between them, once weighed down by hesitation, by careful sidesteps and unspoken rules, felt… lighter. Like the tension that had settled into the cracks between their words was finally easing, letting some warmth slip through.
And that? That did something to him.
His throat worked around something unspoken, and he rolled his shoulders back, shifting from feet to feet, like he could physically shake whatever the hell was loose inside him. The words that wanted to come didn’t.
Instead, he settled on something simpler. Something safer.
“You should get some rest.”
Leela’s gaze lingered, searching, like she was trying to read something in his face. Then she nodded, flashing a grin. “Sure,” she murmured. “Goodnight, Joel.”
Joel held her gaze for a moment longer. His fingers flexed at his sides, a familiar itch settling in his chest, the kind that always came when he stood in doorways when someone was walking away and he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to follow or stay put.
He watched her retreat into the room, disappear behind the cracked door, and stand there for a moment before finally turning away.
The door was open again. And that was the thing about doors.
They worked both ways.
X
While on the road, Joel had spent years sleeping in places that barely counted as beds. Hard ground. Rusted truck seats. Creaking, sagging mattresses in abandoned buildings where one wrong turn meant waking up dead. Even now, safe inside these walls, inside this town where people thought fences and routine were enough to keep the bad out, behind homes with locked doors—well, should have locked doors—he never truly slept deep.
Always on alert. Always half-ready. Even in the comfort of a home he could call his.
Joel lay on the couch, stiff as the thing itself, staring into the rough fabric. He wasn’t asleep—he never really was—but he kept his back turned anyway. It felt like the right thing to do, a courtesy or some form of privacy in a house too damn small to actually have any.
He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that. Long enough for the warmth of the fire to ebb. Long enough to hear the wind pick up outside, rattling at the windows. Long enough to wonder if Leela had finally managed to fall asleep.
He exhaled through his nose and, without really thinking about it, rolled over onto his side, eyes shifting toward the bedroom.
Leela was out cold.
Her hair had been pulled back into a loose braid, but strands had escaped, curling softly against her cheek. One hand dangled into the mattress as if she’d fallen asleep patting Maya and never quite finished. He could see the slow rise and fall of her chest, deep and steady, her body given over to exhaustion.
Joel frowned as his eyes drifted lower. The blanket had slipped, barely covering her waist, her legs left bare to the chill of the night. One knee peeked out, the curve of it catching the dim, murky light of the bedside lamp. He felt his jaw tighten, his fingers flexing at his side. Wasn’t she cold?
But then his eyes landed on the baby in front of her, and the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding eased right out of him.
Maya was not asleep. Flat on her back, legs kicking sharp, barbed movements, her tiny fingers flexing in the air, opening and closing like she was trying to grab something invisible. Every so often, she let out a soft little coo, her breath light, testing, careful not to wake her mother.
Joel squinted. Lifted his head a little. Maybe she was just shifting in her sleep.
Nope, the kid was fully awake. Big, round eyes blinking up at the ceiling, mouth open in a little round ‘o’ of discovery, her hands reaching for her own damn feet, like she’d only just realized they were attached to her.
He huffed, rubbing a hand over his face. He could just leave her be. She wasn’t crying. Wasn’t fussing. She'd fall asleep on her own.
But then she spotted him.
Her entire little body bucked, like the excitement was too much for her tiny limbs to contain. A bright, panting laugh bubbled from her mouth, and her hands curled, fists flailing like wanted to launch herself toward her.
Joel sighed. That was it. No walking away now.
Ignoring the slow, persistent cramp in his back, he shifted, pressing his hands into the pullout and pushing himself upright. His knees popped when he stood, and he winced, rolling his shoulders as he made his way into the bedroom. The floor groaned under his feet, but Leela didn’t stir. She was too far gone, too lost to the bruises and the exhaustion pressing her under.
Maya, on the other hand—beamed up at him, wiggling harder, completely unbothered by the late hour, her tiny hands batting at the air.
Joel sighed through his nose and crouched down beside the bed. He held up a finger to his lips. “Ssh, ssh,” he murmured like she had any damn understanding of the concept.
Her fists continued to flail, little feet kicking the air, and he sighed, leaning down to scoop her up. She fit into his arms easily, the way she always did—small and naming the nook to herself, all warm skin and bundled sleepiness. Sleep fired right out of his system.
“You're gonna wake your poor mama,” he whispered to her.
Shifting Maya against his chest, he glanced at Leela again. She hadn’t moved a muscle, fast asleep. But the blanket had slipped low, barely covering her waist, her arms left uncovered to the cold.
Joel hesitated for only a second before leaning over, taking the edge of the comforter and tucking it around her, careful not to wake her. The fabric pooled at her shoulder, and she sighed quietly in her sleep, sinking into the warmth of the bed, but not waking.
Good. She was finally catching up on sleep. When was the last time he'd seen that girl rest? Never. She'd always woken up the earliest, wandering between her papers and blackboards in the living room.
Maya let out a content little hum against his shoulder, and Joel blew out a breath, stepping back out of the bedroom and into the dimly lit living room. He wasn’t going to bother putting her back on the bed. She was too awake for that.
Instead, he plunged back onto the couch, settling into the cushions and adjusting her against his chest. She curled into him easily, her featherlight weight pressing against his ribs. She hummed again, a soft, breathy little thing, and then—one of her fists landed against his sternum with a dull thump.
Joel huffed, peering down at her. “You tryin’ to knock the wind outta me, trouble?”
Maya lifted her head to blink up again, dark eyes round and glassy in the dim light, looking like she had something important to say. Then her fist lifted again, this time smacking more of a lazy pat than anything with real intent.
He narrowed a playful glare on her, shifting her a little higher against him. He poked at her cheek. “We got some problems, or is this just your way of lettin’ me know you’re still awake?”
She didn’t answer—fucking obviously—but she did something close to it. Her mouth rounded in a small, exaggerated ooh, and her fingers fumbled against his shirt before one of them caught onto his.
Joel felt the soft, clumsy pull of her grip, then the unmistakable wet warmth of her mouth closing around the tip of his finger.
He grimaced, but not in any real discomfort. “Great, there you go. You're lucky you're so beautiful.”
Maya suckled lazily, brows furrowing like she was concentrating really hard on the task, and Joel exhaled, letting her gnaw as much as she wanted.
Joel stared at the ceiling, his fingers absentmindedly rubbing slow, careful circles against her back.
She was a happier baby now. Not screaming. Not crying as much. Just there. Comfortable and safe.
He swallowed against the feeling mashing against his ribs. His jaw unclenched, let his head fall back against the couch, eyes slipping shut. And he let out the longest breath known to man.
It had been years—years since he’d felt this weight, this warmth, this need pressed against him. It was a different life, a different world, but somehow, it wasn’t. His body still knew this, still remembered the rhythm of it, the quiet intimacy of a baby trusting him enough to just be here, curled up against his chest, with no fear, no hesitation.
And goddamn him, but he loved it. Loved the small breaths puffing against his collarbone. Loved the way she looked up at him, slow and sleepy, tapping her tiny knuckles against him like she was checking to make sure he was still there. Loved that he didn't have to think about anything, not feel like the whole world was closing in.
Loved this.
He wasn’t thinking about the past. No, he wasn’t. But if he was, he sure as hell wouldn’t admit it.
The sound of the front door unlocking jolted him.
Joel’s eyes snapped open, his entire body tensing for a fight as his hand instinctively curled around Maya’s small back, protective, ready. His other hand curled into a loose fist at his thigh.
The door eased open with a quiet creak, and a familiar silhouette stepped inside.
Ellie.
“Joel?” she whispered, peering at him in confusion.
Joel just stared at her. Not because she was here—she was always stopping by when she damn well pleased—but because for the first time in his life, he was the one who forgot to lock the damn door.
Maya shifted against his chest, making a soft noise, her tiny fingers still curled around his. Joel gave her a small, reassuring bounce as if she’d needed one.
Ellie, meanwhile, was still standing there, taking in the sight of him on the couch, a whole baby in his arms, and the bedroom door cracked open just enough to hint at the woman asleep inside. The pretty neighbour that had Joel all riled up.
Her eyebrows lifted and mouth twitched as she crossed her arms. “This isn’t a hostage situation, right? Am I an accomplice now?”
Joel sent her a flat look. “Whatever gave that away?”
Ellie then continued to stare at him and at Maya.
It was the kind of look Joel had gotten used to over the years, the one where she tried to figure out if she was hallucinating. Because she’d seen Joel Miller do a lot of things—wrangle Clickers, nurse a cold one, fix up a rifle—but sitting on his couch, cradling a whole-ass baby like that? It was a new one. Like unlocking a new character in a video game.
Her lips pressed together, eyes still flicking between him and the kid, and then—she snorted.
“Oh, man,” she whispered, shaking her head, a shit-eating grin spreading over her face. “I wish I had a camera to capture this gold.”
Joel sighed. “Alright, get on with it.”
Grinning, Ellie plopped herself down beside him, the whole couch shaking, immediately leaning in close to peer at Maya. Almost as if she was the first infant she'd seen in her life.
“Hi, baby,” she cooed, voice going all high-pitched and ridiculous. “Hiiii.”
Maya blinked at her, unmoving, her fists curled safely in her mouth, her tiny brows furrowing as if she were trying to figure out just who the hell this new person was.
Ellie wiggled a finger in front of her. “Here. Go on, grab it.”
Maya did not. She just kept staring, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, utterly mystified by the sudden intrusion.
Joel huffed. “Guess she ain’t impressed.”
“Guess she’s got taste, you dick,” Ellie shot back. Then, her face softened, a little smirk curling her lips. “She’s fucking adorable. Look at those eyes, damn.” Joel barely had time to process the warmth that spread through his chest before Ellie tacked on, “So, definitely not yours.”
His scoff came out before he could stop it. “Oh, real funny, kid.”
Ellie chuckled, finally settling back against the couch, still watching Maya like she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. “How come they’re here?”
Joel didn’t go into the details, never liked to. About Leela’s bruises, about how she’d been too damn stubborn for her own good, about how he’d practically had to drag her in here to sleep in his bed.
Instead, he just muttered, “Blackout. Gonna head back in the morning and check it out.”
Ellie hummed like she knew there was more to it but didn’t feel like prying.
For a while, they just sat there in silence, and Joel simply let himself watch. The room was dim, the fire in the hearth burned low, throwing flickering shadows across the worn wooden floors. The cold pressed against the windows, creeping in through the cracks, but in here, it was warm—quiet, steady. Both in him and around him.
Ellie leaned in closer, her breath puffing softly against Maya’s round little cheek as she wiggled her fingers in front of her face. “What about this? You like this?” she murmured, tapping her tiny nose, and making a series of stupid clicking sounds.
Maya blinked, floored by this, her wide eyes tracking Ellie’s every move like she was watching the most fascinating thing in the world.
It took another few moments, but then—finally—Maya’s tiny fingers reached out, wrapping shyly around Ellie’s outstretched one. Not tight, not possessive, just curious. Testing.
Joel felt that feeling again, twisting deep in his ribs, imperceptive and calm and unnameable. He could get used to that feeling. It plugged every scar, physical and mental, until his shoulders felt ten times lighter.
The kid he’d sort of raised, playing with the baby he was yet to.
And for the first time in a long time, that muddle just… settled. It was late, too late in life for this kind of thing. But hell, cut him some slack.
Joel exhaled slowly, staring into the last of the fire, watching as the embers pulsed and flickered, struggling to stay alive. His hand absently smoothed over Maya’s back, following the slow rise and fall of her breathing, feeling the tiny weight of her against his chest. She was still. Not fussing. Just there.
Ellie shifted beside him, stretching her legs out, resting her arms against her knees. She wasn’t in a hurry to fill the silence. She just sat there, watching him in that way of hers, like she saw more than she let on.
“So,” she finally said, voice casual. “How’re things between you and…?”
She didn’t need to finish the sentence. Just flicked her chin toward the bedroom.
Leela was still dead to the world, sunk into the kind of sleep that didn’t let you turn over, didn’t let you dream. Her hand had slipped out from beneath the blanket, fingers curled loosely against the mattress. He wondered how long it had been since she’d let herself rest like that, without one ear open for some threat, without her body coiled tight, waiting for the next hang-up.
Joel looked away. He shifted slightly, adjusting Maya, keeping his voice even. “There’s nothing between us.”
Ellie hummed like she wasn’t buying it. “Yeah, no shit.” She stretched her arms behind her head, smirking. “She’s way out of your league.”
Joel snorted, shaking his head. “No argument here.”
He didn’t need Ellie to tell him that. He was thickheaded, but he wasn't blind. Leela was… Leela. Stunning in that exotic way, compassionate as a human, insanely intelligent. And him? What was he exactly, a cut-throat? A fighter? A relentless fucking human who just refused to die? Twenty years ago, a woman like that wouldn’t have given him the time of day, much less a second glance. A girl like her, back in the world before, would’ve had a whole life ahead of her, a whole set of possibilities. Not this. Not him.
And maybe that’s how it should’ve been. Maybe that’s why this didn’t make any sense.
He tensed his grip on Maya and felt the way she instinctively burrowed against him, curling her little fingers into the fabric of his shirt. She cooed again, watching his mouth move to form words.
He could be something for her. If Leela wanted it, he could carve out a space in Maya's life, be her constant, be her safety net. Hell, be this baby girl's father. He would compromise in a blink. That was different. That was right.
But having Leela herself? That was something else entirely. That was dangerous. That was selfish. There were too many ways it could go wrong. Too many ways it would end badly.
Not because of him, or her, or anything either of them did—just because that was the way life went. He wasn’t made for this kind of thing anymore. Wasn’t built for it. He was too damn old, too set in his ways. And even if she—somehow—wanted this, wanted him, what then? How long until he fucked it up? How long until he lost it?
The way he always did.
He swallowed hard. “I’m too old for her,” he managed to mutter.
Ellie scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You're fucking kidding. The world ended. There is no standard. And you still care about what, an age gap? Brownie points? Jesus, Joel. You've been through too much to care.”
Joel didn’t answer right away. Just kept his gaze on the fire, jaw tight.
It wasn’t about that. It wasn’t about how it looked or what people would say. Hell, no one would care. He wouldn't care. They were past that kind of bullshit.
But that didn’t mean it wasn’t still impossible.
Because Joel knew himself. He knew what it was like to want something real, to care about someone so much it hollowed you out from the inside. And he knew how fast it could all go to hell.
It was about the fact that she still had so much time. That she could still find someone real, someone better. That she deserved more than a haunted, greying man, who could barely sleep through the night, combing through his days, who lived waiting for the next thing to go wrong.
And she deserved better than a man too tired, too worn down by life, to give her more than what little he had left.
Ellie sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. “Y’know…” she started, then stopped.
Joel glanced at her, brow furrowing slightly.
She didn’t go on right away. Just drummed her fingers against her knee, staring into the fire, her face unreadable. For once, she wasn’t running her mouth, wasn’t making a joke to cut through whatever was settling between them. She was thinking. That alone put him on edge.
Finally, she said, “It’s different. These last few weeks. Even Tommy sees it.”
Joel frowned, not at the words themselves, but at the way she said them—slow, cautious, like she wasn’t just talking to him but trying to make sense of it for herself.
Ellie had always been good at reading him, sometimes better than he wanted. But this—this was different.
She flitted her gaze toward the bedroom, where Leela was still out cold, her body barely stirring under the blankets. Then to Maya, curled up against him, tiny fingers tangled in his shirt, her soft weight pressed into his chest. Finally, she looked back at him.
She didn’t spell it out. Didn’t need to.
Joel swallowed, shifting slightly where he sat, adjusting Maya’s weight in his arms. His hand smoothed down her back, more out of habit than anything else. He glanced toward the bedroom too, toward Leela, who hadn’t moved an inch. Yes, it was different.
But Ellie wasn’t done. She hesitated, rolling something over in her head before finally letting it out.
“It’s… good, y’know? You having this nice thing.” She waved a vague hand toward the baby, toward Leela. “You don't usually let yourself have nice things. Something that’s not just me.”
Joel’s breath caught.
Ellie had always been his reason for waking up in the morning, the one thing keeping him tethered to whatever life he had left. And she knew that. Knew it in the way she carried herself, in the way she fought with tooth and claw to prove she didn’t need him to keep her standing. That he had his own life. But now, sitting there, she wasn’t mocking, wasn’t teasing. She was just… saying it. And she was goddamn right.
For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t just pushing forward because he had to, wasn’t just surviving out of habit. He wasn’t looking over his shoulder, waiting for the axe to fall.
He had something to come back to. Something steady. Something small and warm and his, even if he didn’t know what the hell to do with it yet.
He looked down at Maya, at her tiny, trusting weight in his arms, at the way she twitched slightly in her sleep, lips parting around a breath. His hand smoothed over her back again.
Ellie saw the moment it clicked. The way his face shifted, just slightly. She smirked, satisfied. And that her good work here was done.
Then, just like that, she clapped her hands on her knees and stood up. “Well,” she said, voice slipping back into that familiar teasing lilt, “guess I’ll let you get back to your hostage situation.”
Joel rolled his eyes, settling deeper into the couch as Maya nuzzled against his chest. The kid was out cold now, her little fist still tangled in his shirt.
Ellie was already heading for the door when she threw out in a whisper, “Oh—almost forgot. Maria asked me to tell you to bring your girl by the dam sometime this week.” She smirked, holding up air quotes. “Said she’d like ‘inventor insight.’”
His expression deadpanned. “Maria ain’t letting her go anywhere near machines.”
Ellie raised an eyebrow. “Ooh-kay. Controlling much?”
Joel gave her a warning look. “Ellie.”
She dismissed him with a wave. “I’ll just tell her myself.”
Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, already seeing how that would go. If Leela knew Maria was interested, she’d want to help. She’d go, eager to prove herself, eager to be useful. And then she’d get herself hurt again, pushing past whatever limits she had, just like she always did. That wasn’t happening.
“She’s stayin’ away,” he muttered. “She’ll go, then want to help. Overdo it. Get herself hurt or worse.” He gave Ellie a pointed look. “Better not.”
Ellie let out a sharp laugh, all evil intent. “And you’re telling me there’s nothing between you two?”
“Ellie,” he hissed, too fast, too sharp—just as Maya stirred slightly against his chest, her little face scrunching. He froze, holding his breath, waiting to see if she’d wake.
Ellie’s smirk was damn near insufferable.
“Denial,” she sang out, drawing out the word like it was the funniest thing she’d heard all day.
Joel sent her a flat look.
Ellie just wiggled her fingers in a wave and made for the door once more. “Night, old man.”
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving him alone in the quiet house, the fire crackling low in the hearth. Joel exhaled slowly, his hand smoothing absently over Maya’s back again.
summary: a pregnancy scare makes you realize just how deep you are in this.
warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, smut, p. in v., pregnancy scare, fingering (WE GET IT U LIKE IT), bit of praise kink, humilliation kink, breeding kink (they're stupid and insane acc), dacryphilia, sex thru the looking glass (there's a mirror in reader's dorm), ANGST in capital, they're starting to catch the feels™ ur honor, hurt/comfort, plot thiccens, this people are clearly NOT in a good headspace btw idk we listen read and don't judge.
word count: 4,757 words
side note: everyone calling this joel nasty but thirsting after him too? was going to hold a trial over my citizens but yk... what the hell, sure! i too want nasty bfd!joel to ruin me: he can be my baby daddy who doesn't pay for child support of our 4 kids and we'd make way to bed for our 5th LET'S GO also spam time! but i also happen to write in wattpad, and got a pedro pascal social media fic going on :) it's on spanish tho, but if u speak the language and would like to tune in, u can read it here
part: prev | masterlist | next
It's a regular Tuesday when his phone rings at ten in the morning.
"Dad"
Joel gets up from his desk in a brash move, immediately picking up his daughter's worried tone. Tommy bursts inside, telling him to calm down, but all Joel can hear is the anxious beat in his chest.
"What's it, babygirl? You okay?" his throat tightens. "Talk to me"
There's silence before she answers, as if she's unsure to continue.
"It's not me" he feels his muscles relaxing, but then Sarah drops the bomb. "It's y/n"
Joel's heart beats with a different type of worry.
"What's wrong with her?" voice firm but emotionless.
It's almost summer again, and he's still seeing you. In a way, you had carved a space for yourself in his cold heart, so naturally, fear settles in. He'd never admit this things out loud, though.
"I don't know, dad" his daughter starts to rush the words out, panic evident on her voice. "She has locked herself in the bathroom and won't stop crying. I-I didn't know who else to call"
"Don't worry" but it sounds like he's trying to convince himself. "M' comin'. S'anyone else in there?"
There's a pause on the line before she answers.
"No"
He thinks of you. He'd seen you cry before, of course, but it'd been over silly childish stuff, like getting sent to bed early or not getting what you wanted for Christmas.
He thinks of you. Images of your pretty face, etched in pain, make his stomach drop. It isn't fair: your face was one destined to be happy for eternity, your smile so contagious Joel would sometimes find himself surrendering to your juvenile joy, his crow feet a little more notorious since you entered his life and carved your space on it by force; a light in the dark.
He just couldn't bear to see a mirror of his dullness on your face. It wasn't right.
"Stay put. I'll be there"
He tries not to think about your eyes drained of life. He tries not to think he's the cause. And then, he hangs.
As soon as Joel enters your dorm, your perfume is up his nostrils, providing him with a sense of relief he didn't know he needed. It was comforting and familiar, words that used to be hollow now carrying a knowing feeling that stung right on his chest.
"Dad" Sarah calls out, going for a hug. Joel embraces his daughter tightly while caressing her hair. "I'm so glad that you're here. I didn't know what to do"
"Breath in, babygirl. S'alright" he looks at your door, closed. Broken sobs can be heard, and his wounded heart feels like a heavy burden on his chest.
"My class starts in ten" Sarah speaks against the fabric of his flannel, "but I just couldn't leave her like this"
His daughter has a good heart. At least one of them did, anyway.
"Go to your class" he's commanding before he can fully process what he said.
Sarah breaks the hug, looking at him with a look he can't quite place.
"What? But, dad-" she tries to protest, concerned for your wellbeing.
"I'll take care of it. Always do, haven't I?" he sees her hesitation, and afraid of where her doubts would take her, Joel adds a small joke in there. "Y'know those classes ain't free, kid. Go ahead"
"Okay" she gives up. "Just... tell me if anything happens, yes?"
"F'course. Trust me"
"I trust you"
He still remembers when Sarah's kindergarten teacher handed him that drawing: Joel was wearing a cape, and she said his little girl had told everyone in class his dad was a superhero because there was nothing he couldn't do. That same admiration and faith is there in her eyes, even as the small naive kid slips from his fingers and turns into the woman that stands before him. He's not the devil, but the worst father in the world, and that is pretty much the same to him.
When Sarah is out of your dorm, he's trapped inside the small room with your heavy crying on the other side of the door. He looks at the small place, thinking about all the times he's sneaked inside during the night, hiding like a criminal as you wait for him behind the door full of scrapped stickers, ready to capture his lips with an eagerness that gnaws his chest.
Now it's just him and your sobs, his terrified reflection displayed in the mirror in front of your bed, mockingly staring back.
What are you doing? it questions, and Joel, always ready to answer, has suddenly lost the ability to speak.
Forcing himself out of such a pitiful state, he approaches the door, knocking softly.
"Sarah" your hoarse voice speaks up, and just then, he realizes how much he loves hearing your voice, no matter how it sounds. "Don't you have classes to go to? Leave me, please. I promise I'm good, I-"
Joel hears your distress, so he interrupts what looks like the start of a nervous rambling wreck. Huh, doesn't he know you so well?
"Sarah's gone" a beat, "It's me, Joel"
As if you wouldn't recognize that deep voice even if you were deaf.
There's silence before the door flings open, surprising Joel, who takes a step back, barely noticeable to the rest, but obvious to you, who has spent hours admiring him and all his small movements, he who you could draw by memory and built in your head as real as he who was standing before you, his eyes circling with a whirlwind of emotions you can't quite place, yet make your heart race.
Joel takes in the sight of you, deciding it's unfair how good you look, despite your disheveled hair, run mascara and red-rimmed eyes: you are still the prettiest sight he's ever seen, and now he doesn't know what scares him the most.
"You're wearing my shirt" he says out loud his latest discovery. It's all he manages to say: not an are you okay? nor an what's wrong?
No, Joel just happens to be very stupid(ly in love).
"Sarah didn't see me" you hug the fabric that makes your frame look smaller, or maybe it's your tired composture that makes it seem that way, avoiding Joel from enjoying the way his shirt looks on you. "If that's what you wanted to know. Been inside there for hours, already was when she came by"
The fact that you rather explain and assure him of his supposed possible worries instead of sharing your own, makes his stomach tie on a knot. Were you too kind or perhaps selfless? Maybe just stupid(ly in love).
Joel grunts, and you're not sure if it's his way of dissmissing your comment (maybe he thinks you're lying), chastising you in a shallow manner or the fact that you're poorly trying to avoid the elephant in the room. Maybe he thinks you're still a foolish careless child who can't comprehend the weight of whatever it is you're doing by being with your bestfriend's dad behind everyone's back.
"Tell me" he gets closer to you, fingers on your cheeks, but they don't dig the skin, instead, his roughness hiding a surprising tenderness to them. "What happened, y/n?"
The rawness in his voice takes you by surprise. Joel Miller, who seemed a man impossible to waver, now stood before you, wrapped in a gloom that left you at loss for words, something akin to hope planting it's seed on your heart.
"Tell me" he demands, yet his pupils move as unsteady as your heart. There's no power for command in his voice, only what you could allude to helplessness.
Was it because you were putting up walls like he did?
Was it because the consequences of being with you are starting to dawn upon him?
Whatever it is, you don't like it.
"What's wrong?" he's pushing for an answer softly, such a contrasting image to that of him in bed. "Please, talk to me"
Please.
The words slip past his trembling lips, defenses crumbling.
Joel Miller hasn't pleaded since Sarah's mother packed her bags and walked out of their shared home. He promised himself he would never be vulnerable again, never at the feet of a loved one, beggin to be seen.
To be heard. To not be hurt. To be loved.
But here you were, red eyes blown wide at a confession spoken through other words.
Please.
Your chest feels heavy, breath constricted.
"Joel..." you utter his name like a prayer. As something to believe in; something to hold.
He rushes to your side, strong arms caging around you as your labored cries fill the tiny room.
"S'alright" he whispers against your ear, burying his face on your shaking shoulder. "M' right'ere, doll"
Your hold turns more desperate, practically clinging as if your life depended on it.
"Take your time, y/n" your name so soft, you feel like crying more. "I ain't goin' anywhere"
"Promise me" you whimper, holding tightly.
"I won't go" he assures. There it is, the same unwavering strength you know. It's for you, he thinks.
"Joel" you call out again, tone terrified. "I think I'm pregnant"
It takes him at least a minute to speak. Even to breathe.
"...What?"
He feels your erratic pulse against his chest.
"Joel. Look at me"
He doesn't feel your heartbeat anymore. Just then he realizes he's backed down, embrace letting go of yours. Joel takes in your eyes, shimmering with new tears and fears.
"Joel?"
"I'm here" his voice sounds like it belongs to someone else, and the reminder like it's for himself.
"I know" your small voice speaks up, "but, just- please, look at me"
Joel holds your gaze, and it's like your air supply as been cut.
We don't want this.
"Are you sure?" Joel asks cautiously, as if you were a small animal he's afraid to scare.
"No" you breath in. "I bought the test, but I couldn't take it... I was, for the very first time in my life, scared. But there's always a first, isn't it? That's when Sarah found me"
There's always a first. You weren't afraid when he pounced you next to his sleeping daughter, neither when you didn't stop coming and he let you in everytime, and absolutely not when he obscenely ate you out while Sarah was on the phone. No, you were brave―brave enough to stand defiant when his conflicting gaze pierced through you, daring you to be the first to leave this mess and forget about him. But you were brave because you stayed, despite it all.
That had to mean something, right?
"You said you wouldn't leave me" it comes out in a shaky breath; a threat. Your voice seethes with a quiet rage. "You promised, Joel"
Like the word promise was a dagger twisting on his insides, not a sacred oath.
So he forces himself to be that hero Sarah still thinks he is. After all, he promised her he's going to solve this, didn't he?
"I did" he runs a hand through his hair. "Got the test with you?" You slowly nod. "Take it, then. I'll wait here"
You don't move from your spot, chest still moving uneven under your labored breaths.
"When you come out, I'll promise I'll still be here"
He can't promise you more. The world? It's what you deserve but not what he can give; Joel can only give so much.
"Okay" your tone is clipped, and that's all you say before entering the bathroom and closing the door behind you.
The room feels smaller than it is, the small plastic stick feeling heavier in your fingers than it actually is. You hear the clock's tick, Joel's frantic pace and your own irrational beat. It feels like a bomb: ready to explode and destroy everything within it's range.
Time drags like a cigarette, walls closing over your shaking pale frame. Your phone has a timer going on, yet for some reason, it feels an end to your beginning. You hug your body, wishing it was Joel's arms doing so.
But you saw it: fear, hesitation. It was on his eyes, auburn cracking like wood under fire. He was weak, and so were you. All of this... it starts to loose it's meaning. What started as a summer fling now falls upon you like a second skin you can't quite wash off, and it's suffocating as much as the enclosed space where a stupid line could change the rest of your life forever.
Joel outside isn't doing much better. He's aware his walking probably set you on edge, so now he's sat at the small bed that dips under his weight. He takes one deep breath, two―then looses count.
How could he be so careless? For a brief moment, why did he let himself believe it could be?
For God's sake: you were his daughter's friend. He had seen you and Sarah play on his house, laughing on his porch, gossiping on her bedroom. Growing up.
He wanted you, a desire so consuming it sometimes kept him up at night, thoughts confusing with something else. Probably fear, probably acceptance.
Joel is aware you changed his life. You, with your wild spirit and obnoxious laugh. You whom he couldn't tear his gaze away when standing in the same room, a magnetic force making the world around you drawn to you and that dangerous allure you had that made it impossible to resist you. To forget you. To live without you.
He feels dirty. A monster. A wolf with an insatiable hunger, sinking his canine teeth on your soft flesh. He'd drink your blood, to always keep a part of you with him; to be one. Like a lamb sent to the slaughter: but you wanted it. You had placed your head inside his jaw; trusting. As if knowing he could devour you, yet he'd never hurt you. Daring, almost.
Show me you can love me. Take a bite. Take me as yours. Mark me. Ruin me for anyone else. My blood, it belongs to you. This isn't a sacrifice―this is love.
When you exit the bathroom, hand holding the pregnancy test, it's all clear to him.
For a moment even, Joel forgets there's a world outside and sees a small baby: they have your smile, your eyes―and nothing of him, because you're the sun of his moon, the light of his darkness, and that baby is a mirror of you and your beauty. You and your warmth, devoid of his cold and far from where his filth can taint it. They have to look like you, because you are the most beautiful person in the world, and suddenly, the idea one more of you is possible, makes it feel like just you isn't enough.
"It's negative"
For the second time in the day, Joel is rendered speechless. His gaze is trained on the floor, lost in thought. Besides his lack of an answer, whatever he's thinking makes you nervous.
"Joel, are you okay?" you call out.
He swallows the lump on his throat, pose awkward before he moves next to your bed.
"M' fine, baby. C'mere" he sits over it again, motioning with his hand the empty spot next to him. Joel's embrace is warm, like it shields you from the cold harsh truth.
"Are you upset?" you ask over the comfortable silence, the underlying tension stretching like a rubber band.
"No" his answer comes quick, "but I won't lie to ya', doll. Thought for a sec and ol' man like me could give a pretty girl like yourself a baby as beautiful as their mamma"
A treacherous pink dusts your cheeks. Had you lost all your common sense? Seconds ago, your life hung by a fragile thread, and now all your body can think is to go for the same risk again. Fuck it.
"Did you? I thought you were too busy freaking out"
Joel lets out a nervous laugh. "M' a busy man, doll. Learned how to do two things at once"
A fire settles in your stomach when his touch lingers over your soft flat belly, longing.
"Hmm, I see" your fingers move from his hold to his collarbone, as they play with the buttons he hasn't wore.
"Y/n" he warns. You stop for a moment, not because you're unsure, but because when you look up, his eyes don't shine with that glint of danger and hunger that gives you the thrills. Instead, they look at you with a fondness he doesn't seem to even realize―the one that gives you the hope of it all.
"I want this" you speak up, voice confident.
"I don't think that's a good idea, doll. What'ya need is-"
"You" your face gets close to his, cutting his words and breath. Joel's adam's apple bobs, your throbbing pussy going through a Pavlovian response, such action an indicator he's surrendered to you, mouth watering at just the thought. "You said you could do two things at the same time, right? The comfort me in the only way you know"
There's hesitation on his eyes, and while you think it's because he's still hung up on the idea this isn't what you need, Joel's mind is stuck in the fact you think he can only warm your bed but not your heart. It's stupid, indeed. It can't affect him that much. Ashamed, he cuts the space hanging between your lips and traps them in a heated kiss.
"Hmh, Joel" your voice barely audible as Joel's fingers grip on your hair, his sleazy tongue sliding it's way into your mouth until you can feel it in your teeth. "Please..."
He chuckles at your neediness. "Please, what?"
"Please" you whimper, feeling your back heat with droplets of sweat under Joel's shirt, the sticky feeling akin to that starting to pool in between your thighs. "Please, make me feel good"
Joel smiles adoringly, moving your body until your legs are up his shoulders. Sure, his knees covered by his dirty worn-out jeans are ruining your fresh laundry, and his joints may crack here and there, but you don't pay mind to this little things: all you care is how he's kissing your bare thighs, his salt and pepper stubble tickling skin that feels more sensitive than ever; burning almost.
"Gon' touch 'tis pretty pussy 'til you forget y'r name, doll" he breathes out. "Will ya' let me?"
You nod eagerly as he helps you get out of your panties, throwing them somewhere around the room. You smack his arm playfully at his rough manners, but then he's pressing his lips with wet ticklish kisses on your legs and laughter bubbles at the tingles it's causing.
"S-stop, Joel!" you beg, legs shaking. Your giggles are contagious, and soon the foreign feeling lifts the corners of his scowl into a smile, a concept becoming more familiar with time.
"I ain't stopping" his fingers then graze your clit, tauntingly. You whine, as Joel doesn't let up on your clit, his calloused digits coated in your arousal. "'Tis what you asked for, baby. So 'm gonna make you feel good. So good until you can't speak nothin' that ain't my name"
The threat feels like a delicious promise, so you tell him you'll behave.
"I wanna try somethin', doll. Wait" you whine at the loss of his fingers inside of you, and then he's moving your body until he's against the wall and you're on the border of the bed. With your eyes, you follow his line of view. "So needy, ain't ya'? Cockhungry slut. Jus' scared the shit out of me and now you want me inside?" he tsks. "Sick fella"
"Joel..." you breath out, desire pooling into your orbs.
"Wanna see you, doll" you see your reflection in the mirror as Joel lowers his head to whisper on your ear, eliciting goosebumps on your skin. "Want you to see yourself, too. How you'll be beggin' for me"
His middle and ring finger dip between your folds as he continues the minstrations, fingers pumping in and out as they graze your moist cunt. They start to go in circles, and even if it's not exactly next to your bed, you can see the mirror begin to fog, whines condensed in the heavy air.
His shirt clings uncomfortably to your body, but you don't care. In a way, he feels even closer to you, as if he was an extension of yourself.
Joel's body radiates heat on it's own, making the room's temperature skyrocket.
You lean your head back onto the mattress, moaning.
"Need ya' to use that pretty mouth of y'rs, doll. Say it" his fingers linger on the dip of your hips, waiting for an answer with a smirk and daring manner. "Say what ya' want; that's if you can"
It takes you a while to speak up, the slippery sound of Joel's coated fingers the only sound to be heard on your dorm.
"I... I need" you whine through labored pants, "I need you, Joel"
I need you, Joel. It's in the heat of the moment, really, yet on that very instant, he makes a silent vow that hangs unspoken in the air.
"Good girl" he bites your earlobe, making a chill run down your spine.
His fingers fuck into you just how you like it: swirling to explore your inner tight walls.
"Fuck. Love how your pussy takes me, doll. 'S mine, isn't it? Say it, say who this pussy belongs to. Who's the only man allowed to have it"
You close your eyes, but the answer comes clear. "You, Joel. Just you"
You whine, feeling him go harder in a new-found confidence. Your nails dig on his biceps, but he doesn't flich, still busy burying his fingers inside your clit as his mouth continues spilling filthy shit you barely can comprehend, mind starting to go numb.
Normally, Joel would make you cum on his fingers, always making sure to lick it after, claiming it was bad manners to leave to waste. But today, the clock ticking in your wall, he knows he must hurry.
"Eager, eh?" you taunt back, seeing how quickly he's pulling down his underwear, guiding the tip of his cock to your entrance.
Your dripping cunt welcomes his cock, tip teasing your entrance.
"Don't" he seethes.
"Don't?" you laugh. "Don't what, laugh?"
His fingers grab your jaw tightly, forcing you to look behind you.
"Don't stop lookin', doll"
Joel slips the tip of his cock into you, his hands grabbing your waist to steady you. He looks at you through the mirror, seeing your dazed eyes, waiting as you bite your lip.
"That's it, good girl" he praises, purring against your ear. You see his face go down and lick the side of your neck before sinking his teeth in it. "Gonna reward you for'at"
Your mouth falls agape when he fully pushes his cock inside of you, burying himself to the limit in the first thrust. You moan, stretch wet pussy trying to adjust to his girth. He groans, his hips moving back and forth with yours, to meet his thrusts.
"R-right there" you whimper, feeling eyes starting to water. It had been a long day, and with his cock buried deep inside you, you can't think of anything else: just him―like this, for the rest of your life; you don't need more. "Fuck, don't stop"
His thumb rubs across your cheekbone, capturing a tear that had slipped past your foggy mind in a brittle moment of vulnerability, brown eyes flickering with something else. It could be.
We could be.
"Fuck, you cryin' over this cock, doll? What'a fuckin' slut" he laughs incredulously, but there's a hidden fondness to it. "S' that how good 'm makin' you feel?"
You can only moan, his dick harder now, his infatuation with your fucked-out state evident in the way his movements become more hectic.
"Can't even speak? What'a dirty minx inside 'tis sexy little body"
"Mhm" you blabber, tears running hot down your cheeks, landing on the mattress in fat droplets, noticeable through the reflection even. Joel stares back at your puffy eyes, devotion pouring at your glossy gaze, coated in a faint red tint, more pronounced from your earlier cries. Fuck. Never did he think your lambent eyes and sniffle sounds could turn him on this much. Something about him being the cause of it has his head spinning.
"New rule" he growls, "you keep those pretty red eyes lookin' at me when you cum"
You whimper at his words, the powerful aura they carry pushing your orgasm closer to the edge. You feel your tight folds clenching around his cock, hands holding to his back while your nails dig in it. You feel yourself approaching your release, multiple tears escaping down your cheekbone. In an obscene gesture, it isn't his thumb but his tongue what removes the wet stream from your body, feeling the salty drops on his tastebuds.
You were already so worked up, it was a matter of seconds before you could cum at any moment. Your walls clench around his length, and before you can process, Joel pulls your body up, caging your tits until they're pressed against his soft chest. You face the white paint of your wall, and Joel can see your back in the mirror as he's still buried inside of you. You gasp at the change in position, all of the sudden, a painfull delicious sensation flooding your senses.
"You're gonna cum, aren't ya', doll?" Joel's asking, hot breath nestled in your neck.
"Hmh" you barely manage to blurt as he fucks into you harder, your arms clutching onto him. You were being so loud now that you were sure you'd get at least one noise complain, hoping it stays there; if they found out not only had you been fucking, but with a fourty year old man who happpened to be the father of your bestfriend, you'd probably get expelled. "So close..."
"You know?" he whispers, voice fragile over the sound of your pants and worked up breaths. "I was scared, ealier. M' sorry you had to see that" your body trembles, making you close your eyes. "But I need ya' to know, for'a moment, I did think about having a kid with you"
Your forehead drips with sweat, mixing with the sodium of your tears.
"Maybe in 'nother life, huh?"
Your heart feels like it's about to burst when he sloppily kisses you, as to prevent any words come out of your mouth―humilliating or full of regret, avoiding the heart ache of a rejection. Joel, for a moment, lets his heart wander off to territories he shouldn't, thinking of things he should leave to be. Joel digs his hole deeper, but he doesn't care: he just wants to be the best grave in your cementery.
"Maybe" you answer, but it sounds like a possibility, the promise of a foolish mind betraying the guarded hidden hope.
"Fuck, Joel" you bury your face against his soft pecs, your orgasm crashing over you. Your whine comes our rather loud, trying to drown the sound against his body. He doesn't stop holding you on his arms, firm; you'd probably fallen if he didn't.
"Wait for me, doll. 'M close"
"Please" you plead, kissing his jaw. "Need you. Want to feel you, Joel"
Not daddy, but his name. I want you. I need you. Want to feel you; for you to fill me. He groans, rhythm sloppy as he crashes his lips into yours. he should stop, especially after today's events, but God, his traitorous head is filled with images of you, belly round with his child, one carved to be the spitting image of you.
Do it.
You moan inside his mouth when you feel him finish inside of you, thick, your fingers running through his dark greying hair damp with sweat.
"M' right here" he says his words from earlier, and you feel yourself hugging him to keep his body next to yours even as he pulls out.
"I know" you hum, arms around his neck. "Thank you for coming"
"What of both?"
You let out a laugh.
"Jesus, Joel" but your tone is devoid of malice, adquiring that layer to it, just like his own. There's a shift in the air, and if you felt it before, now you know there's no point of return. "You sure are something else"
dts: @ann-gell; angél de mi corazón, tkm mucho, gracias por llegar a mi vida, ah.
The rarity of receiving a text from Luke before midnight was not lost on you.
And yet, when your phone vibrated on your desk at eight-thirty, you picked it up and swiped carefully into the chat like it was the norm. You only recognised the oddity of the situation when Luke’s text didn’t read anything along the lines of u up? or come over?
can u come pick me up?
trav drove me here but left like an hour ago and i have no ride
He dropped his location the moment your read receipt appeared on his screen, and you recognised the boxing gym a few blocks south of your apartment shining at you from under that damn red pin. You asked him why, but continued to slide your uggs on nonetheless, ignoring your roommate’s questioning gaze with a wave of your hand and a, “Be back later.”
You only began to question your actions when you reached the first red light. In the weeks you had known each-other, you and Luke communicated solely after the witching hour – when the only light came from his car and the only sound came from deep in the back of your throat. There was the occasional drunken makeout at any of his frat parties, but never had he asked you for a ride.
Although, you would give it to him; his car wasn’t in the lot when you pulled up. You barely made out his silhouette when your headlights flooded the front window, and he was gone when you turned your car off. You weren’t expecting him to respond to your i’m outside – you never responded to his. But after five minutes of waiting, you huffed a sigh and relented to his clear intentions.
The inside of the gym was as expected – cold from the AC, but warm from the residual body warmth. A ring in the middle of the space, several punching bags and other equipment you couldn’t name. Footfalls pulled you from your stupor, and your eyes drifted to where Luke’s familiar figure was exiting the locker room a few feet to your left.
His compression shirt hugged him in all the right places – the bulging of his biceps and outline of his abs a refreshing change from the loose hoodies and baggy team jerseys he usually wore whenever you met, leaving everything to your imagination. He was in his usual grey sweats, and you applauded the consistency, always down to admire the way they hung low on his hips – the urge to tuck your fingers under the band was prominent, but you held back in favour of watching him pull off his gloves and flex his fingers in such a way that must’ve been on purpose.
“You needed a ride?” While the circumstances of your meetup were out of the ordinary, you kept to the usual sarcastic comment. More often than not did you mutter uber for one? whenever you climbed into his car – and just like clockwork, Luke rolled his eyes and smirked at you through his bottom lashes. You weren’t stupid, and he was well aware.
“Totally.” Was his muttered response.
“None of the other fifty guys you live with were available?”
His hands wrapped comfortably around your hips, pulling you ever-so closer, “None of the guys I live with have lips like yours.”
“They don’t?” You pouted, hands wrapping around his shoulders and sliding up his neck, “But I swear me and Connor use the same lipgloss.”
He chuckled lowly, arms tightening around you until he could lift you up and spin you around, sitting you down on an empty table you assumed was for gloves and tape. A gasp ripped through you at the sudden movement, fingers tightening around him for balance – Luke simply sidled between your thighs and rested his hands gently on top of them.
He kissed you, deep and slow, and you allowed yourself to get lost in it – so lost that you barely registered it when he went for the waistband of your shorts. You just used his shoulders as leverage, mouth still on his, and let him slide them under you and discard them on the ground.
He pulled away from you, knees already buckling and mouth latching on to your shirt as he went further down, “Not those ones.”
Your fingers tangled perfectly in his curls, coiling through their humid wisps and tightening when he pushed your underwear aside and licked a stripe from deep below your vulva all the way up to your clit, latching around it and doing that thing he always said he’d do if you were good enough. Your mewl was amplified by the echo of the empty space, and the table rocked only briefly before Luke’s hand was on your stomach and pushing you to a laid back position.
The way he suckled at you, dipping his tongue into you for a brief moment only to come back out and swallow around you. Your legs found their way around his head and he groaned deep into your cunt, dropping fully onto his knees and yanking you slightly with him. You gripped the edge of the table out of instinct, but your fingers found their way back to his hair in no time, the peak of your orgasm creeping up on you slowly.
You barely murmured a, “Oh – Luke, I’m gonna…” Before your ankles locked around him and you were shoving him hard into you. He took it like a champ, letting you ride it out and slide yourself across his face and nose until you couldn’t anymore, hips stuttering and dropping back onto the table.
You caught your breath, and he stood. Luke always did this; watched you. You felt weird about it at first, but soon enough got used to his gaze keeping you warm while the heat between your legs settled and the huffs of air escaped your parted lips. You met his eyes and held out your hands, allowing him to pull you up into a seated position.
“Been thinking about you all day, didn’t have time to go home and shower.” He pushed your hair away from your face, unsticking it from your forehead, “Plus I really did need a ride.”
It felt intimate – too intimate for a guy who’s text chain in your phone was the same two word question and one word response on repeat every couple of nights. So you avoided his gaze, suddenly heavy, and pulled him even closer, grinding your wet crotch against the tent in his pants and making it impossible for him to not take you right then and there.
"God -- damn." He grunted into your neck, face dropping. His hands settled around your back, venturing up your shirt and smoothing the planes of your spine. He brought them around to grope your tits, and you hummed in satisfaction at the feeling.
Your hips started to grind, and your own hands flattened on his ass so you could push him into you at a languid pace. Your wet rubbed all over him, staining the grey of his sweats dark, but he didn't seem to mind and took over his own movements.
The feeling was euphoric, and the overstimulation had you biting down on his shoulder, but Luke was moving fast t and uncoordinated, chasing his own high with a series of moans into your mouth once he found his way back to it. His hands stayed on your breasts, squeezing hard and rolling your nipples between his fingers -- you were on the cusp of your second orgasm when you felt the warmth of his cum spread through his pants. A few stuttered thrusts and he was a panting dog in your shoulder, hands dropping to the table beneath you.
summary: Joel Miller never expected much out of Jackson—just a quiet place to live out the days he had left. But when a baby’s cries lead him to a mother unravelling under the pressure of nursing her child she never asked for, he finds himself tangled in something he can’t walk away from—no matter how much he tells himself he should.
a/n: this is soft daddy Joel like you've never seen before. angst, angst, angst. just heart-wrenching, gut-clenching, bucket-full-of-tears kind of flow. but I promise, I swear to you, it's going to get good!
Joel had spent the past week trying to ignore it.
The sound was distant, muffled through the walls, but it was there—constant, sharp infant's cries cutting through the night like something wounded, something helpless. The baby never laughed, cooed, or made small, gurgling noises that kids were supposed to make. Just crying. Night after night, the same pitiful wails, like it was fighting sleep and didn’t know how to be comforted.
And the mother?
Leela. That was her name. Tommy and Maria had told him her family had been here before them, before all of this, that she’d grown up in Jackson, that the big house across from his had always been hers. He instantly believed it—her place didn’t look like the others. It was well-kept in a way that wasn’t just for show. The wood was aged but polished, the porch steps sturdy, and the windows wiped clean even in the dead of winter. A home, not just a shelter.
But it wasn’t warm.
Not with that sound in the night. Not when he never saw anyone else go inside.
No one knew who the kid’s father was, and Leela never said. She wouldn’t even let people help her—not Maria, not the older women in town who had tried, not even the ones who had kids of their own and knew what to do. And now, at the end of another long day, that fucking baby was crying again.
Joel had tried to let it be. Had forced himself to breathe calmly, stay in his house, shut the curtains, turn over in bed and pull the blanket over his head like some stubborn old bastard trying to pretend it wasn’t his problem.
But it was.
Because he could hear it. Because it sounded fucking miserable. Because he’d had enough.
When the cries began to get worse into the night, that was his last straw. With a frustrated sigh, he yanked on his jacket, shoved his arms through the sleeves, and stepped out into the cold, the door crashing shut behind him. The snow crunched beneath his boots as he crossed the road, hands tightening into fists, shoulders squared. The wind was sharp, biting at his skin, and when he reached her porch, he had half a mind to just bang on the damn door until she answered.
But then—he hesitated.
There was still a kid in there. The devilkin, probably. A baby nevertheless. And it's struggling mother.
He exhaled through his nose, loosened his fingers, and reached for the old metal knocker instead. Three firm, steady raps.
A pause. A paddle of footsteps down the staircase inside, light and hesitant. A sniffle. A sigh.
The curtains fluttered from nearby—just a fraction, just enough for him to catch the glint of an eye in the darkness, shedding a blade of light onto the frozen lawn. And then the door creaked open.
The poor mother looked like hell.
Her eyes—pretty, brown, red-rimmed, heavy-lidded—held the kind of exhaustion that settled deep, beyond sleep, beyond fixing. Her cheeks were hollowed, her lips chapped to brown, her hair falling loose from whatever attempt she’d made to pull it back.
And the baby—the cries hadn’t stopped. If anything, they were worse now. Closer. Desperate. The sound reached him in waves, piercing and thin, rattling against the walls of the house and clawing at something deep in his chest. A familiarity.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she murmured. Her voice was raw, barely holding together. “I just…”
She trailed off as if the words had run out, or maybe she didn’t have the strength to find them. Then the baby shrieked, and she flinched. A full-body recoil, like something had struck her. She turned away, pressing her wrist to her nose, shoulders curling inward, folding into herself as though she could disappear into the space she took up.
And Joel—well, he had been ready to lay into her. To tell her to do something, to figure it out, to stop letting that kid cry itself raw night after night. But looking at her now, standing there with her arms wrapped tight around herself, shaking from something that wasn’t just the cold…
He couldn’t do it.
Instead, against every instinct, every frustration, he surprised himself by saying—
“Let me try.”
X
Joel didn’t exactly wait for an answer.
Didn’t stop to think if he had the right. Didn’t question if she would let him in, because the noise was still there, splitting the air, working its way under his skin like a thorn that wouldn’t come out. His jaw tightened, his hands curled into fists, and the next thing he knew, he was pushing past her and her doorstep.
He wasn’t trying to be cruel. Well, he had been, just not anymore.
It was desperation. A need to stop that noise. That noise had been giving him sleepless nights for a week now. And with it, came the memories he’d spent years burying. He couldn't afford to let them resurface by the likes of this strange, terrible mother.
The house smelled faintly of old wood, dust, and something softer underneath—like linen, like the lingering scent of a person who lived there and never left. It was dark, too, save for the single glow spilling from a room upstairs. His boots were heavy against the worn floorboards, his breath tight in his chest as he took the stairs two at a time. Three doors on the second floor, but only one was open.
He stepped inside.
The first thing he saw was the cradle, right in the centre of the empty room, as if placed there on purpose, a little crib mobile fashioned into wooden horses, dangling mid-air.
Old. Hinges barely holding together. The wood had worn smooth from time, its edges dulled, like something that had been used for generations. The mattress inside was thin, its fabric stained with age, but the sheets were neatly tucked. Arranged properly. Everything was in its place.
This wasn’t neglect.
This was someone trying—someone failing.
And then the baby. No older than a month, wriggling in its white nappy, legs kicking in frantic little bursts, tiny fists curled so tight they trembled. Tears slicked its cheeks, its face blotchy and red, its mouth stretched wide in a scream so raw, so piercing, that it stole the breath straight from the lungs. It was exhausted. Starving.
But goddamn, if that wasn't one beautiful fucking baby.
Biggest brown eyes he’d ever seen, glassy with exhaustion, wet and searching. A head full of thick, dark hair, damp and curling at the ends. But it wasn’t chubby the way babies should be. Not soft enough. Too small, skin drawn tight, movements restless but weak. Malnourished.
His jaw clenched. He barely registered the sharp footsteps rushing up behind him until her voice cut through the noise.
“Hey, ‘scuse me, I didn’t let—”
He cut off her protest with an abrupt, “Boy or girl?”
She stopped short. Lips parting. Swallowing down whatever she’d been about to say.
“Girl.”
Joel’s gaze flicked back to the baby. He noticed the slight bloating around her belly, the way she arched and curled, restless, like she couldn’t find a position that didn’t hurt. That explained the shrieking. Colic, for sure.
“You fed her anything?”
There was a thoughtful pause, and then, quietly—
“I—I’ve been having trouble with…” She gestured vaguely to her chest, gaze dropping, almost ashamed. “I tried water... um... I don't know.”
Jesus Christ. Joel dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard through his nose. Too late at night or too early in the morning—he didn’t know which, and at this point, it didn’t matter. His head ached. His body ached. And this kid—this poor, starving little thing—had been too hapless to be born to this fucking clueless, stubborn mother.
“Need to call Maria,” he said under his breath.
Her eyes went wide. “I don’t need anybody’s help. I'm fine.”
He let out a sharp, humourless laugh, shaking his head. “You don't. Your girl sure does. And try saying that when this crib empties in the next week.”
She flinched, shoulders jerking.
He barely registered it. He was already moving, already slipping into old instinct, the one he thought had died a long time ago.
Stepping closer, Joel reached into the cradle, hands slipping beneath the baby’s small, rigid body. Carefully, he eased her onto her stomach, a shush falling from his lips, settling her against his forearm, palm spanning nearly the length of her body. Christ, she was so fucking small. Too small. Probably premature. A frail little thing, light as air, fists still curled, breath coming out in tiny, shuddering gasps between cries.
Leela stood stiff beside him, her breath uneven, arms wrapped around herself like she wasn’t sure if she should step forward or pull away.
Joel didn’t look at her. His focus stayed on the baby. The way her tiny limbs jerked, how her cries wavered like she couldn’t decide if she had the energy to keep going.
He started rubbing slow, steady circles against her back, the calloused warmth of his palm pressing gently but firmly over her fragile bones. Something old stirred in him—something buried deep, something that twisted like a knife. He didn’t think about it. Didn’t let himself. Just kept rubbing. Kept murmuring something low, quiet, something he wasn’t even aware of.
“Thatta, girl. There you go.”
“'Sokay, ssh. Ssh.”
“I got you.”
The wails started to waver, breaking apart in the middle, turning into stuttering hiccups, then snivels, a laughable baby burp that even had him breaking into a small smile. Then—
Silence. Oh, sweet, splendid silence.
Joel exhaled, keeping his touch steady as she shuddered against him, her tiny fingers twitching against the sleeve of his jacket.
“See?” His voice was rough. “Just needed a little push.”
Leela didn’t respond. She was staring. Not at him, exactly, but at his hands, at the way he held the baby. Like she wasn’t sure what to make of it. Observing him, learning.
When he glanced down, she was blinking up at him, half-lidded, her breath slowing, her little body going limp with exhaustion. She made a wet, little noise, almost a soft coo.
“She got a name?”
When the silence lingered, he lifted his head, caught Leela’s stare, and cocked a brow when she didn’t answer. Then, she silently shook her head.
Joel frowned. “You didn’t name your kid?”
And just like that, something clicked into place. The way she stood there, arms locked tight around herself. The way she hadn’t called the baby anything. The way she hadn't moved a step close to protect her baby from this stranger. The hesitation in her voice, the way she held herself together like she was bracing for something.
“She ain’t yours?”
Her gaze flickered. “She is.”
Soft. Firm. After a beat, she lifted the hem of her shirt, revealing the crisscross of stretch marks across her stomach, just above the line of her pants.
Joel sighed through his nose. His fingers ghosted over the baby’s small back before he finally let go, letting her rest in her mother's arms. It felt wrong—leaving the baby there like that—but he slipped his hand away, albeit unwillingly, and stroked her fine, dark hair once. Twice. Then forced himself to stop.
He exhaled sharply, standing upright, rubbing a hand over his face. His patience was hanging by a thread. His chest ached with something raw, something angry. He had no business being here, no reason to care, but—
"Look," he muttered, voice tight, "you shouldn't have had a kid if you were just gonna sit around and do nothing. Jesus, at least get yourself some help."
Leela cringed. It was barely noticeable, just a flicker of movement, but he caught it. She turned her face away, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear, and bit at what little was left of her nail, worrying it between her teeth.
The sight of it—it wasn’t what he expected. He had been bracing for an argument, for defensiveness, for anger. But there was nothing like that. Just the quiet gnawing of her thumbnail, the restless shifting of her fingers.
Something settled uneasily in his chest.
He exhaled sharply. "Maria’s coming in tomorrow," he said, firm. Like he was setting it in stone. "Whether you like it or not. She'll know what to do."
That made her glance up. And for the first time, he really saw her.
Not just the exhaustion, the red-rimmed eyes, or the way she curled in on herself like she was trying to take up as little space as possible—but the fear. That deep, paralyzing kind of fear that settled into a person’s bones, made a home there.
Then his eyes flicked downward, back to the baby. She had her mother’s eyes. Big, dark, and brimming with something wild, something untamed. Something fragile, caught on the verge of bolting. And in that moment, they both looked the same.
Wet. Trembling. Exhausted. Confused. Helpless.
Leela swallowed thickly, lips parting like she wanted to speak. But when she did, her voice barely made it past her throat. “Take her.”
Joel blinked. For a second, he thought he must’ve misheard.
But she was looking at him—really looking at him now, eyes wide and wet, breath uneven like she’d just sprinted a mile. And the way she was standing, trembling, fists curled into the fabric of her sleeves—She meant it. She was serious.
"You're right," she whispered, voice barely there. "I might kill her. Just take her away, please."
A slow, sinking dread pooled in his stomach. His fingers curled at his sides, restless, itching for something to hold onto.
The baby stirred weakly against Leela’s chest, small fingers twitching up to her mother's neck, dark lashes fluttering against flushed skin. She had gone quiet, her body still in that way newborns only got when they were too damn exhausted to keep crying.
His hands twitched at his sides. He knew what he should do. He should take the kid. That was the right thing, wasn’t it? He should lift her into his arms, swaddle her in a blanket, turn on his heel, and walk out the door. Hand her off to Maria, and let someone who actually knew what they were doing step in. Hell, she’d been talking about trying to set up a proper nursery in town, get the kids what they needed—she’d figure it out.
But Joel didn't move; couldn't move.
Because now that he was looking at her, really looking, he saw it—saw the fear clinging to her like a second skin. Not fear of him. Not fear of what people might say. Fear of herself. Conviction was a luxury.
She stood there, arms wrapped tight around herself, her body drawn inward like she was trying to make herself small as if shrinking could somehow erase the truth. The baby rested against her chest, quiet now, as if sensing the shift in the air. Her fingers barely touched her child, hesitant, light, the way someone might hold a delicate piece of glass they weren’t sure they could be trusted with.
Joel’s stomach turned.
“I—I'm not—I can’t do this.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, frayed at the edges, raw like an old wound that had never properly healed.
He felt something sharp and hot twist inside him, something he didn’t want to name.
“You ain’t givin’ her up.” His voice came out rough, low, unwavering.
Leela let out a breathy, broken laugh, shaking her head. “Do you think I have a choice here?”
“Yeah.” His eyes stayed on hers, unrelenting. “I do.”
She sniffled, shaking her head again, but her fingers twitched against her sleeve, gripping the fabric like she needed something to hold onto.
And Joel—Joel had seen this before. Had known people like this. People who stood at the edge of something dark, looking down, unable to turn back. He’d been one of them once. It made something ugly rise in his chest. Made him angry in a way that didn’t make sense, and didn’t sit right.
Because this mother—this stupid, foolish, ignorant girl—had no business being like that. She didn't even know what kind of luck she'd struck with that baby girl. He would've killed to be where she was, even if it was for a moment.
"You're a fucking coward if you're thinking about giving your daughter up.” The words left him, sharp as a blade, before he could stop them. “You got plenty of choices, but you're too goddamn pigheaded to make the right one."
She flinched. Not just in surprise, but something deeper—like he’d struck her with all his might, like he’d confirmed every awful thing she’d ever thought about herself.
Joel’s jaw locked. It was too late to take it back.
He should’ve stopped. He should’ve taken a breath, let the words settle and left it at that. But something about her, the way she stood there like she was waiting to be knocked down, made his patience snap clean in half.
“Pull yourself together,” he bit out.
Then he turned and walked out the door.
The air outside was colder than before, or maybe it felt that way. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he stepped onto the road, his breath coming sharp, ragged in the quiet of the night. His fingers ached, curled into tight fists, his pulse still hammering.
He was halfway across the street when something in him shifted.
His anger thinned, the heat of it fading just enough for everything else to creep in—her voice, her hands trembling, the way her arms had tightened around that kid like she was afraid of herself more than anything else.
He slowed, stopping in his tracks. The house loomed behind him, dark except for that single upstairs window.
Joel looked up at the home.
The cries had started again. Thin, reedy wails carried through the cold, through the walls.
He stood there, staring at the lights flickering against the frost-covered glass.
This time, jaw tight, he turned away.
X
That being said, Joel hadn’t slept well.
Not that he ever did, but last night was worse than usual.
Every time he closed his eyes, it was the baby’s cries again. He saw Leela’s face, dark and hollow, eyes too big for her sunken frame. He heard her voice, raw and trembling, telling him to take the kid—like it was the only way. Like she didn’t trust herself to keep her alive, already grieving her.
Even now, as he tugged on his gloves and prepared for patrol, he kept seeing the way she had watched him with her baby. He remembered the way she desperately looked at him, waiting for him to take the baby from her, as if letting go was the only mercy she had left to offer.
Maria was there now. She had let herself in, just like that. Hadn’t knocked, hadn’t hesitated. And Leela had not met her at the door, hadn’t locked it after Joel had walked out last night.
He adjusted the rifle on his back and exhaled sharply.
Not his problem. He shouldn't be bothered with it. He’d done his part. More than his part. He had brought help in, and gotten someone else to deal with it—someone better suited for this kind of thing. Maria would figure it out. She always did.
Still, as he swung himself onto his horse and rode out for patrol, that damn house stayed in the back of his mind. The way it stood there, quiet and still, while something inside was coming apart at the seams. The way Leela had stood in that dim room, shoulders curled inward, looking more like a ghost than a person.
He shook it off and went through the motions. Focus on the day ahead.
Patrol was long, tedious, and more of the same—checking the perimeter, clearing out old trouble spots down his trail, making sure everything was as it should be, and scouring supplies. A welcome distraction. When he stopped by Ellie’s as usual, she narrowed her eyes at him from behind her sketchbook, muttering something about how he looked like shit.
“Didn’t sleep,” was all he said. And she didn’t bother to press. Ellie was another long, welcome, more pesky distraction.
By the time evening rolled around, he’d fallen back into his routine. Routine. That was what mattered. He groomed his horse, rubbing his hands along its mane just to keep them busy. He cleaned his rifle, making sure the gears weren't easy to jam and stopped to pick up some new gear at the store. He grabbed a whiskey—alone—just to take the edge off, slowing down for a bit.
He finished the evening like always, grabbing a boxed dinner from the mess hall, not bothering to make small talk. No one asked anything of him, and he didn’t offer anything in return. A night like any other. Something he repeated to himself, just to ground himself to reality besides the weight of his breaking boots.
Then he saw her. Maria was still at that house, waiting by the porch swing, face tense. She spotted him almost instantly and strode straight toward him.
Joel nodded at her in greeting, shifting the box under his arm. "You good?"
Maria didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Sure. Got a second?”
He tipped his chin toward Leela’s door. "All set over there?"
“Far from it.” Her voice was tight, laced with something he didn’t like. “I need your help.”
Joel scoffed. “What’s the punchline?”
But Maria didn’t laugh. Didn’t even crack a smirk. Instead, she followed him inside his house.
Joel's 'home' was nothing special—functional, practical. Just a space to exist in. A couch pushed against one wall which he used more than the bed upstairs, a table he used out of necessity, a kitchen stocked with the bare minimum. Not much to look at, or even stay for long. It wasn't home, but it was enough. Certainly nothing like Leela’s home, where history bled through the worn floorboards, through the walls, a place that had been lived in.
Joel didn’t let himself think about it too much. He dropped the box of food onto the table, turning to Maria with his arms crossed.
“Well?”
Maria sighed, staring out the window toward Leela’s house. The porch light flickered weakly, and the house itself looked darker than it had last night. Like it had collapsed in on itself a little more.
“She’s not okay, Joel.”
Joel huffed, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, pretending not to hear the implication behind those words. “Figured.”
“No,” Maria said, sharper this time. “I mean it.”
She turned back to him, her eyes shadowed with something heavier than just concern. She looked tired—worn—in a way that wasn’t just about the town or the thousand responsibilities on her shoulders. It was personal.
Joel exhaled through his nose, already feeling the walls closing in on this conversation.
Maria rubbed a hand over her face. “She’s disturbed. I don’t think she’s had a proper meal in days. She’s having trouble breastfeeding, let alone keeping herself together enough to care for that baby.” She shook her head. “I can’t be there all the time. I’ve got the whole town to run, a hundred things to look after. Tommy’s drowning in work. We're stretched thin as it is.” Her eyes met his, steady and pointed. “You’re my last resort.”
Joel frowned, jaw ticking. “And do what, exactly? Pretend like I've done this dance before?”
“Just be there,” Maria said so positively, like it wasn’t the worst fucking idea in the world. “Make sure she doesn’t slip up with the baby. Help where you can. Just a few days—until Tommy and I can step in.”
Joel dragged a hand down his beard, exhaling slowly. “You have got to be shitting me. You want me to play babysitter.”
Everything in him wanted to refuse. He’d done his part here. Hell, more than his part. He didn’t owe that woman anything. She had a nice home. Pretty face. She had her newborn. And if she didn’t know how to handle it, that was on her. He wasn’t looking to take on another burden. Christ, wasn’t he supposed to be done with this kind of thing? Wasn’t he past the point of taking in lost causes?
But Maria didn’t look like she was giving him a choice. Her voice softened, dropping to something quieter, edged with meaning. “I don’t think she had this baby with someone she knew, Joel.”
Joel stiffened. Maria’s expression didn’t change, but there was something unspoken there, something heavy, something that didn’t need to be stated outright. Still, it landed in his gut like a stone.
She let the silence stretch, let him fill in the gaps. And he did.
“I hope you understand what I'm getting at,” she continued. “I don’t think she wanted this at all.”
Joel clenched his jaw, staring at the floor, pretending like he didn’t hear them. He didn't ask how she knew, didn’t even ask what she’d seen in that house today that had led her to that conclusion.
Because he already knew. He’d seen it, too.
The way Leela couldn’t bring herself to name the baby. The way she looked at the child was like she was something fragile, something unfamiliar, something that didn’t belong to her. The way she had looked at him—not with resentment, not with anger, but with resignation.
Like she was handing over the baby because she genuinely believed it was the only way to save her. A fist of darkness curled in his stomach.
He knew what it was like to lose a child. He knew what it did to a person, how it tore through you, how it hollowed them out from the inside. But whatever this was, it wasn’t grief. This was something worse. He prayed he would never have to deal with this.
This was a woman standing on the edge of the deep and the dark, staring down into it, wondering how much further she could fall before there was no coming back. And there was a baby—a fucking baby—at her feet. Yet, she was ready to take that fall.
Joel exhaled, slow and heavy, rubbing the back of his neck.
But the truth was, he’d already stepped in. Already gotten himself involved. Whether out of desperation or some obstinate, buried need to fix things that were beyond saving, he wasn’t sure. And now, if he walked away, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to live with the consequences.
Suddenly, the room felt smaller, the walls a little tighter. A long silence stretched between them.
Finally, reluctantly, he sighed. “This is a big fucking mistake, Maria. I'm the last person who should be over there with her.”
Maria nodded, hearing what she needed to hear, relief flickering across her face. “You'll figure it out. I'll be around if you need anything. Thank you.”
Joel didn’t answer. He didn't know what the hell he’d just agreed to, but something in his gut told him it was going to end real bad.
X
Morning light washed over his neighbour's house, soft and cold, as Joel made his way up the steps. It must’ve been the perfect little home once, back when the world was still whole—white clapboard, modest porch with a swingset, somewhere that had been waiting too long for someone to come back home. A place built to last. And maybe, before seasons and silence collapsed, it had.
But time had sunk its teeth in. The paint had started peeling in the corners, the wood of the steps groaned under his boots, and though the windows were clean, there was something hollow about the way they sat in their frames as if no one had looked out of them in a long time. It didn’t have the neglect of a broken-down house, but rather the hush of a place that had lost something vital.
And the front door was open again.
Joel clenched his jaw.
Maria had been right—that girl really didn’t have a single clue.
He pushed the door wider and stepped inside, careful, slow, not wanting to seem intrusive but unable to stop himself from taking in the room. It wasn’t what he expected.
Her home wasn’t cluttered, wasn’t in disarray, but there was something about it that felt… off. A mind too busy to bother with the details of living. Against one wall stood two large blackboards hung haphazardly over shelves, filled with complex math equations, numbers and symbols scrawled out in clean, sharp lines. A few pieces of chalk lay scattered at the base, alongside crumpled papers and a wastebasket that never quite caught them. Shelves held solved Rubik’s cubes, closed notebooks, and empty pens stuck upright in a pen stand. On the table, a coffee mug sat with dried stains at the bottom, an imprint of hands that had used it over and over, mindlessly, then set it aside without a thought.
Joel frowned, taking it all in.
A fucking scientist. That was the last thing he’d ever have guessed about her. Dr Leela last-name-something, the resident nerd mom.
He didn’t know what he expected when he climbed the stairs, only that something about the house still put him on edge. It wasn’t just the oddity of it—the blackboards filled with numbers, the pages of equations scattered like fallen leaves—it was the fact that none of it felt lived in. Clinical. Like the house had been built to serve a purpose, but never for a person.
He reached the top step just as he heard the baby girl’s soft fussing from down the hall. The sound made him hesitate. It wasn’t the sharp, desperate cries from the night before. This was softer, almost a coo, the kind of sound that made something in his chest tighten before he could push it down.
Carefully, he stepped forward, peering into the nursery.
Leela stood by the cradle, one hand rubbing slow, absentminded circles over the baby’s tiny stomach. It was almost an imitation of what he’d done the night before, but the difference was clear—where his movements had been firm, knowing, hers were unsure, like she was following a set of instructions she didn’t quite understand.
She looked different in the daylight. Dressed neatly in a long, thin nightgown that fell to her ankles, her black hair was left loose, unbrushed, hanging past her hips in uneven waves, obviously never seen the business end of a scissor. The exhaustion was still there—was part of her, woven into how she held herself—but her face was smoother, her shoulders less rigid, like she had settled into something.
The floorboard groaned beneath his boot. Leela looked up. She even tried for a small smile. A little, ghostly quirk of her lips.
“Hello, Joel.”
He didn’t respond. Something about how she looked at him, or maybe how she looked past him, unsettled him. He didn’t like feeling that way—not in someone else’s home, not when he was meant to be in control of the situation. Instead of answering, he stepped toward the cradle, glancing down at the baby.
The baby girl let out a high-pitched whine, stretching, her fingers curling and uncurling before she kicked her little legs. Then, as if noticing him, her mouth widened into a gummy, toothless grin, her round face alight, untouched by the world’s cruelty.
Joel couldn’t help himself. His lips twitched, just slightly, before he shook his head.
“Managed to—?” He gestured vaguely toward her chest before pulling his hand back, curling it into an embarrassed fist against the cradle.
Leela caught on. Her fingers twitched at the pearly buttons of her nightgown. Just a small, involuntary movement.
“Oh… Maria told me to hold her close to stimulate… you know.” She hesitated, shifting her weight. “I fed her one of the bottles she gave me, too.”
Joel nodded. “And?”
Leela looked down at the baby. “She stopped crying.”
He frowned. “That’s it?”
Leela’s fingers tightened against her arms. “I… don’t know how to hold her without making her cry.”
The words made something dark flicker through him, he didn’t have the energy to name it. It wasn’t quite anger, but it was close. Frustration. Exasperation. A sharp-edged bitterness he couldn’t swallow down fast enough.
Joel scoffed. “You can’t hold your own baby?”
Leela looked away, her heart breaking in her eyes before she managed to mask it.
Joel exhaled, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “It’s not all math,” he muttered.
He didn’t wait for her to answer. Instead, he reached into the cradle, slipping a hand beneath the baby’s head, cradling her against his arm, careful, practised. He eased her up, letting her body settle against his forearm, her head resting in the crook of his elbow.
The second she was in his arms, something inside him cracked.
She was tiny. So fucking tiny. Tinier than Sarah had been.
Joel swallowed thickly, feeling the light weight of her against his chest. He hadn’t held something this fragile in years—hadn’t let himself. But muscle memory took over before he could stop it before he could remind himself that this wasn’t the same. It was already clawing its way back to him. He rubbed a slow, steady hand over her back, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. She was warm and soft, her tiny fingers twitching against his shirt.
For a second—a half a second—he let himself sink into it.
“Hi, baby girl,” he whispered.
The scent of her, like the faded remnants of old cotton, the delicate press of her body against his. A ghost of something long lost. A time when his arms had been full like this when his days had been nothing but cradling Sarah against him, balancing a baby bag on his shoulder, and pushing a stroller down the sidewalk, filled with groceries, with the Texas sun overhead.
A different life. A different world. One he had no business remembering.
Joel forced himself to blink out of it. He cleared his throat, shifting, pressing the feeling down before it could take hold.
“And that’s it,” he said gruffly. “Ain’t that hard.”
Leela was watching him. Not like she was waiting for him to say something—not like she even expected him to. She was watching the way he held the baby, the way she settled so easily against him. Studying him, the way she studied numbers and equations, looking for a formula, an answer.
He breathed out. “Here,” he muttered, shifting the baby carefully toward her. “You try.”
Leela didn’t reach for her baby immediately.
Her hands hovered, hesitant, fingers twitching like she wasn’t sure how to move them. Joel could see it—the tension coiling in her shoulders, the stiffness in her posture. Her breathing shallowed, her chest barely rising, as if even that movement might disturb the delicate balance between her and the tiny life in front of her.
But finally, she forced herself to move.
Her hands, unsteady, cupped beneath the baby’s body as if she were handling something breakable, something foreign. It was careful, but too careful—unnatural in a way that the baby could sense. And sure enough, the second Leela pulled her in, her arms locked tight, too rigid, too unsure, and the child stirred. A tiny whimper. Then a sharp, warning cry.
Leela stiffened, her grip faltering. The sound made her flinch, her breath catching, as though she’d been struck.
She barely lasted five seconds before her resolve cracked. She was already shifting forward, already pushing the baby back toward Joel, who took her without hesitation.
The crying stopped almost instantly.
Joel settled the baby against his chest, bouncing her gently, a practised movement. He didn’t have to think about it—his body just did what it knew, routine kicking in where hers faltered. The baby let out a soft, sighing coo, her tiny body relaxing, as if she knew she was back in capable hands.
Leela, however, looked shaken. Not in a dramatic way—she wasn’t crying, wasn’t breaking down—but her hands curled into fists, pressing against her stomach like she needed to hold herself together.
Then, she winced.
Joel’s attention snapped back to her, his gaze dropping to the way she clutched at her lower back, her body tilting forward ever so slightly like the pain had taken her by surprise.
“Hey.” His voice softened. “You wanna sit down?”
She nodded, barely. A tiny dip of her chin.
Joel glanced around. There wasn’t much in the nursery. Just the crib, a long wooden bureau, and a mattress on the floor pushed against the far wall. No chair, nothing to lower herself onto easily.
With a quiet sigh, he adjusted his hold on the baby and stepped closer, offering an arm. “C’mon.”
Leela hesitated. Not out of pride—he could tell—but maybe out of uncertainty like she wasn’t used to being helped. But when she tried to move on her own, another sharp grimace crossed her face, and that was enough.
She let him guide her.
Joel was careful, supporting her weight without making a big deal of it. The baby stayed nestled in the crook of his other arm, still resting peacefully, unaffected by the movement. It wasn’t easy—manoeuvring both of them at once—but it was instinctual.
He helped her lower onto the mattress, feeling the way her muscles tensed beneath his touch before finally giving in to the pull of exhaustion. Leela eased back against the wall and settled into the thin cushion. A long, quiet sigh left her lips, her posture unwinding slightly like she’d been holding herself taut for hours—maybe longer. But even then, she still didn’t entirely relax.
Joel watched as she lifted a hand to her face, brushing back loose strands of hair, her fingers pressing briefly into her temples.
"I'm sorry, Joel."
He frowned. “For what?”
She inhaled deeply. “It’s only been three... four weeks since I delivered. I’ve just been feeling out of it ever since.”
There was no shame in her tone, no self-pity. Just a quiet fatigue. A statement of fact.
Joel pressed his lips together.
Four weeks. Jesus. That explained a lot. The exhaustion, the stiffness in her movements, the way her body still seemed like it hadn’t recovered from what it had been through. Hell, no wonder she looked like a ghost of herself. The human body wasn’t meant to bounce back that fast—not without help. And from what he’d seen so far, she wasn’t the type to ask for it.
“She came too soon,” he muttered, almost to himself.
Leela shifted, tilting her head slightly toward him. "Eight months," she said, voice softer now. "That’s not normal, is it? It’s why she’s so tiny."
Joel didn’t answer immediately. Leela waited, like she wanted him to say more. When he didn’t, she tucked her knees up onto the couch, resting her chin against them.
She rubbed a tired hand into her eyes. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
There it was. Not frustration. Not helplessness. Just quiet, resigned truth.
Joel glanced down at the sleeping baby, still curled against his chest, her breathing soft and even. One tiny hand had fisted itself into his shirt, gripping instinctively—like she knew, on some level, that she had to hold on to something, someone, to stay safe. His grip on her tightened slightly.
Leela’s words sat heavy in his chest. I don’t know how to hold her without making her cry. And now this—I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. He’d heard new parents say those words before. Hell, he’d felt it himself, back then. But something about the way she said it—flat, detached, like she wasn’t even fighting it anymore—made something inside him go stiff.
Joel breathed out, shifting his arms so the baby settled more comfortably against him, and she felt so heavy all of a sudden.
Too much quiet, too many things unsaid pressing at the edges of his mind. He didn’t want to sit in it—didn’t want to acknowledge what it stirred in him. So, he broke the silence the only way he knew how.
"You could start by giving her a name," he said, glancing at Leela. "Not that 'baby girl' is a terrible name."
Leela blinked, then looked down at her daughter, studying her as if she were just now realizing that, yes, she still had to name the kid.
After a thoughtful moment, she lifted her gaze back to him. "Do you want to pick one for her?"
Joel snorted. "Me?"
She nodded, entirely serious.
He shook his head. "I think I'm gonna stick with 'baby girl.'"
Leela let out a small breath of laughter, barely there, but it softened something in her face. She bit her lip, thinking of a name, then murmured, "I always liked the name Maya."
"Maya?" He tested the name on his lips. "I like that. Maya. It’s pretty. Rhymes, too. Leela, Maya."
Leela’s lips twitched at that, and she shifted forward, moving closer without thinking, drawn in by something unspoken. She leaned down, head dipping toward the baby still curled up against Joel’s chest.
And for the first time since he stepped into this house, Joel saw it.
That fondness. It was small, but it was there—the quiet, aching kind of love that didn’t need words. The kind that made itself known in the way her fingers smoothed over the baby’s forehead, tracing delicate lines across her tiny features. In the way her body curled just slightly, instinctively, around her daughter, like even in her exhaustion, she was drawn to protect.
"Maya, Maya, Maya," she whispered, barely a sound, breathing the name into her daughter's ear as if speaking it into existence.
Joel watched her for a long moment, an unfamiliar phantom kick in his ribs. It was too much. Too close to something he didn’t want to touch, something that felt like the past reaching for him with cold fingers.
He should leave. He knew he should. Should’ve gotten up, handed the baby back, given some half-hearted promise to Maria that he’d check in, and then walked out that door.
But he didn’t. Instead, he settled in a little more, stretching his legs out, arms still loosely cradling the child.
He finally broke the silence with, “So, you’re some kind of scientist?”
Leela glanced up at him, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I’m more towards math.”
Joel frowned. Math. In a world like this?
People didn’t survive with numbers. They survived with bullets and knives, knowing when to run and when to pull the trigger. You either killed or died. You either protected or raided. You didn’t see too many folks walking around trying to save themselves with goddamned math equations—unless they were Fireflies with delusions of rebuilding the world. That was the kind of thinking that got you shot.
His gaze flickered back to the crib. What the hell kind of life was she leading before all this?
He leaned back against the wall. “And just how long have you been here alone?”
“A long time.” She didn’t elaborate. Just glanced down at the baby, adjusting the folds of the swaddle with careful fingers. Then, softer, almost like an afterthought—“Not anymore.”
Joel didn’t know what to make of that.
His gaze flicked toward the stacks of books on the baby’s bureau, thick with dust on the edges but well-thumbed through. He hummed. “And you do… math?” He made it sound ridiculous because it was.
She only nodded, unbothered. “Analytic geometry and a bit of mechanics. My parents used to work at NASA. I took up their research once I was old enough to understand. They loved to teach me all about it.”
Joel blinked. NASA? Ellie would lose her little mind if she were here.
He studied her again, reassessing. She didn’t look like someone who used to be involved in something that big. Not now, anyway. Dressed in an old nightgown, her hair hanging in dark, tangled waves, bruised-looking eyes that made her seem older than she was.
He hesitated before asking, “And just how old are you?”
“I’m turning thirty soon.” She didn’t sound glad about it. Then again, no one ever did.
But there was something about that number that made his stomach turn. Maybe because of all her intelligence, all her sharp, clinical detachment, she looked young under the weight of everything she was carrying. Or maybe because twenty-nine didn’t seem old enough to have gone through the kind of hell that made a mother flinch at her own baby.
Joel wanted to press further. Wanted to ask why she was alone, how the hell she had made it this long without the baby’s father, how a girl who could do math for NASA ended up here—malnourished, exhausted, hunched over on a mattress like she was carrying the whole world on her back.
But before he could, Maya stirred.
A small, sleepy movement. Tiny fingers wriggled their way free from the swaddle, barely curled, stretching toward the air. The whimpering started softly, then built, that newborn cry that was both fragile and urgent all at once.
Leela straightened instinctively, her hands twitching toward her daughter. But this time, when she lifted Maya from Joel’s arms, she didn’t hesitate. She held her with a little more certainty, a little more care, cradling her close to her chest as if she were nestling something precious rather than foreign.
Joel let out a slow breath. Good. Progress.
Then, before he could so much as glance back up, Leela started unbuttoning her nightgown, the lapel falling open.
His eyes snapped away so fast it nearly gave him whiplash. “Christ.”
“Oh, god—! I’m so sorry, Maria said to try—”
“’Sall good,” he muttered, fixing his gaze firmly on the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but at her. “Just, uh—go for it.”
“I’ll cover up. Sorry.”
Joel nodded stiffly, still keeping his head turned. But in the silence that followed, his body didn’t quite relax.
He listened. Not just to her, but to everything. The rustle of fabric, the faint, uncertain exhale as she adjusted her hold, the wet, rhythmic sound of the baby nursing, the occasional tiny sigh. A noise so small it barely existed, but it filled the quiet all the same.
Joel let out a breath through his nose, sinking into himself, gaze flickering absently around the room. He took in the details he hadn’t paid much attention to before.
The crib—old, but sturdy. The mess of books stacked against the walls, as if she had been trying to build some kind of fortress out of paper and ink. The curtains were drawn too tight, like she didn’t want the outside world bleeding in. And the emptiness—the distinct lack of anything that made this place a nursery. No toys. No clutter. No warmth.
He knew that kind of space. Knew what it meant when a room felt temporary, even when someone had been in it for years.
“I’m decent now.” Her voice was quiet but certain.
Joel glanced over his shoulder. A blanket was draped over one of Leela’s shoulders, concealing both her and the baby beneath it. His eyes traced over her face, the way she was staring down at Maya—not with the ease of a mother who had done this a hundred times, but with the focus of someone trying to get it right. Like she was handling some delicate equation she couldn’t afford to miscalculate.
The baby suckled noisily, and Joel saw the way Leela’s fingers curled against the fabric, white-knuckled.
"Do you have many children, Joel?" she asked suddenly.
He stilled. The question—simple, almost offhanded—landed like a hammer.
His fingers curled against his knee, tightening. It wasn’t the first time someone had asked. Hell, it wasn’t even the first time he’d asked himself that. But coming from her—a woman he barely knew, holding a baby that wasn’t much more than a handful of weeks old—it hit differently.
Did he have many children? No.
But he had one. Had. That word sat on his tongue, sour and heavy, pressing against the backs of his teeth. He could say it. Could let it out, let it breathe. But if he did, it would only linger, thick and unwelcome, in the air between them.
He grunted out, “Not your concern.”
Leela nodded once, quiet and accepting. She didn’t pry, didn’t press—just dropped her gaze back to Maya, adjusting the blanket with slow, careful fingers.
“I understand,” she murmured.
Joel wasn’t sure why, but he believed her. Maybe it was the way she said it—flat, unbothered. Not some empty reassurance, not some half-hearted attempt at sympathy. Just a statement. Honest. And somehow, that made it worse.
Silence settled between them, thick but not uncomfortable.
Joel let out a slow breath and glanced toward the window, toward the faint light filtering through the edges of the curtain. The town was waking up. People were starting their day, going about their lives. Normal. Simple. This? Sitting here in this too-empty house with a woman he didn’t know and a baby who had seen too much of the world already? This wasn’t simple.
Then, her voice—quiet, hesitant.
"Did your baby ever feel like a stranger?"
He turned to look at her, watching as she nursed the baby beneath the blanket. Her head was slightly bowed, her fingers absentmindedly rubbing slow, rhythmic circles against the tiny foot poking free. It was such a small, natural gesture—one he’d seen a thousand times from mothers who loved their children without thought, without hesitation. And yet, coming from her, it felt… disconnected. As if she was mimicking something she wasn’t sure she believed in.
The question settled deep in his chest, pressing against something sore.
"Never." The answer came without thinking. Without doubt.
Sarah had never been a stranger. From the second she was in his arms, slick and tiny and furious at the world, she was his. He hadn’t known what the hell he was doing, but love—love had been instant, bone-deep. A gut punch. A freefall. A terrifying, irreversible thing. It had been impossible not to love his daughter.
That’s how it should feel. But Leela—she looked like she was still waiting to wake up from a dream. Or maybe a nightmare.
Leela exhaled softly, barely a sound, but Joel caught it. It hit him harder than it should have.
"I wish I felt that way," she muttered.
That did something to him.
It wasn’t pity, exactly—Leela didn’t seem like the kind of woman who wanted pity. No, it was a knowing. A recognition of something lost, something stolen before it ever had a chance to be hers. Joel had lost things, too. He understood that kind of grief, even if this one wasn’t his to carry.
Leela had slipped back into that blank, distant sadness, like she was stuck in it, unable to claw her way out. And Joel wasn’t the kind of man who offered words where they wouldn’t make a difference, but Maria had asked him to help, and he’d told her he would. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing. He never had been. Words were never easy for him. Feelings even less so. But he knew how to read people, how to see what they couldn’t bring themselves to say.
So, he did what he could.
"She looks like you," Joel mused, almost without thinking.
Leela hesitated, blinking at him like she wasn’t sure she’d heard right. "You really think so?"
He smirked, nodding toward Maya. "Look at that. The eyes, the nose, the hair. That’s all a mama’s girl."
She glanced down at the baby in her arms, her fingers stilling against Maya’s tiny foot. For a second, something in her expression wavered—like she was trying to see what he saw, trying to find herself in this child. "Mama’s girl," she murmured, testing the words on her tongue as if they didn’t quite belong to her yet.
Joel felt something shift in his chest, just a little.
It was something.
Still, his eyes drifted over the room, taking in the stark walls, the empty corners. The air in here was cold—not from the weather, but from the lack of anything. There was no sign of her in this space. No warmth, no comfort, no life. It felt temporary, like she hadn’t put down roots. Like she was waiting for something.
Or maybe like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to stay.
He exhaled, tipping his chin toward the crib. "Though, she’s gonna be real disappointed when she sees the state her mama’s kept her room in."
Leela’s brows knit together as she looked around as if really seeing it for the first time. "I tried my best. Is it that bad?"
Joel huffed, shaking his head. "It could use a little more work." He gestured toward the crib. "Fix another one of those." Then to the bare space near the window. "Somewhere to sit. Some shelves there." His gaze travelled to the walls. "Fresh coat of paint. Some new lights."
Leela studied him carefully, her lips pressing together. "I don’t want to impose."
He shrugged, leaning back on his palms. "You won't. I like to keep busy."
Leela gave him a look—one of those assessing, sceptical looks he was starting to recognize from her. The one that suggested she wasn’t sure if she could trust him yet. "Are you sure?"
Joel let out a short, dry chuckle. "I was a contractor before the world went to shit, sweetheart. This is a cushy job." Then he cocked a brow. "And I’m fifty-six, not dead."
Leela bit her lip to hide a teasing smile. "Could’ve fooled me."
Joel levelled her with a look, but there was no real heat behind it. "You want me to take that crib back down?"
That did it. She laughed—an actual laugh. Not the polite kind. Not the uncertain kind. A real, full sound, one that cracked through the quietness of the room like sunlight breaking through clouds.
The motion jostled Maya, making her let out a startled cry of protest.
Leela immediately sobered, her expression softening as she adjusted the nursing baby under her blanket, tucking her closer. She began to coo under her breath, "Oh, I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. Mama’s here."
Joel caught it. That shift again. That slight change in her voice when she said Mama. Like she wasn’t quite sure of it yet. But it wasn’t just an obligation or just guilt, or uncertainty.
This time, it sounded like she meant it.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t push. Just sat back and watched, letting her find her way.
X
Fifteen days.
That was how long he’d been here. How long he'd been wedging himself into a life that wasn’t his, in a house that wasn’t his, with a mother and child that weren’t his to take care of.
And yet, every night, when the baby cried, he found himself plodding up the stairs like it was instinct. He’d lean in the doorway, watching as Leela sleepily nursed Maya, her heavy arms curled around the tiny, wriggling body. Some nights, she fed her from the bottle, but as the days passed, that sipper gathered dust.
It was slow. Subtle. She was feeding her baby more.
And Joel—he was still fucking here. He didn’t think much about the why of it because he figured if he did, it would only lead to questions he wasn’t ready to answer. All he knew was that it felt natural, falling into this quiet rhythm with them. Like it had always been this way.
The couch downstairs became his bed. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but it didn’t matter much. As long as he didn't throw his back out. It was easier than going back to an empty house. Leela, for her part, never asked him to stay, but she never told him to leave, either. Maybe that was her way of saying she wanted him around. Or maybe she just needed him to be.
"You don’t have to—" she had started one night, catching him setting up his makeshift bed.
"I know," he cut off before she could finish.
He kept his hands busy, too. That helped a lot.
The crib came first. A slow project, one he didn’t rush, because what else did he have to do? He sanded the edges and smoothed them down so there’d be no risk of splinters. He reinforced the frame, extended the width, and even managed to track down some pink paint to liven it up.
It was a stupid thing, but it made him feel like he was doing something. Like he was helping in a way that made sense.
Leela had caught him painting one afternoon, crouched over the crib with careful, measured strokes.
"Pink?" she’d said, standing in the doorway, one brow raised.
Joel had glanced up, brush still in hand. "What? You don’t like it?"
Leela had hummed, considering. Then, softer, "I think Maya will like it."
Something about the way she said it—like she was finally thinking about that, about what her daughter would like—made him grin to himself. He continued the long stroke of paint down the crib.
Then there was Leela. It had been easier, at first, to pretend he was only here for the kid. That his concern for her was secondary. But after the first week, it became clear—that wasn’t true.
She was unraveling.
Joel noticed it even when she thought he hadn’t. The unbearable insomnia. The way she startled awake like she was being wrenched from nightmares. The way her eyes stayed shadowed, dark-rimmed and tired, and how she never seemed to eat a full meal.
Just because he tried not to bother, didn’t mean he didn’t notice. She had once fallen asleep at the kitchen table, arms folded beneath her head. Joel had set a bowl of soup down in front of her, the sound making her jolt awake, eyes wide, gasping and panicked.
She blinked at him, disoriented, pushing her unruly hair out of her face. "I—I wasn’t sleeping."
"Alright," he said, pushing the plate closer. "Eat."
Leela wavered, nose scrunching. "I’m not—"
Joel shot her a look. "Eat."
She sighed. But she picked up the spoon.
He didn’t bother to push or pry any further. He stopped himself there. Because what the hell was he supposed to say? He wasn’t Tommy or Maria. He wasn’t the kind of person people confided in. It was better off this way.
So he willfully ignored it. Turned the other way when she wiped her eyes too hard when her shoulders shook just a little when those deep, muffled sobs filtered through the walls at night. Every part of him told him to cross that invisible line—to do something—but instead, he stepped outside, leaned against the stoop, stared at nothing.
One night, he heard it—soft at first, then breaking, like something deep inside her had finally snapped. Anyone reasonable would've gone up to comfort her. Fuck, it was already turning him inside out.
He stood at the bottom of the stairs for a long moment, jaw tight, staring up at the dark landing.
Then he turned around, walked outside, and sat on the porch steps, letting the cold bite into him. Good. He huffed out a wispy breath, quietly waiting for the sounds to pass. This wasn’t his problem.
One unlucky day, the second he stepped into the stables, Ellie gave him a knowing, annoying look. "Jesus, what's worse than shit? Because that's what you look like."
Joel huffed, adjusting his grip on the saddle he was carrying. "Thanks, kid."
Ellie narrowed her eyes, stepping closer and giving him a once-over. "Seriously, you look like hell. Where the fuck have you been?"
Joel grunted, busying himself with the straps, not looking at her. "Been around."
Ellie scoffed. "Been around? What the hell does that mean? You've been busy playing house with the lady at the big house?"
His jaw flexed and fingers tightened on the cords. And Ellie caught it. Her smirk sharpened.
"Oh my God. That’s exactly what you’ve been doing, huh?"
Joel shot her a look. "No."
"Yes," Ellie drawled, crossing her arms. "Dude. I knew something was up. You’ve been MIA. I thought maybe you finally croaked in your sleep, but nope—turns out, you’re off fixing pipes and babysitting."
"I ain’t babysitting," Joel muttered, too quick.
Ellie smirked harder and drawled out, "Riiiight."
Joel let out a long, slow exhale through his nose, shaking his head. "She needed help. That’s all."
Ellie clicked her tongue, rocking back on her heels. "Hmm. Right. Just help. No attachment, no paternal instincts kicking in. Oh, definitely not. Not Joel Hardass Miller. He’s just the neighbourhood handyman now."
He cut her a sharp look. "Ellie."
She grinned, enjoying this way too much. "What? Just saying. It’s kind of adorable. Old man Joel, all domesticated. It's nice."
Joel muttered something under his breath and turned away, ignoring her. Oh, but she was far from done.
"So, uh…" she cleared her throat. "How’s the baby?"
He hesitated.
He hadn’t realized how much he’d started watching that kid. Listening to her. He knew Maya’s different cries now—hungry, fussy, lonely. He knew the way she liked to be held, the way she calmed when he rubbed her tiny back. And he knew, without a doubt, that he would hear her tonight, whether he was there or not.
"She’s uh, good," he said finally. Kept his voice level, unaffected. "Stronger. Sleeps better."
Ellie studied him. "Bet she likes you."
Joel shrugged, trying to play it off. "Babies like warm bodies, Ellie. Ain’t that deep."
Ellie snorted. "Sure. And you're a warm bundle of joy." And then, just when he thought she was about to let it go—"You’re gonna miss her, huh?"
Joel's hands dropped to his sides. Ellie wasn’t teasing anymore. Her voice had gone softer, something knowing creeping in.
And he didn’t answer. Because he wasn’t about to start thinking about that. About leaving. About hearing those cries and knowing he wasn’t supposed to be the one answering them anymore.
Joel slowly adjusted the saddle and grunted. "You gonna stand there all day, or you gonna help me get this horse ready?"
Ellie sighed, shaking her head, but didn’t push. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Dad."
"Ellie."
But she was already cackling her goddamned head off. "This is rich. Daddy Joel."
Still, Joel stayed in that big house. Just a few more days. And the more he stayed, the harder it became to keep his distance.
It had started small—fixing things around the house, making little adjustments to help Leela care for the baby, and bringing her food. He fashioned a sling for her out of an old scarf and showed her how to wear it. At first, she’d been rigid, reluctant. But Maya—baby girl took to it immediately, curling into her mother’s chest, small fingers grasping at the fabric.
Joel wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, but something about that moment had stuck with him.
Because for the first time, he saw Leela hold her. Not just carry her.
And then there was Maya herself. The little ray of sunshine was growing, filling out. No longer that fragile, underfed thing he’d first seen in the cradle. Her limbs weren’t so thin anymore, her eyes brighter, more alert. She’d started watching things with intent—fixating on his hands when he worked, tracking his movement around the room, making little fists and clumsily bringing them to her mouth.
She smiled more, too. And it did something to him. It shouldn’t have.
He shouldn’t have felt that warm pull in his chest every time her tiny mouth curled into something resembling a grin. Shouldn’t have liked the way her whole body wriggled when she was excited. Shouldn’t have let himself get used to the small weight of her when Leela, in her exhaustion, wordlessly passed her to him, and he found himself rocking her without thinking.
But it had happened, slowly and without permission. And now, when he held her, it felt natural.
Maya knew him. Trusted him.
That realization unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
And then, on what must’ve been the third week, Tommy and Maria showed up at the door. Joel knew it the second he opened it—that this was an extraction.
Tommy stood there with that damn smirk, the same one he used to wear when Joel got him out of trouble—except this time, it wasn't his brother who had been looking for a way out.
"You're officially relieved of duty, big brother."
Joel grunted, letting his brother pull him into a quick hug. He clapped him on the back, but his grip was just a little too firm. A little too final. "Didn’t know I was on duty."
Maria stepped in next, squeezing his shoulder, her eyes warm with something Joel didn’t want to name. "Thank you, Joel."
He didn’t say you’re welcome. Didn’t say anything at all. Just gave a small nod, because that was easier than acknowledging the importance of what he’d done. No need to attach importance to what he was walking away from.
He felt Leela before he saw her.
She stood behind them by the front door, her arms loose at her sides, watching but not interfering. She was dressed in a warm sweater and pants this time, although he liked seeing her in that long nightdress of hers, the one with the pearl buttons.
She didn’t say anything. And neither did he. Because there was no point in goodbyes.
Instead, he gave her a nod—brief, almost impersonal—and then he turned, stepping off the porch, his boots heavier than they should’ve been.
Maria’s voice, quiet but clear, carried behind him as she spoke to Leela like she was approaching a wounded deer. "You feeling okay, baby? Come on, let’s talk."
Joel kept on walking. Crossed the street.
And for the first time in fifteen days, he realized—he didn’t want to go home. Because home meant silence. Home meant absence.
Home meant walking into a house where there was no tiny, fussy cry in the middle of the night. No bleary-eyed woman fumbling with a bottle, no soft, small weight curled against his chest when exhaustion finally won out.
For fifteen days, he had fallen into something. A rhythm. A purpose. A role. And now, as he stepped through his own front door, into the empty space that used to feel normal, Joel realized he’d done something reckless. Something he never should’ve allowed.
He’d let himself care.
X
[I really like this one, so much! I love how sweet it turned out, how JOEL of him it is, and how Leela is just that sweet, confused mother. I think I'm going to really love building on this one! ]
