Here the monsters yearn for intimacy @fluffysmutmnstr - Tumblr Blog

(when you've got trouble) i've got trouble too - chapter ten

Rating: M/E

word count: 9.8k

Summary: In which everyone knows what they want and no one knows what to do about it

Warnings/Tags: slow burn, friends-to-lovers, boss/employee relationship (kind of? not really), bad behavior, fuckboy behavior, fourth-wall breaks, drug use, recreational drug use, casual sex, mentions of gross behavior, Joe is not a nice guy right now, it's called a redemption arc for a reason, overdosing, implied/referenced drug addiction, bed sharing, unresolved sexual tension, resolved sexual tension, p-in-v sex, oral sex (F-receiving)

A/N: If anyone is still reading this after LITERALLY A YEAR of no updates, I don't even have words for how much I love you. Seriously. No words.

I love you and I keese you all! I hope you like this!

x.

Look, we could walk through the whole next day at the beach shot by shot. We could, really. But we’re running kind of short on time, and that type of detail is always the first on the cutting room floor anyway, right? So, let’s save the editors the struggle and make it a montage.

There’s the establishing shot of the shoreline, of course. It’s a beautiful day at Big River. Perfect weather, a surprising lack of crowds, minimal fighting between all four children, and, honestly, best of all, Joe’s leg to rest your head on while you read your book on the blanket in the sand.

He’s almost too good with your siblings. One of those rare adults who doesn’t seem to mind actually playing with them when they beg him to come into the water or pick a side of whatever game they’ve chosen.

We can cross-fade a few shots here to really drive home the point.

Joe carries Hugo around on his shoulders for more than half the afternoon. He keeps an eye on how often everyone needs to have their sunscreen reapplied and manages to scoop Maddie up right before she’s taken out by a wave twice her size.

It's nice to see. Refreshing. A glimpse at the Joe you used to know, who would stop whatever he was doing for a child who wanted to hug him or take a photo. The one who used to happily lead the tours for the Make-a-Wish kids when they wanted to visit a Marvel set, and who never looked bored when a ten-year-old rambled on way too long trying to ask a question at a convention.

It also makes your job of keeping an eye on everyone much, much easier than if you’d been by yourself.

That’s enough montage. We can slow down again.

There’s a predictable plea for ice cream once you’ve announced it’s time to start packing up. Your shoulders are slightly pink, and you have a feeling they’re going to be full-on burned by the time you wake up tomorrow. While you’re pulling your t-shirt back on, your phone starts to buzz in your bag.

“It’s Mama Jenny,” Connor says as he hands it to you, ensuring it’s covered in sand by the time it reaches your ear.

“Hey, Mom,” you say as you hold it to your face, trying not to wince as the grains of sand scrape your cheek.

“Hi, baby,” she says warmly in a way that tells you she had a good day at work. You check your watch. It’s just after five—she’s probably enjoying the quiet house with a glass of fruity wine on the patio. That image is enough to decide to give her an extra hour to herself by giving in to the figurative screams for ice cream. “How’s it going?”

“Good,” you assure her, reaching over to grab Malik’s sunglasses the moment before Hugo can step on them. “What’s up?”

“I’m wondering if I can ask a favor?”

“Sure…” you answer slowly. “Of course you can.”

“I know you’ve been on kid-duty all day, so you are more than free to say no,” she begins. “But it seems like Peter and I haven’t been on a real date in a whole age. Some of his friends from Oakland are in town for a few days and wanted us to meet them for dinner.”

You blink. “Tonight?”

“Do you already have plans?”

“No,” you answer honestly. Because you don’t have plans. Not really. You’d been hoping that you could spend some more time with Joe, just the two of you, to figure out what any of the last 24 hours means, but you haven’t had the chance to broach the topic yet. You cough and shake your head. “No, Mom. It’s fine. You should go out—have a good time.”

Joe glances over as you hang up and toss your phone back in your bag. “Everything okay?”

“Uh-huh,” you nod and offer a smile. “Just giving Mom and Peter the night off.” You look up at four curious faces. “You guys are stuck with me tonight, too.”

It’s a relief to see four big smiles before Malik asks, “Can we have pizza for dinner then?”

“Oh yeah,” you assure him as Joe helps you to your feet. “Pizza is definitely happening. Connor, can you help Mal fold the blanket up, please? Maddie, hold Hugo’s hand when we get to the parking lot, okay?” You stop and look down with a frown. “And buddy,” you laugh at the youngest of the bunch. “Your shoes are on the wrong feet.”

“I got you, mate,” Joe says and lets go of your hand to kneel and help Hugo swap his shoes.

“Fanks, Joe,” the littlest boy says while he steadies himself on Joe’s shoulder and lets him undo and redo the Velcro straps of his sandals onto the right feet.

You have to bite back a smile as Joe stands again and ruffles Hugo’s dark curls. The blanket is folded—or close enough, you’re not being picky—and everything is packed up in relatively short order to head back to the car.

Joe’s hand finds yours again as you cross the parking lot, but you wait until everyone has piled into the SUV before you close the door and turn back to him. “I was going to ask if you wanted to go out tonight—but now I’m pulling a double-shift on Big Sister detail,” you say with a sigh. “So, I don’t expect you to—”

There’s more you can say, plans to let him off the hook, but he silences you with a sweet kiss that steals your breath and momentarily erases the thoughts from your head. “Stop tryin’ to get rid of me, would you?” he asks quietly when he pulls away with a small smile. “It’s giving me a complex.”

You laugh and shake your head. “I had slightly more exciting plans for you in mind than 12 hours of babysitting.”

“They’ll keep,” he assures you in a tone that makes you melt just a little bit. “I’ve got five months of Hazel-free time to make up for. I don’t care what we do.”

“Even pizza and stupid kids’ movies?”

His smile widens. “I love pizza and stupid kids’ movies.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine, fine,” you relent with an easy-going, affectionate sigh. “If you really want to.”

“I really do,” he promises, shining on a touch of the puppy-dog eyes just to be safe. “But I also really want to take a shower and change my clothes.”

You nod in agreement. You’ve got a date with the shower as soon as you get home, too. “I’m going to get them some ice cream,” you say with a glance toward the car where all four children are doing a terrible job of pretending they aren’t spying through the tinted windows. “So why don’t you come back over around…seven?”

Joe leans in to kiss you again. “Seven is great,” he says. “You want me to just pick up food on the way over?”

You feel dangerously close to a swoon at the thought of having a task crossed off your list. “That,” you tell him, resting your hands on his chest to lean most of your weight against him. “Would be amazing.”

He’s back in his rental car before you open the driver’s side door of the SUV and slide behind the wheel.

“Were you and Joe kissing?” Maddie asks as you start the car.

You pause and consider lying before you shake the idea away. “Actually, yes.”

There’s a moment of silence from the first row of the backseat before you see her shrug in the rearview mirror. “Okay.”

You can’t help but snort before you pull out of the space and head toward the nearest ice cream shop.

You’re not sure how it happens, but somehow, by the time Joe arrives with three extra-large pizzas at five after seven, you’ve managed to ensure that everyone has had a shower and that all the clothes full of sand and sunscreen are running through the washing machine.

It’s one of those low-level miracles. The universe is deciding you deserve an easy win after all the shit she’s put you through.

If your mother cares about Joe coming back over once she and Peter are gone, she didn’t let on as she hugged and kissed her children in order from youngest to oldest before heading out the door. But she may think that an evening spent caretaking is about the least sexy activity you could have invited Joe to join you in, so there’s really nothing to worry about.

And mostly, she’s right.

Dinner is filled with predictable squabbling, dramatic gagging over the sacrilege of eating vegetables on pizza, and Connor dropping an entire cup of grape juice all over the kitchen floor.

But at the very least, you have one ace in your back pocket when the topic of what’s going to be on the TV once Hugo has been put to bed at eight-thirty.

“Hazel, tell her what Mama Jenny said,” Malik is whining as you come back down the stairs. He drops his voice when you put your finger to your lips and push your hand down like you’re forcibly lowering his volume. “Maddie has to go to bed too; she’s too little to watch Red Hook Road with us.”

“Yes, I can,” Maddie exclaims. “I only get scared sometimes and even then—”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” you hold up both hands this time. “We’re all going to watch Red Hook Road, alright? All of us together. And even better, we’re going to start at the first episode so that nobody misses anything. But Miss Maddie,” You interrupt the sounds of surprised excitement and point to the kitchen, where Joe is loading the dishwasher. “Joe has something he wants you to see before we do.”

“What is it?” Connor asks immediately.

“I want to see too,” Malik insists as the two of them follow Maddie across the living room.

You hang back and lean against the door frame, watching as Joe sits down at the table and pulls out his phone. Maddie climbs into his lap like she’s known him forever and waits patiently while he pulls up the video he’d shown you earlier when he’d made this suggestion.

“Who’s that?” Connor asks, looking over Joe’s shoulder to squint at the screen.

“That’s my friend, Jamie,” he says and then swipes to a photo. “And that’s the monster he played on TV.”

“Really?” Malik’s eyes widen in surprise. “He looks so cool!”

Joe looks down and peers at Maddie. “Do you want to see how they made him look like that?” She nods quickly, and he pulls the video up again. A time-lapse from a million years ago condensing the four hours Jamie spent in a makeup chair each day to turn into Vecna on the Stranger Things lot into about a minute and a half.

You watch with a smile playing on your lips as Maddie, Connor, and Malik all watch, mesmerized by the speedy transformation. When it’s over, Maddie looks back up at Joe. “That’s from the movies?”

“Mmhmm,” he nods and gives her the phone to advance the progress bar herself. She slides it back and forth a few times, changing Jamie into Vecna and back again in the span of an instant. “He looks really scary, doesn’t he?”

“Really scary,” Maddie agrees before looking up again. “But I like scary stuff.”

“I do too,” Joe assures her. “It’s quite fun to be scared, isn’t it?” She nods again, looking like she’s finally found someone who understands her. “But if you get too scared when you’re watching your show—or maybe later, when you’re trying to get to sleep—you can remember that it’s just makeup, right? It’s not real. And underneath some big scary monster, it’s just a silly little guy like Jamie.”

It's such a simple solution for this argument you’ve been arbitrating for half the summer, that you can’t believe you didn’t think of it yourself. And solve the problem it does. Halfway through the second episode, Malik grabs the tablet from its place on the charging mat and pulls up YouTube to see if there’s a behind-the-scenes video of the monster of the week.

It sends him down a rabbit hole of clicks, and after twenty minutes of looking up special effects and prosthetics, neither Malik, Connor, nor Maddie notices when you turn off the television.

You let them stay up later than usual, allowing them to explore this newfound corner of the internet until ten before you herd everyone up the stairs to their bedrooms. The boys require no special tuck-ins or bedtime rituals, so you leave them to brush their teeth and get beneath the covers while you head down the hall to check on Maddie.

“Need me to check the closets or under the bed?” you ask as she climbs into her bed.

She pulls up the comforter to her chin and shakes her head with a grin. “Nope. I’m good.”

“Okay,” you say as you turn off the light on her dresser.

“But maybe still the nightlight,” she adds quickly. “Just in case.”

“You got it, sweetie.” You bend to kiss the top of her head. “Thanks for hanging out with me today.”

Maddie smiles up at you, and two chunks of soft blonde hair dislodge from the French braid you gave her after her shower. “Hazel?”

“Hmm?”

“Is Joe your boyfriend?”

The question stops you after you’ve plugged the stained glass nightlight into the wall. “Um. I…don’t know,” you answer honestly.

“Why not?”

You open your mouth and close it again as a few different answers flutter through your mind. “It’s…uh—”

“Complicated?” Maddie finishes for you with a deeply unimpressed look.

You can’t help but smile. “It might be, yeah.”

“He came all the way from England to kiss you,” she says, smiling when her assessment makes you laugh. “That’s not complicated. That’s a boyfriend.”

You laugh again. “I’ll keep that in mind,” you promise and give her another kiss for good measure. “In the meantime, you need to go to sleep and dream some good dreams, okay?”

“Okay,” Maddie snuggles back under her covers and is sound asleep almost before you’re out in the hall.

Joe has straightened up the living room and consolidated the leftover pizza into one box by the time you’re back downstairs. He joins you on the couch as you flop down with a heavy, contented sigh.

“You okay?” he asks, letting an arm drop around your shoulders.

It should feel more awkward, you think. This sudden physical affection. These comforting intimacies. It should be strange and a little clumsy, trying to figure out how your body fits against and with another person.

But it’s not.

Maybe it’s because you’ve known Joe for so long—that you know so very much about him—that makes it seem so easy and familiar. Maybe it’s because at times, you’ve felt like you know him better than you know yourself. Or because every part of his life was tangled up with every part of yours for so many years, it was starting to be difficult to tease apart that tangled knot and find the strings of who you were before him.

“Yeah,” you say after you’ve taken a moment to consider it. You glance up with a smile. “Thank you.”

He smiles back. “For what?”

“For spending the day at the beach with us,” you say as you stretch your neck to deliver a soft kiss to his lips. “And for what you did for Maddie—showing her those pictures and videos.” You kiss him again. “It was pretty dreamy of you.”

His one arm tightens a little bit around your shoulder as he slides his free hand over your cheek and into your hair, pulling you closer for a long, slow kiss that flips your belly with excitement and has you fisting the material of his t-shirt as you sigh into his mouth. “I’ve wanted to do that all day,” he whispers against your lips when you finally pull away for a breath.

Your eyes are still closed as you hum a little sound of amusement and feel him tap the tip of his nose to yours. “Is there anything else you’ve been wanting—now that we’re all alone and you have the chance?”

“There is one thing, actually,” he says, letting his thumb brush over your cheek as he ducks his head to press his lip to the underside of your jaw, ghosting a kiss over your pulse before he kisses over to your ear. “I want to know what you taste like.”

You swallow hard as you pull back just enough to meet his eyes again. “What did you just say?”

The edge of his lips twitches in a little smirk. “I think you heard me.”

You should probably say no. You should probably tell him that he’s just going to have to wonder until he can bring you back to a hotel room that’s been cleaned more recently than the Clinton administration. You should remind him—and yourself—that your parents are not night owls and they’ll probably be home any minute.

But when you open your mouth to share any of these protests, all that comes out is, “Come upstairs.”

You don’t think you’re any louder than usual when you climb the stairs together, but you still hold a finger to your lips as you open your bedroom door and pull him inside behind you. Joe takes a moment to look around when you’ve locked the door and turned on the lights; there’s a little smile playing on his lips as he logs your old band posters and well-loved stuffed animals on the armchair in the corner.

You stop him before he can make a move to study the photos you still have stuck to your corkboard from high school and college, shaking your head as you turn him back to face you. “You don’t need to see my ugly duckling phase right now,” you assure him as you step in close.

He grins again. “I find it hard to believe you ever had an ugly duckling phase.”

“You’re just going to have to trust me on that one,” you reply as you stretch onto your tiptoes to kiss him.

He doesn’t argue any further as one of his hands slides into your hair while the other anchors at your hip. You feel yourself melting into him almost immediately, walking backward to bring him with you to the bed. He sits next to you, and the hand that had been on your hip slides up slowly to squeeze your breast, prompting a quiet sound of approval that’s muffled against his lips.

Joe’s smile breaks the kiss, and he glances to the door once before looking back at you. “I thought we were being quiet,” he reminds you before he ducks back in to press his lips to your cheek.

“We are,” you respond, tilting your head already to encourage his next kiss to land on your jaw.

“Well, you better try harder,” he murmurs against your skin, nuzzling the spot beneath your ear. “Because I haven’t even done anything yet.”

His hands slip under your shirt and span your waist, sliding over to your back as he leans into you, pushing you gently to lie down amidst your sheets and pillows. He goes with you, trailing soft kisses over your neck. You want to just lie back and relax, give into that slow-building fire he’s started beneath your skin and let him do whatever he wants, but your brain isn’t getting the hint.

You feel an unmistakable flutter of nerves taking root the longer you lie there, while suddenly this feels like an incredibly bad idea. “Did you hear me lock my door?”

Joe nods into the crook of your neck while his one hand slides down to your hip and coaxes your legs up onto the bed. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Soon as you closed it.”

“Okay,” you exhale and then glance over to the bedside table, where the light feels way too bright and like it’s begging your mother to stop and knock on the door to ask how the night went before she goes to sleep. Trying to be casual, you reach your hand toward the lamp, groping a little too hard for the wheel switch on the cord for Joe not to notice.

He pulls back from your collarbone with a furrow in his brow. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly. Too quickly. You scrunch your face in a guilty wince as his doubtful expression only intensifies. “Really,” you try again, attempting to season it with a sprinkle of the truth this time. “I just don’t want my mom to think I’m still awake. If she sees the light on when they pull up…”

You trail off as Joe pushes himself up onto one arm and eyes you with a curious tilt of his head. “Your room’s at the back of the house,” he says with a glance toward the window that, even if it had been visible from the street, had the blackout curtains drawn. He studies you a moment longer before the corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile. “Are you nervous about doing this with the lights on?” he asks with a little hint of disbelief.

You swallow and try to shake your head. “No, it’s—” you stop with a sigh. “Maybe? A little?”

He lets out a quiet little laugh. “We had the lights on last night.”

“Yeah, but that was…” You fumble for an excuse for this sudden flash of anxiety. “I don’t know. This just…feels more…”

Vulnerable? Exposed? A few different choices type themselves out on your tongue before they’re deleted. None of them feels right.

Joe lets you trail off for a moment before he leans in to cover your lips with his in a soft, gentle kiss while his thumb traces a soothing trail back and forth along the bottom of your jaw. “Hazel,” he says as he pulls back. His voice lowers with seriousness. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” you say again, and even though it’s as quick an answer as before, it doesn’t feel like you’re covering. “I don’t. I’m just…” You exhale again. “Yeah. Nervous.”

His brow creases again. “Why?”

Your mouth opens and then closes again as you consider what you’d have to do to rewind the clock so that you never made everything so fucking weird to begin with. “I don’t…”

“You don’t…” he echoes your uncertain trail off. “Want to do this?”

“That’s not what I’m trying to say.”

“Then…what are you trying to say?” he asks before he lets one hand trail over your neck and to the top of your shoulders. “And what can we do to make you relax?” he goes on. “You’re stiff as a board.”

When you look up to find his unfairly pretty eyes still trying to read you, you find yourself unable to stop speaking. It’s like someone has taken a crowbar to the glass tank where you’ve been stuffing all of the doubts you don’t want to admit you’ve been having since the second his lips touched yours in your backyard. “I don’t want to be so tense,” you admit. “But. Look. It’s just that you’ve had the advantage of having had a considerable number of partners compared to me—”

“Is that what this is about?” he breaks in. “Are we comparing body counts now?”

“No,” you say, unable to help but laugh at the idea that he thinks you care about that number now, after everything the two of you have been through together. “I just…I don’t want you to be…” you bite your bottom lip. “Disappointed. Or…I don’t know. Underwhelmed.” The little lines around his eyes deepen as he squints in confusion. “And last night was so fun,” you continue quickly. “But what if that’s just because it was…a novelty or—”

Joe silences you with another kiss. You’re grateful for the interruption because you truly have no idea how you were going to end that thought. “I need you to understand something,” he says once he’s pulled away. “I have considered you many things over the years. But never once have I thought of you as a novelty.”

“Joe…”

“No,” he says firmly, holding your chin in place to keep you from averting your eyes. “You need to listen to me.”

“Okay,” you exhale. “I’m listening.”

“We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.” His dark eyes flick toward the door and then back to yours. “I can go right now if that’s what—”

“No,” you insist, instinctively curling one leg around his hip to keep him from moving. “That’s not what I want.”

“What do you want?”

You swallow again. “I want to…not be overthinking this,” you say after a moment. “I want to enjoy being with you, without my stupid brain going a thousand miles a minute.”

He nods slowly, digesting this for a moment before his lips lift again. “And if I told you I had a suggestion for how I might help you stop thinking quite so much…” You let out another quiet laugh and find it just a little difficult to keep holding his gaze. “Hazel,” he says again, and there’s something about the way he says your name that makes your stomach give an inconvenient little flip. “If we’re talking about one of us having advantages over the other, I have to remind you that you know everything about me.”

“Yes,” you agree. “I do.”

“But I can’t say the same,” he goes on. “And I’d really, really like the chance to start closing that gap and learning at least a few more things about you right now.”

Your teeth press into your bottom lip for a moment before you let the rolling boil of anxiety in your stomach settle to something more pleasant. “Okay,” you say softly and stretch your neck to brush your lips against his. “But we really do need to be quiet.”

Joe trades you one more sweet, soft kiss on your mouth before he returns his attention to the crook of your neck. “That’s on you, darling,” he murmurs against your skin. “My mouth is going to be plenty occupied.”

You snort quietly and have to press your lips together to muffle a sound of approval when his hands slide back under your clothes. His fingers trace the waistband of your shorts, and it’s only too easy to lift your hips and let him slide them off.

His lips find yours again as he shifts the full weight of his body on top of you, encouraging your legs to wrap loosely around his waist. His tongue slips into your mouth, slowly circling yours while his one hand trails down to draw slow, soothing strokes over the outside of your bare thigh. Again, you find yourself marveling at how familiar this feels, how easy it is once you let yourself enjoy it. He teases his fingers at your hip, curling them experimentally under your panties.

You’re nodding before he asks permission, but Joe’s insisting on taking his time. He’s almost painstakingly slow to break away from your lips and start trailing kisses down your neck and over your chest. He seems to debate for a moment whether or not he’s going to take your top off, but settles for pushing the hem of it up and over your breasts so he can drop a path of sweet kisses between them and down your belly.

He lingers around your navel, alternating the pressure of his lips with light scrapes of his teeth. Playful little bites that have you squirming and fighting hard not to squeal out loud. You can feel him smile against your skin as he slides his hands up your thighs and hooks his fingers under the sides of your panties to finally take them off. He pushes your knees apart as he shuffles down the bed and then settles between them. His lips are soft as they land on your inner thighs when he wraps his arms around your legs, holding you open. “So,” he murmurs into your skin, interrupting himself with a kiss after each word, “fucking,” he turns his head to deliver a kiss to your other thigh, “gorgeous.”

You swallow hard, trying to remember how to breathe when he lifts his dark eyes to meet yours for a long, electric moment, before he shifts lower and presses his lips to your clit in a soft, slow kiss that rivals the ones he’s been pressing against your mouth all day.

And just like when he kissed you the first time, your brain and body have to take a moment to get on the same page. Because yeah, you figured he had a talent for this type of thing (men with reputations like his have to earn them somehow, after all), but you’d never allowed yourself to imagine he might be this good. This thorough.

You don’t know if anyone’s ever been this focused on making you feel good—if anyone’s ever made you feel like you were something warm and delicious. A treat worth waiting for. But that’s what Joe is doing. Taking his time, swirling and flicking his tongue over your clit in between soft kisses and quiet moans that you can feel more than hear.

Two fingers pet your entrance, up and down, not pushing in, just tempting, while his tongue is busy tasting and exploring your cunt. It’s enough to make your hips buck involuntarily, and you have to close your eyes and force yourself to take a deep breath when you feel him turn his head and smile against your leg. “Huh-uh,” he says softly, stretching his neck to place another kiss just below your navel. “Stay still. I’m gonna give you what you want.”

You press your lips together firmly, forcing a whine into a nearly-silent whimper, and he scrapes his teeth lightly over the pattern of freckles on your inner thigh. A little love bite whose sting he soothes with another kiss before he leans in again. His flattened tongue drags from your entrance to your clit in one slow, filthy stripe.

Another groan vibrates against your pussy when he tastes you, and this time, you have to cover your mouth to keep from crying out. It doesn’t get any easier to keep quiet when he seals his lips around your clit and sucks, soft at first, then harder, pulsing his tongue in tight, rapid flicks.

One finger slides inside, curling right to that sweet spot.

Another finger joins, stretching you open, pumping slowly while his mouth works your clit like it owes him money.

You feel that pressure coil tighter…and tighter…

He crooks his fingers faster, presses his tongue flat and relentlessly.

Your back arches. Your heels dig into the mattress. You don’t remember sliding your free hand into his hair, but you’re suddenly beyond grateful he’s grown it out. Your fingers tighten in his curls so hard he lets out a muffled groan that you barely register.

The world whites out: a sharp, electric snap at your core that sizzles through every limb.

Your whole body clamps around his fingers, pulsing hot and trembling.

Joe keeps licking, gentle now, riding every aftershock until you’re shaking and pushing at his head, oversensitive and breathless.

You’re still blinking spots from your eyes when he wipes his face and crawls back up the bed to look at you again. His smile is slow, but wide and easy, and the sight of it makes your belly flip. “What…?” you ask, keeping your voice down before you cover your mouth to muffle a giggle of giddy relief that’s threatening to bubble past your lips.

He raises his eyebrows. “You feeling a little more relaxed now?” he asks.

You drop your hand, bite your bottom lip, and nod. “Yeah,” you say, when you’ve caught your breath again. “A little.”

Joe is still grinning as he leans down to kiss you again.

The house is quiet and still when you walk him out the next morning, just before seven. You figured that was a safe enough time—everyone always sleeps in on Saturdays—usually the house stays dormant until at least eight o’clock.

But still, you hold your finger to your lips again and point out the creakiest stair to ensure a stealthy exit. He stops at the front door and opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, then closes it again and gestures for you to follow him to the front porch.

You do, closing the door behind you as you step into the cool, foggy morning. “Sorry for the sneaking,” you still keep your voice low, crossing your arms over your chest to keep off the chill. “I just don’t really want to deal with a side-eye right now.”

“No problem,” he shrugs with a smile tucked at the corner of his mouth. “I just didn’t want to leave without a proper goodbye.”

You can’t help but smile when he steps in close again and slides his thumb over your cheekbone the moment before he lowers his lips to yours in a soft kiss. You’re already starting to feel dangerously close to addicted to these kisses he gives. You’re not sure what you’re going to do when he goes back to work and leaves you without a way to get your fix several dozen times a day.

But you don’t want to think about that right now, so you don’t. You just lean into him and kiss him back, relishing the way he smells like your room now. Like your sheets and pillows and all your things. “Are you going back to the Sand Dollar?” You ask when you pull back for a breath.

He nods, still keeping you close enough that his nose brushes the tip of yours. “Just to pack, though. Found a better spot.”

“Oh, really?”

“I did,” he smiles. “Made the booking all on my own and everything.”

“I’m so proud of you,” you say with a grin. “More than half a star rating?”

“At least two stars,” he counters, making you laugh before he kisses you again. “If it’s up to your standards, Miss Donovan,” he steps back and takes hold of your hand, bringing the tops of your fingers to his lips in a chivalrous gesture that makes you want to blush. “Maybe I could convince you to come and stay a few days?”

“Maybe,” you reply, as if there’s a chance you won’t say agree. “I’ll have to see it first. Check out the Yelp reviews.”

Joe lets out a quiet laugh and shakes his head. He moves like he’s about to turn and head for his car before he doubles back and takes your face in his hands. “You’re killing me, Hazel,” he says before planting one final, sound kiss on your lips. “I hope you know that.”

“Consider it payback,” you joke when he pulls away a second time. “And text me later,” you add. “Once you’ve settled into this mysterious new upgraded location.”

You watch as he ambles away and behind the wheel of the rental car he parked across the street, waiting until he’s driven off with a final wave goodbye before you turn and slip back inside.

Between the adrenaline spike of having to sneak him out and the morning breeze, you’re wide awake. No point in going back upstairs to try and return to sleep—you know your body well enough to know that it just isn’t going to happen. So instead, you lock the front door again and head for the kitchen—

--and nearly duck back out again when you find your parents sitting at the table, sharing the paper like they always do.

“Joe get to his car okay?” Peter asks conversationally as he gets to his feet and approaches the coffee pot.

You close your eyes and nod with a heavy exhale. “Uh-huh,” you say, bringing up a hand to rub your eyelids.

When you bring your hand down, your mother has folded down the top half of her newspaper and is serving you a Look with a capital ‘L’ over the tops of her glasses. “Pretty sure I raised you better than this, Hazel Rose,” she says evenly.

Your nose scrunches as you drop into the chair across from her. “Mom. Could we just—”

“Someone spends the night in our home, and you don’t even invite him to stay for breakfast?” she asks with an incredulous tone before she clicks her tongue twice against the roof of her mouth and shakes her head. “Don’t know where you got those manners from, young lady, but it was certainly not from me.” You stare at one another for a long moment before she lets a brief smile turn the edge of her mouth upward. “Baby, if you want to sneak a man in and out of my house without me knowing about it, next time make sure he parks farther away than across the street.”

You open your mouth to argue before closing it again and nodding once. “Yeah, okay, that’s fair.”

There’s something undeniably sweet about how excited Joe is to show you the place he’s booked. He’s so proud of himself when he calls you later and asks if he can pick you up for the night. He’s walking a fine line between ridiculous and endearing when he tells you to close your eyes half a mile from your destination.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he echoes from the driver’s seat, mirroring your look before he grins again. “C’mon, it makes it more fun.”

You let out a heavy sigh and relent, if only because his smile looks so much better these days—so relaxed and comfortable and unforced—that you’ll do just about anything to keep it on his face as often as possible.

“No peeking,” he instructs, getting out to help you from the car.

“I promise,” you assure him, keeping one hand over your closed eyes while offering him the other. He leads you over a parking lot and onto a path made of either gravel or crushed seashells. You suspect it’s the latter, given the smell of the Pacific salt in the air. The wind whips your hair into your face from its loose ponytail, and the path crunches under your thin sandals.

“Step,” he says, leading you up one step, then two more. You hear the jingling of keys and the turning of a doorknob, followed by a telltale squeak of a hinge. You’re tugged gently forward once more before he drops your hand to close the door behind you. Inside, the air is cool and smells pleasantly like lemon cleaning products.

Already an improvement from the Sand Dollar.

“Okay,” he comes back to stand behind you. You feel his hands on your hips, tugging you back close against him. “You can open them.”

You don’t have to fake the little gasp you let out when you open your eyes. Joe has brought you to a cottage roughly the size of your London apartment, only much, much nicer. The living room is dominated by a stone fireplace and a white sofa that looks impossibly comfortable. There’s a small but efficient kitchen set with stainless steel appliances, and a door that looks as though it leads out onto a small patio with white Adirondack chairs and a fire pit, overlooking the ocean.

“This is gorgeous,” you say softly, looking back at him over your shoulder.

He grins. “Nice enough for you to stay a few nights?”

You can’t help but mirror his smile. “At least,” you say, leaning in to kiss him. You give the cottage another look before your brow furrows. “You’re telling me the Sand Dollar came up before this place when you first searched for a hotel?”

He has the decency to look sheepish for a moment. “I might’ve been trying to take the cheap way out,” he admits. “With the Sand Dollar.”

You let out a laugh. “And you’re sure I’m worth the cost of this upgrade?”

“More than,” he promises, turning you around so he can kiss you again.

That’s the beginning of one of the best weeks of your life. You and Joe fall into an easy, intimate domesticity that you couldn’t have imagined was possible back in London. The one night you’d planned on staying at the cottage turns to two, then four. Days spent driving up and down the coast to explore the little beachy towns that surround your home, or swapping his rental coupe for your mother’s SUV to take your siblings to the city for a trip to the museum or back to the beach for an afternoon.

If it sounds like we’re smack-dab in the middle of another montage, that’s because we are. But look, it’s all good stuff, I promise. The details aren’t important for this part of the story. Broad strokes are doing the heavy lifting right now, and the broad strokes are showing you and Joe having the most delightfully normal week together without a care in the world.

Joe makes you breakfast every morning and cooks dinner twice at your parents’ house, managing to impress your mother with his roasted chicken and crispy herb potatoes. You talk him into a double feature of Arsenic and Old Lace and His Girl Friday at the vintage theater in town one night.

And you have a lot of sex.

Like, a lot.

Unfortunately, it’s after one such interlude that the little bubble of domestic bliss pops and the montage comes to an end.

You knew it had to eventually. Come on. We’re not at ‘happily ever after’ just yet.

Set the scene: it’s around midnight. You’ve just come back to bed and climbed under the covers, accepting the glass of water Joe has brought you from the kitchen, before he lies back down and beckons for you to join him.

You set the water down after you’ve satisfied your thirst and grab your pillow to lie on your stomach with your head turned to face him. He smiles sleepily and reaches over to let his fingertips drift over the dip of your spine.

“Just realized the Venice Film Festival starts tomorrow,” he says just before you’re about to drift off.

You think about the calendar for the first time in a week and nod, amazed that you’ve been able to forget these things that used to bring you so much stress. “Guess it does.”

“We should go.”

You blink. “Do you have something screening?”

“No,” he laughs quietly. “I don’t mean to work, I just mean to—” he shrugs. “To go.”

You swallow and shuffle to tuck your pillow under your chest. “Joe, you know if you go to Venice this weekend, it’s going to turn into work.”

“Well, yeah, but it’ll still be fun,” he argues lightly. “It’s always a good time.”

“For you,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Joe pauses and lets a pensive frown pull his lips into a slight pout. “It could be a good time for you, too,” he says after a moment. “Considering you wouldn’t be working for a change.”

You feel a mix of flustered frustration bubble up at the back of your throat. “I…don’t think so.”

The weight of his stare is suddenly a little too much to handle and the longer he looks at you, the more exposed you feel. You sit up again and reach for the t-shirt he’d pulled over your head an hour ago. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Adding to the list of things that make you unique, you’re officially the only woman I’ve ever met who seems pissed off about being invited to Italy.”

“I’m not pissed off,” you say, and that’s one of those truths that sounds like a lie because of how you said it. “I’m just…thinking.”

“What are you thinking about?” he sits up with you, looking genuinely curious. “Why don’t you want to come to Venice with me?”

“Because…” you open your mouth once and then close it again as a million different reasons form and fade on your tongue. “Because school starts next week.”

It’s his turn to wrinkle his face in confusion. “And…?”

“And it’s stressful,” you say, avoiding his eyes. “I can’t just leave my parents to deal with all that for four kids—”

“Hazel,” Joe cuts you off gently with a hand on your thigh. “Your mum and dad have done this without you with a dozen other foster children for at least ten years,” he reminds you.

“Yeah, well…” you mutter lamely. “I still feel like I should…help.”

There’s a brief moment of quiet before he touches you again. “What did I just do to upset you?”

“Nothing,” you say. Too fast to be telling the truth.

“Hazel.”

“I don’t want to go to Italy,” you begin slowly, willing yourself to be brave and put a name and a face to all of the traitorous thoughts you’ve been shoving aside since Joe first appeared on your mother’s doorstep. “Because I don’t know what we’re doing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s too soon for me to be asking you what we are, but I don’t know that I can keep going until I know,” you blurt out. “I wish this were just some fresh, new relationship where I didn’t have to be thinking these things, but we know each other too well to pretend that’s the case, and…And even if you tell me what you think we are,” you rush on before he can speak. “I don’t know what that looks like. I don’t know what it means to be in your life without working for you—especially when you’re somewhere like Venice.”

“Why 'especially' somewhere like Venice?” His expression hasn’t gained an ounce of understanding of what you’re saying, and his puzzled look is only frustrating you more.

“I mean, I still know people in the industry, Joe,” you let out a mirthless laugh. “People I used to work with who know I used to work for you, and honestly, how is that going to look if I start showing up at events with you rather than—”

“Do you actually care what those people think?”

“No,” you confess with a drop of your shoulders and a sigh. “No, I don’t. But I’m still thinking about it, whether I care or not. There’s just—” You exhale again. “There’s just a lot of stuff we haven’t talked about, and I don’t know…”

He waits a moment for you to continue. “You don’t know what?”

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” you say again. “I know how I feel about you, but I don’t know if we want the same things—I don’t know if we’ve ever wanted the same things.”

Joe is looking at you when you lift your gaze again. “Okay.” His eyes are wide and his expression open, inviting you to tell him the truth. “So, what do you want?”

“This,” you say with another dry laugh. “This normal, unimpressive life you’ve been seeing and living with me the last couple of days? That’s what I want.” You shrug. “That’s it. I want a house and a dinner table with a couple of kids who don’t look like me—maybe someday one or two who do—” you add, because why not? He wants you to be honest. “I just want something simple. And normal. And a Bernese Mountain Dog,” you tack on to the end of your list. Because you do. You’ve always wanted a Bernese Mountain Dog, and if you’re out here already making a list…

You force yourself to take a breath. “What do you want?”

“I just want you,” he says, so fast you don’t believe he’s even considered the question.

Your shoulders drop again. “That’s not enough of an answer, Joe.”

“No, it is,” he says firmly. “For me it is.” His throat moves as he swallows. “Look, all the things I thought I wanted out of my life? I got them. I had them. And they—” he swallows again. “None of what I thought was important means anything without you around. Okay?

“I’m in love with you, Hazel. And don’t tell me that I’m not,” he plows ahead, seemingly unaware that his words have sucked all the oxygen out of the room. “Or that I’m rushing into something or that I’m confused. Because when it comes to you, I’ve never been confused about how I feel. I’ve been irritated and angry and terrified about how I feel, but I’ve never been confused.”

Your mouth gapes open with a squeak of uncertainty. “Joe, I—”

“It’s okay if you don’t love me back yet,” he goes on quickly. “Honest, it is. I know I have a long way to go to get you to see that I’m serious. That I’m…” he moves his shoulder again. “I don’t know…that I’m someone you could consider doing a…simple, normal, unimpressive life with. But that’s fine.” The edge of his lips lifts into a small, hopeful smile that squeezes your heart and brings a lump to your throat. “I can wait.”

And you want to tell him that he doesn’t have to wait. You want to tell him then that you’re in love with him, too. That you’ve been in love with him for so much longer than you ever wanted to admit. But it feels like too much for that moment.

In that moment, it feels like it’s enough to put your arms around him and let him bury his face in your neck and your hair. It feels like it’s enough to let him lay you back down and cover your face with soft, playful kisses that chase away the tears still stinging your eyes.

It feels like it’s enough.

Because it is.

***

We’re going to celebrate your thirty-fifth birthday with another montage, babe. Don’t fight it. We’re wrapping things up, here.

We can just blend a few key moments to show our folks at home that Joe decides not to attend the Venice Film Festival. Instead, he spends the weekend meeting the hoard of cousins and aunties that drive up from San Francisco to attend the party your mother throws for you in the backyard.

Shots of introductory handshakes being pushed aside in favor of hugs overlayed with clips of everyone scattered around the house and yard eating off paper plates in their laps with smiles and conversation for days.

Let that fade into the glow of birthday candles and the sweet taste of buttercream frosting as the sun sets and the house finally goes quiet.

Joe is still sitting outside by the fire pit when you go back in to grab a sweatshirt and find your mother sitting at the kitchen table. “Oh,” you stop short. “Thought you went to bed already.”

“I’m heading there,” she says, stirring honey into her tea. “Just needed a nightcap.”

You find your sweatshirt hanging by the door and pull it over your head, surprised to find her gaze directed at the man sitting outside. You wait for a moment, trying to read her expression. When you can’t, you clear your throat. “Everything okay, Mama?”

She looks back at you with a smile. “Everything’s great, baby,” she says quietly before she flicks her eyes back to the deck for a moment. “Y’know, he’s not as bad as you said he was.”

You can’t help the snort you let out at her baiting. “No, he was exactly as bad as I said he was,” you assure her, even though she knows this. “He just got better.”

“Well,” she rolls her shoulder in an easy shrug. “If he stays on this side of ‘better’, I’ve got no objections.”

You wait another moment, brow lifted in anticipation. “Really?” you ask. “None?”

“Well, I say that…” she shuffles in her chair while you grin. “I guess I do wish he was Black.”

You don’t bother trying to stifle your laughter that time. “Yeah, well, nobody’s perfect.”

“I’m serious,” she’s laughing now, too. “All the beautiful Black men in this world, and you manage to come home with the whitest white boy I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you,” you counter, shaking your head.

She looks shocked. “I beg your entire pardon, young lady?”

You give her a look. “Alright, physically, no, but come on. Spiritually? We both know that if Tim Walz had a Black twin, it would be Peter.”

She snorts her laugh into her next sip of tea and splashes it all over her face. “How long you been sitting on that one?”

You beam and hand her a dish towel to clean up her mess. “Since Kamala announced him as her running mate in 2024 and I looked him up on Instagram.”

Your mother is still laughing while she gets to her feet. “I’m going to tell him you said that,” she warns.

“Please do,” you encourage.

“He’ll probably take it as a compliment,” she considers, shaking her head. “The nerd.”

She stops and sets her tea down in favor of wrapping her arms around you from the side and squeezing your shoulders tightly, her cheek resting against your forehead. “Goodnight, Mom,” you say quietly, closing your eyes and breathing her in for a second. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she promises with a kiss on your cheek. “Happy birthday, baby.”

Joe has rearranged the chairs, so his feet are propped up on one while he lounges in the other when you return to the deck. “Is this seat taken?” you ask, amused, while you knock your ankle against his footrest.

“It is, I’m afraid,” he says with an exaggerated wince. “Guess we’ll have to share.”

Before you can protest—and not that you were going to—he leans forward and pulls you into his arms, depositing you onto his lap with an inelegant oof. “This seat’s more comfortable anyway,” you decide, wrapping your arms loosely around his shoulders.

He smiles at you for a moment before a little line appears between his eyebrows. “Wait, hang on, you have to get up.”

“What?” you sputter around a laugh.

“No, hang on,” he helps you to stand back up before he reaches into his pocket. “I have something for you.”

“Oh, you do?” Your stomach does a little inconvenient acrobatic routine that settles when he extracts a square jewelry box that’s too large to be something insanely premature.

“I do,” he says with a smile and presents it to you. “Happy birthday, darling.”

“You’ve given me a lot of really good things over the last few days,” you remind him, taking it cautiously from his hand, and let him pull you back onto his lap. “You didn’t have to get me a birthday gift.”

“I know I didn’t have to,” he says easily. “But you’ve been buying your own gifts for as long as you’ve known me, so I thought I’d try my hand at it for a change.”

You raise your eyebrows, biting back a grin. “And?”

“It’s quite fun,” he replies. “Might have to get used to it.”

“I’m sure your new assistant will be pleased to hear that,” you say with a giggle as you remove the velvet ribbon and pull the lid free from the top of the box. Your breath catches in your chest for just a moment as you look down at a delicate tennis bracelet made of black diamonds. “Joe…” you say softly and look over at him. “Thank you. This is beautiful.”

“Not the one you’d picked out before, by any chance, is it?”

You swallow and consider lying and saying it was. Letting him think he somehow managed to read your mind and choose the exact piece of jewelry you almost bought yourself last Christmas to match your obsidian pendant. But you don’t.

You’ve lied to him enough for one lifetime.

Instead, you shake your head with a smile. “No,” you tell him. “But it’s the one you picked out,” you lean in and bump the tip of your nose against his. “So, I love it.”

Joe is still smiling when he closes the gap between you and presses his lips to yours in a soft kiss. “You sure?” he asks when you pull away.

You nod. “Very sure,” you promise and sit back with enough space so he can clasp it around your wrist. It’s not the one you would have chosen for yourself, but it’s beautiful, and looking at it sparkling against your skin makes you feel a little like a princess. “It’s perfect,” you assure him when you look up again.

His smile widens as he sets the box on the ground and gathers you close again. “This incredibly brilliant woman I know told me that only the classiest of dames are still wearing tennis bracelets,” he says quietly. “So, I figured it was a safe choice.”

You bite back another smile. “She sounds really smart,” you admit.

“She is,” he agrees. “Beautiful, too.”

“Uh-oh,” you shake your head. “Dangerous combination.”

“Deadly, really,” he agrees before he sobers again. “She’s—uh—she’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

You swallow hard. “That right?”

“And since it took me an exceptionally long time to realize that,” he goes on while you loop your arms around his neck again. “I’m going to do whatever it takes to make sure she knows I know exactly how lucky I am to have her.” He leans in for a brief, gentle kiss. “Including,” he says, pulling away just enough to keep his forehead pinned to yours, “saying yes to a Bernese Mountain Dog if that’s really what she wants. Which—” he’s interrupted for a moment by the cascade of giggles you can’t control. “Honestly, Hazel, could you have picked a larger animal?”

“But they’re so cute!” you exclaim. “I love them! And we don’t have to get one right now…”

“Oh, that’s good,” he laughs. “'Cause I’ve no idea where we’d put it.”

“Let me just enjoy one gift at a time,” you suggest, turning slightly so you can tuck your head under his chin and let your gaze land on the last streaks of magenta and orange of the sunset.

“Alright,” he says, and tips his chin to kiss the top of your head. “One gift at a time.”

And faaaaaade to black.

---

A/N: Seriously, if you've made it thus far, you're getting a kiss on the mouth. And if, in the actual calendar year it's been since I updated this fic, you've forgotten their talk about the tennis bracelet, that is A-OK, you'll just want to go over and re-read the middle of chapter 4 for reference.

---

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