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[freshlyrage]

Running Like Water

Chapter 37

pairing: Javier Peña x OFC (written as xReader)

fic warnings: NSFW Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI) language, strained family relationships, mentions of drug abuse, discussions of insecurities and body image issues, daddy and mommy issues

fic tags: Best friends younger sister, Life-long crush, Friends to lovers, Unrequited love, slow burn, Push and Pull, Small Town Dynamics, Secret Relationships, latina MC, Fluff and Angst, OFC!Jessica Alba face claim, sorry Lorraine I'm bringing you into this, Time jumps, 2 year age gap, pre-canon

word count: 16.6k

A/N:

Cliff hanger penultimate chapter and an eight month wait??? Long story short; my mom got diagnosed with breast cancer like three days after I uploaded chapter 36. In those eight months i dropped out of college, moved home, and picked up a second job while taking care of my mommy. Her fight is far from over but i’ve finally found some space to breathe and actually feel passionate and creative. Now I’m back at a brand new college, my mom has finished chemotherapy 💕🙏 and I’m trying to get my groove back. 

This (oh my god) is the last chapter of Running Like Water. My little brain worm that has consumed my life for two years is actually over. Somehow people enjoy my silly little trauma dump of a story. 

Please enjoy, I rewrote this twenty times. 

Yes, there will be an epilogue! (and one shots in the future if you like because you folks are my captain and I will obey requests)

Enjoy!

A tug at your ankles is what wakes you. There’s light, it’s sunny through those blinds and Javier is straightened up at the edge of the bed. His warmth is still next to you, and despite the eye soreness and guilt settling in your chest the sight of him folding his cuffs has your first action in the morning being a small smile. 

“You’re lucky, it’s fifty and sunny.” He speaks with still a hint of morning rasp. He turns around to face the mirror. “We have breakfast reservations in about an hour. I’ll give you space to get ready.” 

You sit up, hair falling around your shoulders. Javier watches you through the mirror and drops his gaze to the floor. You swear the tips of his ears burn a new shade. 

That thought, the idea that he still feels it. That still he blushes at the sight of you, it satisfies you beyond belief. It also satisfies you in a childish way too, you must admit. You felt even in your sleep, like a kid. Like a kid who's been bad. It wasn't like you to burst the way you did, sure maybe you were overdue on one breakdown but the way you handled it made you feel like a dog with his tail tucked. That's the way you felt the second he pulled you awake. But he still blushed at the sight of your tousled hair and you, childishly, feel like you’ve gotten your way somehow. Yet, every movement you make to get ready feels heavy and your need to talk about it causes your next twenty minutes to be a blur. 

You get up, shower, pass him in your towel, dress and you present yourself to him in the living room. 

And there you are, bursting again. 

“My behavior yesterday was unacceptable.” You cringe the moment it leaves your lips, your eyes dropping to the soft carpet below your heels. You hadn’t meant for it to come out like a child in need of reprimanding but it’s what you felt inside. You were embarrassed of the way you recoiled at his touch, the way you wrote him off. The way you broke the moment you realized you didn’t mean any of it. Not really. “I was pent up and completely lost. I don’t want to- I don’t want to be that sort of partner is what I mean. And I can't just get over it without telling you this because then I’ll spend the whole day feeling like you're disappointed in me and it will snowball into something else.” You can’t help it, you want to be good. 

Javier sits there, hands folded in his lap. Taking in all that you say, his brows are pulled tight and your stomach grumbles not from the need to be fed but from anxiety. He gets to his feet with a shaking head, and in the aftermath of your mental tornado it makes you take a step back. He takes a sweeping look of you stood in front of him. Before gathering your chin between his thumb and pointer. 

He searches your eyes, his own warm, pupils blown. “It’s okay.” 

“It’s not.” You reply, within half a second of his words. 

He shakes his head again, “I told you last night. I know you. I can’t be disappointed with you, it’s not possible.” Your shoulders drop in the slightest, the crease between your brow soothed by simple words and soon enough, he turns your chin in his hands and presses his lips against your jaw. Left hand holding your waist. Your troubles go, eyes fluttering shut when his kiss travels to your neck. “You also look… unbelievably sexy right now and we should go before we do something toxic again.” His grumbling voice vibrates your neck and you let out a small laugh before pushing him off of you. 

“Okay.” You run your hands down your body, fixing  the crinkles he formed by pressing your body’s together. Feeling like you’ve completely snapped out of it. Hating feeling weak and not in control. You move your hair to one shoulder, exposing the delicate bee earrings he bought you nearly four years ago. It comes to him like a slightly explicit tease, he clenched his jaw. Striking him in his possessive bone. It’s a cheap move on your behalf but he’s defenseless against any time you bat your lashes, pout or wear anything given or owned by him. 

He shakes his head, grabbing his room key before walking towards the door muttering, “You're going to be the death of me.”

It’s chillier than you expected. Fifty in January would feel like a hot summer day in New York City, but here in Houston, that’s a bit different. Javier stands at your side and it isn’t like your first trip together. You’re both unsure about what to do. If it’s appropriate to hold hands. Despite this, just being next to him is enough and there’s truly never any discomfort when he’s near. 

So you walk side by side, “This is where I lived.” 

He stops in his tracks. 

You follow suit.

Brows tightening looking at the brown building, limestone front stairs. In white, buzzers directing nine different tenants. Once one of those little black rectangles had Peña and Smithfield carved in. It’s surreal, to see where he existed all those years ago.

 While you strained your eyes over lesson plans on a lofted bed he walked up these steps to finally rest.

 Fuck, seeing it makes you feel it all. You feel seventeen again, twenty, you’re reminded. But most importantly you’re relieved that you may never have to feel this way again, if only you tried. 

You look at him for a moment and there’s pain there, the memory. You wonder if it felt like home, you wonder if he misses it. “We paid three hundred dollars a month for this spot. I would work sixteen hour days and have to walk five flights to get to my place. Fucking sucked.” He chuckles, staring at the door a few moments longer before turning toward you. 

“We… never talked about what your day to day life was like here.” You cross your arms. Javier’s time in Houston felt like a dead horse beaten brutally but truly all you knew was about the struggles he faced pertaining to your relationship or lack thereof. You knew of the fights and you know he was too afraid to call. So much time passed, forty eight thousand hours apart.

 You barely know about his work, something about that makes you feel insecure. 

Javi nods and takes one short glance at his former home before signaling for you to continue on with him. “I wished it was more eventful but I rarely had days off and the days I had off I would just sleep.” You nod in agreement, you felt that. Those high school days without him really only consisted of being sad, feeling sick and sleeping. 1981 and 82 were blocked from your memory. 

Cars pass the two of you, the pavement is smooth like it’s just been redone and the architecture alternates between ultra modern and ancient. Time is passing, some much has changed and this city felt like a reminder. Shiny all glass buildings sandwiching  a cathedral with a baptistery only reaching a tenth of the height of its counterparts. 

“Did you at least enjoy some time here?” You ask in earnest, his frown laden on his face gives you an answer. You look around and you wonder how this will change in the next ten years, when the century turns. Where will you be? 

He shrugs, “I liked my co-workers. The food here is good but I was wrapped in my own head, in my own circumstances. I don't know if I ever allowed myself to enjoy those six years. It was the start of my twenties and I don’t remember feeling happy.” 

It always happens this way. You ask him a simple question and he responds with complete honesty. 

Like he has no choice but to bare his complete self to you, you know it’s because he knows you will never judge him. But he speaks his feelings like its sin, he can't look to you, he’s embarrassed.

 He the penitent, you the priest. 

You touch him now, slipping your hand across the leather of his coat. Holding his bicep as he walks with his hands in his pockets. He quirks a brow at you before slowing his pace to match yours. You tilt your head against his shoulder and can't help yourself from inhaling. It's familiar, the breeze slows as you snuggle up at his side. Finally, you reply.

 “I wasn’t happy either.”

Javier looks to the ground, watching your feet move in unison. You see his lips pulled tight. He clears his throat, “And now?” He asks as if he’s on eggshells, like someone might hear. Like it was only meant to be asked in his head. 

The corners of your lips twitch and you reel your head back a bit to look at him. He notices the absence of your cheek smushed to his shoulder and looks back at you. His mustache twitches below his nose at the shit eating grin you're giving him. Your bottom lip caught in your smile, you peck the corner of his lips fast and he gets his answer. 

The apples of his cheeks deepen a shade and he nods. 

“Alright then.” He chuckles to himself. 

You spend the next few minutes with your head leaned into his shoulder while he points out which bars sucked and which were decent. He shows you the precinct he was stationed at for his first two years and tells you what a shit show it was. Then you were at the entryway of a tiny brunch spot, being sat and served water. Javier takes off his coat, revealing his white button up, his biceps seemingly bursting at the seams. You’re giddy, you can't lie. Nor can you hide it, he's calmly reading the menu while your eyes jump around the page and then him, then the beautiful airy setting they find themselves in and then back on him. 

You’re reminded of last week, when you sat at his desk and told him you needed a neutral setting to talk everything out. I want us to go to dinner as exes and friends. I want to know everything. You almost want to laugh at your resignation then, how it only took you twenty-four hours to hash it all out in a very very not neutral setting, in his bed. But here the two of you are, in a neutral setting and it feels like a clean slate. Like the past is finally the past and it doesn’t hurt, you just want to know him more than you do now.

He looks up at you from the menu. “What are you thinking?”

You place the flimsy thing down. 

You begin your questions then, “Tell me about your job.” You straighten up, and he looks at you with a suspicious face. Like he thinks you're up to something. So you clarify, “I knew you were a cop and then suddenly you're a DEA agent and then you're in Colombia. It happened so fast and I never truly asked.” You dont waste time feeling bad about it, he was reluctant to share those things with you before because it was just a reminder that he was going to leave you. He rolls his sleeves and takes a sip. 

He nods in agreement, “It was fast, I was offered that accelerated path by the HPD. I was a rookie officer by the time I was 18. Since I was under twenty my title was “in training” but I was on a patrol.” Too young, you think. You taught high school, you looked in the eyes of seventeen year olds every day, the life Javier dove head first in would break any child. You listen with a frown. “I hated being a regular patrol officer. There is a great deal of crime here, there truly is but they sent me to do some degrading shit. It felt like hazing. But I complained.”

You smile at that, “What did you say?”

“I told them I didn’t like my partner which was true, then they moved me to Narcotics. I was twenty one when I led 5 successful raids without casualties. It paid to be good at what I did, that was when they told me about the DEA. You know, I knew that the drug trafficking in Houston was larger than these raids. Still, I was reluctant to accept the offer. It was a great one money wise. Then I was invited to an anti-drug banquet and I met families of cartel victims. What they described haunted me. It was even worse when I touched ground in Medellin.”

“Was it hard,” You swallow, “To see all the casualties.” You never touched this topic, the death he faced. The violence at his hands, the gun he now owned. It excited you a few days before but made you sad when you thought longer about it. Javier blinks hard, like he sees something. He looks down at the menu. He didn’t have to tell you any stories, a simple yes or no would suffice and you wouldn’t judge him. 

He knows that. 

“It was worse than the stories. I didn’t picture this for me when I was a kid. The cartel didn’t discriminate. Most of the people I've seen were just at the wrong place at the wrong time. After the first month it felt pointless but anger fueled me, watching—feeling Escobar lead us in circles. So when I wasn’t numb, or deeply upset, I was angry.” He clears his throat when the waiter approaches. Your eyes blink away moisture and you look up at the man buttoned in a white shirt and apron. 

He introduces himself and takes their order. You go first and while you do Javier is stuck on you. The way you smile, genuinely smile, between every request you have. He likes how you alter everything on the dish but smile so brightly the waiter cannot be annoyed. The way you nod, how your teeth thins your lips when you’re being kind. 

He wonders when missing you will end when you’re right there. He misses you, and the thought of Colombia has his appetite taking the backseat. 

But, you want to know, and there’s something about you that makes him want to only be an honest man. It’s been that way for quite some time so he allows it to happen, and in the face of it all, telling you his truth also soothes a part of him that only ever belonged to him. His own private pain. 

When the waiter turns to him he’s blinking, caught off guard by the sudden attention. He hadn’t thought of what he wanted, he only thought of you. He just mutters, I’ll have what she’s having, and the man moves along. 

Your focus is entirely on him again, nodding for him to continue. 

So he says it. 

“The one person I killed with my own weapon haunted me for months. He deserved it, I was dealing with men not just distributing drugs, that was the least of it. They were rapists, if it wasn’t themselves doing the assaults they sent for someone else. They tortured women and children. I saw it all. So I don’t regret it.” He swallows thickly, lovely light conversation for a date. Eyes now on yours, “What–what do you think of that?”

You take a few seconds to gather your thoughts, licking your lips and raising your brows. He must know, it’s only you who’s opinion mattered to him. 

“I think…” You pause, finding the words. “I think that no human was made to kill but some people deserve to die.” 

He does it again, he blinks hard like this isn’t real. You believe that maybe he just wasn’t prepared for your response. You’d be a liar if you'd say you haven't thought about this. About the fact that his hands have delivered violence and the possibility of them not even delivering justice, just pain. But more often you think of the times he could have been killed, some nights you would think about for so long that you had to take a walk to tire yourself out. There was a nightmare that came to you once a month, one where you're awakened by the telephone and the news. The scream you release is blood curdling, it makes you gag, you clutch your chest and you wake to your alarm. Mouth dry and an ache in your chest that lasts for the entire day. You realize that if it comes true the news would be delivered by call and that makes you fear the phone. 

You will never tell him this, he lives with enough guilt. This is your own private pain. 

You knew that blood would be shed, you hoped that he stayed a good person. 

You think he has and that's a greater comfort than anything. 

He clears his throat and nods, “I wasn’t made for that chaos, the adrenaline never felt like euphoria, just fear. I spent most of my time thinking about how I could get out, they did it for me.”

Corruption follows in a career where the only answer offered is violence. “Your partner… was he any good?” You try to switch the mood in the slightest. The few times he spoke of him didn’t seem so bad and the smile that he beams for a moment makes you feel like you’ve done a good job. Javier takes a sip from his drink and nods.

“Pain in the ass. But he made it bearable. He had his wife with him out there with him so he had his head screwed on a little better than me but when she came back to the states with their daughter we both hit that mental rock bottom.” 

“But you had each other.” You reply, you know that feeling. New York was cold and the lonely nights felt torturous but you had Jaya. Most of your days felt good, amazing even. You laughed, you tried new things. You felt a part of you grow, you shed some skin, hardened your new layer. Then the sun would set and reality set too. You still were alone with mounds of pain. And there was a time when someone would hold you, when someone would be there. And that someone now walked parallel with you, with pain and their path miles away. 

It’s like he can picture the good times, “We did.” He clears his throat, “You know when I started therapy I was already feeling the effects of my job. Talking about us, about my mom, my dad— it helped me be real about the shooting and the running and the panic. Soon the uncomfortable things of my past helped me accept my present.”

It’s a new wave, this idea of therapy. It’s always been there but it’s so looked down upon, like why do you need someone else to tell you how to live? Times are changing and when you shared with your peers that you were in therapy the response has been generally positive. It’s a nice change. And you look at Javi, in one piece, articulating his feelings, being open, not wincing and you wonder how anyone can look down upon getting yourself some help. 

“And your journal helps right?” Your therapist suggested it, you haven't found the courage to put everything onto paper just yet. Javier shrugs with a ghost of a smile. 

“Yeah? I’m not sure yet. I only started like three days ago.” The two of you share a knowing look, the confession that had you crawling on his bed and being splayed out in his space. Sleep is much better in his bed. “I did bring it like you requested.” 

You chuckle, “ Good, I definitely gave you something to write about.” You refer to your breakdown. He shakes his head and agrees silently. 

“You next then.” 

You furrow your brows, “Me next?”

Javier gives a small smile and tells you all he needs to say. “You aren’t the only one who cares.”

He doesn’t need to say much more, the message is clear. He’s been with you through it all, he was there the day you met your father, he took care of you. He knows that you know that, the reminder settles the last specs of fear that has been settled in your gut all morning.

You nod and only a few moments later your food comes.

After brunch you walk around aimlessly, manicured hand on bicep, matching steps. You’d like to believe you just stumbled across a waterfront but Javier is too much of a planner for that to be a coincidence. The river breeze makes the turtleneck quite the useful fashion choice but still Javier warms your hands in the palm of his when you decide to sit on a lovely red oak bench. 

“My moms parents were content with being childless, according to my mom my grandmother was told she was infertile. My grandmother, Gloria, was stunned to be pregnant at fifty four." Javier mutters a small Jesus and you could only giggle in response because really! Jesus! “Yeah, they were, you know, prepared in the sense of being very financially stable but beside that, they did not have the lifestyles of two people ready for a baby. My mom grew up very lonely too. By the time she was fourteen she was getting politically involved in Florida. Going to protests, getting arrested, civil rights era. My mom was very cool, believe it or not.” 

Javier nods, “Her distaste for cops had to be grounded in something, that's a pretty good reason.” The two of you allow that to settle.”When do you think that all changed? “

“I was trying to figure that out for most of my life.” There's a seagull that lands and a much smaller one flies around it, unbalanced before it lands right beside it. “For years I thought it was after she found God, which seems backwards. But it was my dad, it wasn’t Frankies for sure. There's a picture in my moms room of her, big belly holding an anti-bus segregation sign. She had Frankie then met my dad and she fell in love. Her parents had just passed within those three years. She probably figured her life of fighting could take a pause, they got a place, he–my dad- took care of Frankie like he was his own then he ruined her life. She doesn’t have to tell me but she never recovered. You know she told me two days ago that she’s now seeing a therapist who just… Javi– just diagnosed her with chronic long-term postpartum depression.” You look at the fuzzy little thing on the fence and its mother picking something off its head.  You flare your nostrils with a shaky exhale. He’s looking at the birds too and knows exactly what you’re feeling, what you’re thinking. 

You allow it again, silence, it’s so easy to do with him, so easy with someone who understands. “I think…” You swallow, “I think it was easier when I didn't have an explanation. Now it’s too late and I can’t be angry anymore. Isn’t that fucked up?”

You look up at him, the strong bones of his face softening at the reflection of your eyes. He nods, because it is fucked up. The adult decision of taking the high road, of being the bigger person. It fucking sucks, but you know it’s the only way to know piece. 

“It is.” He rasps and you know, you see it in his eyes that he wants to talk about his own mother. You place a hand on his leg, turning fully to let him know that it's just you, it’s just us. “I know I’ll never get my answers.” He looks at your hand on his thigh, brows creasing. He stares intently and your heart is aching. 

He looks back at you now, “And I’ve never been very good at moving on.” 

Your chin quivers and you gather his face in your hands dressing a kiss firm on his cheek. You hold it there, rub your thumb over it to seal it. He turn his face to kiss the palm of your hand. 

A few minutes later he grabs you by the hand and takes you the rest of the way down to a small elote stand, he gets a little mix of cotija and mayo on his mustache and you brush it away. You continue trying to avoid the mess yourself while the two of you walk some more. 

“You know you cried the first day we met.” He coughs into his fist, beckoning the bottle of water you're holding. You pass it over, furrowing your brows. Switching, you hold his corn and he drinks the water.

“No I did not.” 

He swallows quickly, switching again. “Yes. You did.” You bite and still shake your head no playfully. “Yes! Andrea– yes you did. I was across the street leaving Don Renaldo’s bookstore–”

He was unsure of the morality of it all, selling an eighth for a fathers day gift. Seven dollars back in his pocket regardless but after leaving the bookstore he realizes he’s probably screwed. None of the books seemed like a good gift and these small businesses were getting pricey. Fourteen, only earning a few dollars off his dad whenever he actually got up early enough to work on other peoples land, Javier Peña was about to blow fathers day. 

It had been the hardest few years for Javi. He was better at forgetting now, he couldn’t even imagine her face anymore. It was almost three years now since she left, since she kissed his forehead and disappeared. He was getting better at not being angry. The real emotional regulation only started this year. He knows this isn’t easy for his dad, he remembers those first few months when Javi would wake to his father gone. Chucho away with whichever lady he could find to fill the void. Still he’d wake his son up for school like any of this was normal. And it almost feels normal, almost. So Javier needs this gift.. He sucks his teeth and squints looking up ahead the hill trying to think of any store outside of main street that could conjure something perfect. 

A clanging sound snaps him straight ahead, he takes a few steps forward before almost being trampled by a mother with a stroller. Javi apologizes and squints again. Just across the street, one of the Diaz kids with a furrowed brow and a tremble.

 She’s small, not much younger than him, he thinks she may be a grade or two below him. He has seen her before, in the halls, at church, riding her bike. Her brother was a passing acquaintance, they’ve run in similar circles, wound up at the same parties, always saying What’s up, in passing. 

Javier didn’t really have close friends. Enough people liked him to keep him in the loop but no one was inviting him to their families lake house for memorial day weekend, you know? 

He couldn’t pin her name, but the back of a much older teenage boy's head. The red bike on the floor and a knife in his hands. Javier runs across the street, weather so sticky that not even his jog creates a breeze. The boy kneels and stabs the wheel with a hiss, the girl in the pigtails screams. Javier sees a white flash and he’s holding onto the collar of the kid. 

His fists are balled up so tightly his knuckles turn white, “What the fuck is your issue?!” He shakes him like a rag doll, the farm made him stronger this past spring, he was finally looking like a teenager. With the way he pins this sixteen year old to the floor he for sure feels it. The fear in the eyes under him almost makes him want to smile.  He shakes him again, “Get the fuck out of here.” And like he had no choice, Mr. Macho preying on middle schoolers scurries away. Javier shakes his head, adrenaline still pumping he gets up and approaches the girl. Up close she doesn’t look as young as he thought from across the street. The braids and ringer tee doesn't help but she couldn’t be no more than a year or two younger. She’s blinking rapidly, nostrils flared and Javi can’t help but think she’s pretty. 

He blinks hard, feeling a light headedness that wasn’t there before he made eye contact with her. He’s panicked at his bodily reaction to this girl's frown. The feeling leaves as quickly as it comes because she’s frozen in fear and confusion and that bothers him intensely. 

He bends down to pick up the bike, holding it and straightening up. Her entire face turns red. He wants to smile but he knows it isn’t right and despite feeling flattered by her red cheeks he’s sort of fucking mad that she was left alone with two expensive bikes. Where the fuck is Frankie? 

“Are you okay?”

She nods very fast he furrows his brows, “Yes i-”

Store door chimes and there's the idiot, “Javier? What the fuck happened to my bike?” Genie right behind him with a shocked look. Frankie’s sister darts her eyes at the sound of his name. 

“You left your little sister with your bike and some kid nearly mugged her.”

Frankie goes on a small spiel about how to get his bike and his sister's bike into Genie’s car. They all agreed to just head to Javier’s place so that Chucho could take a look at it. Javier is squished against the girl. While Genie and Frankie have the privilege to sit very much bikeless in the front seat. Genie starts her buggie with a squeak and Frankie starts his apologies, turning in his seat. 

“Andrea, I am really sorry please just–” He cuts himself off, Andrea, Andrea. Javier looks at their knees, hers scraped, his covered. He looks over at her face, chin quivering. She was still scared but holding it in.

 He knows how it feels. 

“It’s fine Frankie.”

“Just don’t tell mom.” He begs, and Genie lets out a snort. “Please she’ll ground me for the summer.” He exhales, Javier thinks she needs to tell her mother. She doesn’t seem so convinced yet, Frankie makes a noise of frustration. “If she grounds me, we won’t be able to hang out. So you’ll spend the summer alone like me.”

It strikes a nerve in her, lip jumping and Andrea nods, “I wont” Her voice breaks and she looks at her lap. Frankie frowns and her shoulders shake against Javi’s. 

The thought of being alone has tears dropping at her thighs. She’s embarrassed to be crying because each tear shed has her wiping her face, attempting to hold it together. It causes a real discomfort for him, hearing her attempt to catch her breath. Seeing the red spots that settle into her skin. 

He decides he never wants to see her cry again. 

You nod finally, settling into the third bench of the walk. “Sounds like me.” You blocked out that part, the thrill of meeting him had clouded your memory. Javier nods, there's a restaurant a few feet away with a live band, it’s at a perfect distance. The music a score to their moment, sitting together, remembering. Your eyes crinkle at the corners and you look up to him, “So… you thought I was pretty?” And you just must. That greedy little part of your heart that is still a young girl makes you do it. Makes your ears perk up at his casual mention that he found you pretty that first day, that he realized you weren’t much younger than him.

Javi shakes his head, looking at you as if he really couldn’t believe you right now. His forehead crinkles, “I thought I told you this?”

“No. Trust me I would remember. What you did tell me was that during that time, the years before my freshman year you didn’t see me like that.” 

It was the first time you had sex, you were getting everything you ever wanted but you just needed to know that small thing. For young Andrea. 

He makes a thin lipped frown, like he’s trying to back track. Get back in the head of a Javier that wore flannels and baseball caps. A Javi just growing a mustache. “You know, I cared about you deeply. My relationship to you was definitely different than Genie or your brother. Then I saw you as someone to protect and I did think you were pretty and the thought of some kid flirting with you bothered me but I don’t know if my brain allowed me to accept it yet.” 

You know what he means. He was the perfect companion to you those days. He  was also in such a different place in his life, he was hooking up with people, approaching High School and you had only just started wearing bras with padding. Still, you have a satisfied little grin on your face at the thought of being perceived as pretty by him. 

“You showed signs though, I know I wasn’t delusional” 

Javier laughs, shrugging. He stares at the skin poking at the top of your turtle neck, pushing your hair to the side very delicately. You loved his hands, the way from palm to fingertips he covers your entire face and some hair at the top of your head. He runs a finger there, hooking his digit at the seam just to touch you there. “I’ve never been very good at being subtle.”

Music goes on, he puts his arm around you and you allow your body to relax. Fitting into his side, you know it doesn’t make sense but your brain sees New York across the river. It isn’t really there, but you see it. You see the streamers in the air, the jazz, the toasts, the turn of another decade. The flip, the pit she expects in her stomach never comes. 

You have a small idea that it has to deal with the man right next to you, like always. Soothing without noticing. Making you feel new, unworn, serene. 

Unattainable. 

Javi groans in a way that makes you cackle. His shoes are lined up perfectly at the side of the bed. His arm is covering his eyes. 

“It’s just a lounge Andrea.” He sighs, audibly. You roll your eyes, lifting one five dresses you brought for this two day excursion. You’re in between one with a cutouts and skin tight bolero or one simple that delves deep between your breasts. 

You’ve been at it for an hour. You walked around some more, debating if the Breakfast Club is better than Ferris Bueller's Day off. It ended with you sort of red in the face at his distaste for the relationship between Bender and Claire. Saying, he was such an ass to her, to which you protested and scoffed at every sort of valid point he made. You could only really say, but, but romance! At the end of the argument which made him laugh and pissed you off. 

He lifted you to avoid a puddle, told a random man on the sidewalk that you were his ex wife that slept with his brother. You stopped for an early dinner and told the waiter that he was your sugar baby, the waiter frowned and asked what that meant. 

“I pay him to have sex with me.”

You hadn’t laughed this much in forever. Bellies full, slightly day drunk from the tarty little drink he bought you at dinner, you walk hand in hand to the hotel so that you can get ready for the New Years Eve part of it all. You showered, blew your hair out, applied, then removed and reapplied three different shades of Revlon lipstick. Javi, much to your pleasure, sat in the living area of the suite, writing in his journal. Silent, giving you space to be you. It's almost 9:30 and he has now retired to grunts and playful groans at your indecisiveness. 

“You should just enjoy the view and shut it.” You spit over your shoulder. Clad in only dark panties and a peach bra. Dress number one pressed against your chest. It looks and feels like the one.

“Bad idea.” It's fast and laced in something darker. So you just unclip the bra and slip into the dress in one movement, not trying to test your luck.You two are trying your hardest with this whole self control thing. Trying not to end this year confused and emotional at the possibility of it being the last time. 

But I saw it, on the horizon. It will work.

You blink reality away and try to recognize yourself in the mirror. 

It comes upon you faster than usual, the trepidation fades.

Pulling your hair out to the front, truly seeing that this was the right choice. You can see him in the reflection behind you, sitting upright now. Eyes full of something very familiar, your cheeks heat up

You don't know what it is that you wait for. If it was anyone it should be you telling him it’s okay now, that he can  be yours, that you’ll allow him in. But the idea is too foreign, there is nothing more restrictive and suffocating than choice. 

He stands, another sweeping look and he offers his hand. You glance down at it, calloused, so large, your entire hand wraps snug around his pinky. You look back up at him.

Stepping into another decade together, you take his hand.

You wont lie, you are a bit impressed. The texan girl was never taken out of you, Miami or New York couldn’t pry that from you. Yet, you felt a bit skeptical at the idea of a lounge being, in Javier’s words, classier than any joint in Alphabet city or whatever. You rolled your eyes and had a small debate on Houston nightlife versus New York’s. It settled with the idea that the other had to try both to really have this discussion. Which implicitly suggested that Javi would be seeing you in New York which made you feel equal parts giddy and terrified. 

He led her into Rose Den, a dimly lit, beautifully decorated and packed lounge. It was quite chic. Investment bankers and their wives or mistresses. A large bar wrapping around the entire left side of the leathery place. Small pods with couples and friends alike, silvery headbands with 1990 glimmering. Sunglasses indoors, shoulderpads, a hand on your waist moving you through the crowd like an expert. Television screens stacked to create a large wall, a feed of just ten  minutes downtown, where it’s hectic, where people wait for the countdown. You and Javier walked through the chaos to get here, feeling lit up by the enthusiasm of everyone on the streets. Slightly tipsy, air horn sounds, car beeping. It wasn’t even ten yet, but the city was alive. 

So was the Rose Den, Javier steps in front of you, holding your hand behind his back. Maneuvering through suits and skirts, before arriving at an empty section. A table covered in confetti and 1990 themed accessories. A red rope pulled aside by a man with a mustache like Javier’s.You furrow your brows. Confused at the sheer size of the section, at the fact that in this packed bar it remained untouched. 

Javier pulls you to his side and directs you to shuffle in. You do, still with a smile and a furrowed brow. Just taken aback at it all. Javier comes in next to you, patting your thigh, you lean in closer, placing your hand on top of his. 

“Mr. Peña could we get something for you and your guest”

He unbuttons his coat and nods, “Could you get her a cosmo, I’ll have an old fashioned.”

The man nods and walks away, you blink and shake your head. 

‘What the hell is happening right now.” 

Javier chuckles, leaning forward and grabbing a silver headband in between his fingers. He runs his thumb along it, lifting his left hand from your lap and tucking it under your chin. You pout for his obvious attempt to distract you, he places the scratchy thing delicately on the crown of your head. 

“Believe it or not, this used to be a dingy cop bar back in my day.” He licks his lips and your self control keeps being tested. You missed the feel, it’s been years. And you could just, he would never say no, but you– you try not to objectify him while he answers the question you asked. “Called last week to see if i could reserve a booth since me and the owner were friends back then. Told me he flipped the place and that he could hook me up with this. You know, especially since I said that you’d be my guest.”

“Me?”

“Yes.” he pats your thigh. The weight of his hand feels entirely too explicit, the energy of the room makes you buzz. He’s close, you can smell that he used your shampoo this morning and your chests flood with warmth at the thought of him smelling like you. “I drank more than I should’ve and talked about you a lot. It was…” He lets it fade, he wipes his mouth. 

You know what he means. It was quite the pathetic time for the two of you. Just teenagers full of regret and poor decision making. You wished so greatly that those years would just be overshadowed by 1986, and the pregnancy and Colombia. But it’s there, the way Xavier treated you, the damage you did to your own body. It’s there like an ugly wound, and your therapist must be tired of picking all of it apart but it was still fucked and still real.

But it’s gone. It’s no longer now and you could comically exhale at the thought. 

Lord knows they couldn’t pay you enough to be seventeen again. 

But, a lot of it was really stupid. The yearning, the baseless thoughts in your bed at night. Like you would wonder if you tried really hard maybe Javi will know you’re thinking of him. Or that time you rented a book about lucid dreaming so that maybe you could just see him again. It’s silly really, but it’s real and it’s so painfully seventeen. So you laugh at his mention of getting pissed and ranting about your relationship. Or lack thereof .

You chortle, “Okay, like not in a really sad way sometimes I would just pray that you would hear the things Xavier said to me. Like I would actually fantasize about you secretly being in his bedroom and just hearing the shitty little comments he’d make. It's so lame and needy but it's what my seventeen year old self wanted so badly.” 

There’s genuine tears in your eyes, you can barely admit it without bursting into a fit of laughter and salty tracks down your made up face. You thought you’d die with those thoughts but you never expected to know him so well. To know that he’d never judge you for some demented fantasy you had as a teenager, because he’s laughing just as hard. Squeezing his palm into your thigh, leaning closer, rubbing his eyes. 

You could kiss him, you really could just. Just telling him you want him without saying the words. The laughter dies down and he’s blinked at the light from his eyes. So have you, his eyes drop to the new position of your hand, you’re not sure when it moved but it did. Laying gently on his bicep, his gaze drags down your legs, your knees facing him entirely. He clenches his jaw, like a man made of restraint, he finally looks to your lips. 

It feels like the first time. Like your backs against his truck and he’s stepping closer, looking at you with a gaze you’ve never known. Like you’re wearing that black dress with roses and he’s pushing it up to fit himself and it’s a rough kiss in a parking lot. 

It’s that same look he gave you ten years ago, but it means too much now. 

His nostrils flare, he looks back into your eyes like it pains him to no longer look at your lips, his brow creases. His face is full of ache, like he’s a starved man. For a moment you feel terrible for making him wait this long, for depriving him of the first thing he ever did to you. But his shaky desperate breath turns you on and you don’t feel so sorry anymore. 

“Andrea…”

“Javier. Fucking. Peña.” 

Your hand startles, dropping back into your lap, your knees and body jumping at the shout. You look ahead and Javi, he doesn’t seem so startled. He just shakes his head and inches away until he stands. A man in a tan suit approaches Javier with the slyest smirk she’s ever seen. Dirty blonde hair and a mustache just like Javier’s. 

Javi, his eyes light up and he shakes his head like he doesn’t want this man to see his complete excitement. 

You furrow your brows but their laughs are infectious when they finally embrace. Firm pats on the back, “Steve Murphy.” Javi squeezes his shoulder.

You don’t get a moment to feel out of place because in an instant Steve is staring at you and then darting back at Javi with a quirked brow. The pronunciation of Javier’s name, a southern all american charm radiates from him. 

You reach your hand out, “I’m Andrea, Javier’s friend.” It comes out quick and without thought, it makes your insides curl. You feel Javier’s stare on the side of your face, you shallowly thickly. Steve’s nostrils flare with a small smile and it feels like he’s in on a joke you’re not a part of. 

“Pleasure, I was Javier’s partner in Medellin.” 

Your brows shoot high, the name had sounded familiar. Javi told you a stories of him, of their tumultuous partnership, he spoke of him like an annoying younger brother. You beam at the confirmation, despite all of the mess Javier spoke of Steve you know that he kept him grounded and less alone. Your chest spreads with a sense of gratitude. “Oh that’s wonderful!” You pull him into a hug.

“Oh Javi!” Another voice rings. Steve chuckles into your shoulder and the two of you part, 

“Connie! Wow, Steve, you didn’t tell me Connie could make it.” Javi is lit up, pulling the woman into another tight hug. 

For the first time, his life in Colombia is solid and real. The people who took care of him, here. You want to thank them, you know they wouldn’t understand what it means to you. They might find you insane, but the nights you spent up worrying were bone splitting.

 You swallow your emotion, and bask in the sweet reunion. Javi pulls you into his side again, a bit more firm, a little possessive like he wants to make a statement without making a statement. Which would be best because how could you label this?

Friend?

Ex?

Best friend?

Ex-girlfriend who I have half sex with but don’t kiss and am currently on a trial run to find out if we should get back together?

A girl close enough to be held will have to do. 

Connie has a red lip, not by makeup, a wine tinted lip and a blush only a woman who pregamed could have. She’s airy and looking over her shoulder like she’s looking for someone. 

“That’s my wife Connie, we obviously had a few drinks before we left the hotel.” 

“Elisa! Over here!” Her arm is hooked around Murphy’s and she waves her arm.

You look up at Javier and his face hardens. Amongst the crowded lounge comes a petite woman with jet black hair and a drink in her left hand. Elisa is beautiful, mature and Javier drops his hold and takes a step forward. You blink hard and fast at the sudden loss of his touch. She approaches.

“I asked for Panache on the rocks and the bartender looked at me like I was stupid and handed me a Negroni.” She shakes her head with a laugh not seeing the man stunned at her appearance. You’re left confused with a strange feeling in your stomach. She finally does, her grin doesn’t change but she makes a small face at Connie. “Javi wow. Tanto tiempo.” She chuckles and doesn’t hesitate, she reaches for a half hug. 

“No esperaba verte.” He says in hushed tones and you’re trying your hardest not to be unreasonable but your jealous bone is just like his. They let go and her eyes lock with him for a second too long and you aren’t sure you’re having any fun anymore. Her eyes dart to you, and Javi turns to your side. He stumbles, “Andrea, this is Elisa, a friend from Colombia.” 

Your eyes widen, he’d never mentioned her before but her smile is pleasant and warm so you smile right back. You swallow the discomfort that bubbles under the surface. “Hi, hello.” You stumble, and she pulls you into a similar hug and you feel fucking weird. 

“Well can we sit?” Murphy cuts and Javi chuckles, with a nod and the group crowds what was once just yours. Javi takes your hand in his and guides you right back to the lounge. 

You sit with your legs crossed, elbows on your knees leaning forward while Steve begins his rant about his flight from Florida and the way his mother doesn’t believe in disposable diapers so she made him buy reusables, a babysitting non-negotiable. You try not to, you really do but your attention darts from Steve to Elisa’s silence and Javier’s sudden discomfort. 

“Elisa is living in Fort Worth so Connie reached out to her to join us. We wanted to head out last night but I had to stay back and soothe Olivia to sleep over the phone.” He shakes his head, Connie and Elisa snicker.

“We got to go out.” Elisa smirks, looks at Javi a little too long and the crease between his brow deepens. You’re unsure what to make of it.

This wasn’t a feeling you were used to. Yes, you have been jealous before. Back when you were fifteen, back when it all felt unrequited so the jealousy only really came with envy. But there's something twisted about this.

You know what he was like. He told you just the surface of his habits with women. You smell it all over them, they had sex before. Connie must’ve brought her along to help rekindle this.

She doesn’t know about me. About us. So it really isn’t her fault.

Is there an us? Do I have the right to feel this way, to these strangers I’m just a friend who has tagged along. I said it myself. 

Javi hasn’t spoken to you in almost ten minutes, even looked your way. 

Fuck being justified. 

“The owner there always gets drunk and gives away drinks, especially to women– it's on Westerly– Andrea have you been?” Connie asks and your eyes had been peeled on Javier’s fingers wrapped around the stem of his beer bottle. You look away, caught off guard. Then, you finally feel his gaze on the side of your face. It’s crazy knowing how it feels to be looked at by him. You could be blind folded in a room full of men and you’ll find your way to him, it's a peculiar thing, a special thing. A thing you kind of fucking hate right now, because you can feel that he’s sensing that you’re off. He shuffles toward you a bit, closing the distance, allowing for your legs to touch again. 

You blink hard, “Oh! I don’t live around here.” You know she doesn't either but this was really only your third time in the city, and it seems Connie’s mother lives here. 

“Where do you live?” Elisa twirls a mini umbrella between her fingers. Tucking it into her hair like a flower, it matches her dress. You almost expect Javi to snap his head at the sound of her voice. 

He doesn’t, not at all. He continues to burn, his eyes roving all over you, taking claim with a look. Something about it makes your chest cave, “New York, I’m a high school teacher.”

“Kudos.” 

“Wait, how do you two know each other?” Connie drunkenly wags a finger between you two.

You can't help it, your lips twitch in a smile and the two of you are staring at each other with stupid little grins. Javi shakes his head and looks into his lap, fist coming to his mouth to conceal his laugh because what a fucking question. 

“We are childhood best friends." You swallow, “Yeah, that's the best way to put it.”

“Since 1977.” Javi adds, resting his back into the couch, legs spreading. “I met her when she had a retainer and a curfew.” You burn bright red, the dim light soft the lounge hides it for you. 

Connie lets out noises of endearment and Elisa does the same, “Well it’s lovely to meet you, you know Javier was a tightly wound sort of guy. I stayed with him an entire month and only found out his favorite color from snooping in his closet.” She looks over at Javi and your stomach pits all over again. Not once did he mention living with someone else, let alone a woman. Your brows are pulled together but you mask it with curiosity. She points at Javi, “Which by the way, I left my— fuck—“ She snaps her fingers, waiting for the word to come to her. She mutters how do I say this in english, under her breath before snapping again. 

“Yes! My pendent, it was real gold and the shape of colombia—before I got my visa,” She looks to you, figuring that you’re out of the loop. “I had to flee the country and I was granted political asylum here in exchange for some information on the cartel so obviously I left his place in a rush.”

She shakes her head, like it’s a sour memory and it does sound like one. You frown at the thought, the need to actually run away from what you know. She frowns just the same, and her eyes dart to Javi. “We never really did say goodbye, did we?” 

His lips are a tight line, arms crossed and you watch his face as he recalls the time. Connie has a sympathetic deep frown, a hand wrapped around Steve’s bicep. 

“No.” He cuts it short and he looks full of regret, maybe something else and you really are trying to be fucking cool.

Trying to be understanding, to not be that girl. The logical part of you still exists, she tells you that he isn’t yours, not at this moment. And that he wasn’t yours then, and that you had your fun too. But in the same breath, it feels fucking awful. The idea of another woman living with him kills you. That was never a reality for the two of you and probably could never be and that makes your heart race. 

The idea of someone else sharing something with him. The idea of someone knowing something about him that you didn’t know. 

So yes, that emotional part is like a big ugly fucking wound that gets in the way always. 

It almost fucked this whole thing up, that part of you that convinced yourself you cannot have good things. That you can’t have him, that awful part that made him cry. The terrible thing that had your head pounding with guilt the entire morning. 

It’s easy to forget how fucked you’ve been when you have someone like Javi by your side to look at your breakdown and know it’s that unstable part of you speaking. Someone patient. 

The conversation shifts, Steve is talking about how a job in the DEA makes you into an old man faster than marriage, Connie slaps him on the arm at that, he talks about when the job had turned him sour and violent and angry at the world. Javi doesn’t share his own stories, he just nods along. 

Elisa does the same, sitting, strong and confident.

She’s the sort of woman you pictured for Javi when you were a young girl. A woman with her head on her shoulders, bright smile and beautiful. A woman who demands the room to offer its attention to her. She had walked in with effortless conviction. She seemed like she never doubted her intellect, her beauty, her appeal. And maybe it’s the strange feeling of envy talking but she felt like the complete opposite of you. 

Confidence is a new field for you, one you’re still testing. You’ve grown used to being the odd one out, the 3rd wheel, what have you. You rather not demand attention, you’d like to avoid it at all costs. You only wanted the attention of one, but you aren’t the luckiest at this moment because now she’s speaking and you feel invisible. 

Frankly, you also feel quite pathetic for being in your head like this. For playing this silly game of who’s better, but again it’s that awful part of you that still needs work. 

You press your lips together and get to your feet. Adjusting your shawl, Javi pulls down the skin tight material of your dress as it was previously bunched up. And you don’t know why the display from him makes you incredibly sad inside. He looks up at you with a genuine deeply concerned expression. 

“Is everything alright?” His hand lingers on your calf but you step away with a fake smile and brief nod.

“Yes, yes I’m just heading to the ladies room.” You look over your shoulder, scattered private sections and television screens and a long line of women and men in their sparkliest dresses and steamed shirts. 

You can give yourself that, the mind numbing solace of being alone on line for a bathroom. 

“Oh let me keep you company,” Connie stands and before you could protest Steve speaks.

“Perfect, I'll go order some shots and drinks for the group since it seems bottle service was out of Javi’s tax bracket.” He stands too. Javi chuckles at the comment.

 Before you know it, Connie’s manicured hand is skating onto your arm and holding to you. 

“Javi, tell me if this is watered down.” Elise shifts closer to Javi now that you’ve stood up, Connie guides you away and you barely try to hide your second glance behind you as Javier sips out of her drink.

You snap your head forward and swallow a knot from your throat. 

“You have—and I'm being very serious, the most beautiful smile I've ever seen. I just know you’ve got a hunk in New York City that is absolutely crazy about you.” She snorts, shaking her head, the two of you approach the comically large line and make your way to the back. 

You smile but truly it’s hard to, “Oh— no, no. But thank you. You are very beautiful too, truly you and Steve are like such a lovely couple.”

 She blushes and shakes her head, a truly cute humble response. “Thank you!” You wished you were as tipsy as she was, you might enjoy yourself a bit more. She runs a hand through her hair and it falls in a perfect set of blonde waves, she looks over back at our section. “It’s probably so idiotic but I was trying to set Javi and Elisa back up again. I think I’m failing so so terribly.”

There it was. 

“What’s the deal with them—you know I only know him from home.” You lie and you truly couldn’t help it. You had an affinity for hurting yourself. 

“Right! Right. It’s awkward for them I’m sure,” The line moves up an inch or two. “She was a part of a political group that was in conflict with the cartel, she went into hiding when it got really violent. I worked with her in the hospital and when I heard that she could be killed by Pablo and his men I brought her to Javi while we figured out a way to get her out of the situation. And… you’ve known Javi your whole life, they obviously got involved romantically—“ She whispers the next part, “Sexually.”

Your mind fights the battle of feeling terribly sorry for her circumstance and incredibly hurt by the confirmation.

“W-was it serious? Like the two of them?”

Connie ponders for a moment, rolling her lips to the side and looking away. “I mean— again Javi will never call anyone his girlfriend and… they weren’t really that but they spent an entire month together. Her boyfriend had just been killed and he was just incredibly sad and distant so I don’t think either of them would picture that as a relationship, they sure didn’t call it that.”

“Oh,” Your eyes fall to the ground. Wanting to look over at them again, the context softens the blow a bit. Your brows still pull together in the conflict now settling in your chest.

You’re not sure you needed a justification. The reality still hurts you.

Connie gasps, “Oh god I’m an asshole.” You blink the wetness from your eyes and look back up at her. Her hands are over her face, “You’re Javier’s date. Oh my god, I’m an idiot.”

“Oh—no - no” You lie, mostly to make her stop freaking out, the people behind her in line turn their heads. 

“No don’t lie to make me feel better, I do this— all the time. Missing cues and whatnot.”

“It-it’s complicated, we’re exes and I don’t know, I think we’re trying to make it work again but I live in New York so it’s…” You let your voice fade, because you’re trying not to think about the logistics of it all, the point. The two of you have only beaten around the bush, you couldn't be sure how he would feel about being pulled all the way to New York and you sure as hell aren’t coming back to Laredo. 

What are you two doing? 

“Even more complicated.” She responds, and you give her a curt nod. Talking about it just feels like impending doom, like this could blow up terribly and be something beyond repair. Or be something much more simple and sad, with the inability to meet each other halfway. “I understand, I met Steve at the University of Connecticut. I spent eight months separated from him when he started with the DEA in Miami. “ She shakes her head, giving your shoulder a firm squeeze.

“What did you do— how did you guys do it?”

Connie gives a dry chuckle, “We broke up when he accepted the job. After I graduated I couldn’t stand being broken up anymore. We got married two weeks after I showed up at his door in coral gables. I took the leap.” She bites back a smile, looking over her shoulder to where her husband stood on line for a drink. The bar was crowded the music low, its chatter and noise makers galore. It was a quieter atmosphere than you’re used too, its delightful. You look over at Javi and Elisa, he’s handing her a cigarette. When you look back at Connie she has a sobered look on her, a crease in her brow.

Your stomach does a vicious dip. “I know it might seem stupid to take advice from the tipsy girl that tried to set your ex up with his other ex but I can see it in your eyes.” She continues, “You’re trying to run from what’s good for you. It’s why you almost lied to me—almost let me push them together.” 

She cracks you open, the line shortens and you frown. Yesterday had been so terrible, you acted out of character. You truly did not feel like yourself. It was like something ugly came over you, that part of you who wants to keep you wounded, keep you lonely. It took over and you couldn’t even stop it.

You look again and the section is empty.

The sex was out of pure necessity and convenience. She was living in his house, he’d come home from work and she’d climb into bed with him. She wanted to forget, he did too. It would end typically with her very upset about her boyfriend who was just murdered. 

They had sex the morning of August 6th, it was a quickie, sloppy and generally bad but still tender and comfortable. When he came back to his apartment in the late hours of the night, his bones ached, the air wasn’t on like she usually kept it and it sort of bothered him. He called for her name and she wasn’t there. He called Connie, she told him she was granted asylum and they flew her out immediately. 

She was a friend to him, maybe a lover if that’s what they would call it. A transactional relationship, a strange blip in his timeline. Someone he was okay with forgetting, moving away from. 

She was here, flirting with him. He felt your entire demeanor tense, he could sense your discomfort. He’s known you forever, he knew every little thing about you. He also knew that despite your greatest efforts to be relaxed and sure of yourself, you get jealous too. 

And it feels like he’s lied, or kept information from you purposefully. While you asked not to tell him anything else about his intimate life while he was in Colombia, something about this feels sneaky and his skin has been crawling around his bones since the second she walked in.

He prays you don’t perceive it as anything else. 

He looks over at you, your head shaking, eyes cast to the floor while Connie’s mouth moves.  Elisa squeezes his shoulder, snapping him back. “Could you light this for me?” 

Javi stares at the cigarette he had just handed to her a few seconds before. She has a sly smile on her face, they shared cigarettes after late night encounters. He wasn’t so interested in that right now. 

“In here?” 

She chuckles, “Other people are smoking in here.” She was right, people indeed were casually smoking inside, it was the norm in places like these. But he looks at you again. He thinks about that little upturned face you make when you get in the truck after he had just smoked with the windows closed. 

Javi clears his throat, “It’s better if we go outside. Andrea hates the smell in an enclosed place.” He smiles to himself, knowing if they smoked right there on those couches now you’d walk over, trying to hide a face of discomfort and power through the night with your nose tickling at the smell of smoke and leather. Elisa furrows her brow, “She’d never admit it but she does, makes her sneeze.” 

She looks over at you, and back at him. Then she stands. 

He follows her right out the lounge, also in need of a smoke.

There’s a line. A long one, women in red, men holding women. Man holding man. Waiting for the bouncer to let them in. The streets were filled, there was a party on the streets as well. Music filled them, a general excitement for the new year. It reminded him of how Times Square looked on the television. The way the feed looked an hour after, when the jazz faded, the streets emptied slightly. That’s the energy here. 

Elisa walks in front of him, moving her hair from one shoulder to another until they find an unoccupied wall to lean against. She pulls the red between her lips and faces him. Javier felt around for his lighter before finding it on his left side.

His right pocket occupied.

He cups the flame, only a slight breeze on December 31st. It lights and she wastes no minute and she drags. 

Javier pulls his own, igniting himself in record time and dragging just the same. 

Elisa crosses her arms and points at the front door with the blazing end. “Esa es ella, ¿verdad?” 

Javier furrows his brow. Looking over his shoulder, expecting to see someone familiar.

“What?”

“The reason why you didn’t kick me out when I cried after we fucked.” She shrugs, flicking sparks to the ground. 

“Uh—“

“Any man would have run away, or would have I don’t know— have a really hurt ego. But I knew you used to think of someone else too. Ale was my boyfriend since college, we wanted to have kids.” 

Javier drops his gaze, he’d sit on the edge of the bed, a passed rolled cigarette between his fingers. He could feel her body jolting behind him, whispered apologies and sobs. Feeling equally as empty all he could offer her then was a palm on her stomach, a small understanding. He offered her the simple pleasure of intimacy, it stopped at that. It didn’t feel right for her, it sure as hell didn’t feel right for him. 

“Who was she?” 

Javi looks up at her, her face so earnest. Was he that wide open to people, could they tell that he’d tear the ground open with his bare hands to see you happy, to stay around you forever. Could everyone in Colombia tell his time there was borrowed, that his heart was left on his doorstep in June 1986? 

“My ex-girlfriend.” He actually wasn’t sure he wanted to really tell her all of it. 

“Who broke up with who.” 

Javier side eyed her. She was always straightforward and a bit nosy. It was quality of hers that always made him chuckle.

“It was mutual.” What a twisted way to see it. 

“Why?”

Javi sighs, “I got my ex pregnant.”

She furrows her, “You got Andrea pregnant?”

“No. My other ex. But it wasn’t mine.” 

“So you were cheating on Andrea, your ex got pregnant but she was also sleeping with other people?”

“No.”

“I’m so confused right now.”

“I last had sex with my ex in April? I started with Andrea in May. 1986”

“You should have lead with that.” She cackles, taking another drag. She frowns soon after all the information settles.

Still, it wasn't all of it. “I– almost married her. I figured it all out on the day of the wedding. That’s how me and Andrea left things. With her being a guest at a wedding I never showed up to.”

It feels like a joke. He really only ever spoke about this with a handful of people. Each time it’s spoken, it hurts all over again. It hurts all over. His eyes frost over for a moment when he looks at the pavement beneath his shoes. He sees Elisa shift from foot to foot with a similar frown. 

He needs to go back inside. 

“You were hurting, I was too. I am.” She admits, flicking the clip on the ground, her pumps stepping out the flame. “Connie brought me here because she really liked the idea of us. I don’t think she imagined that it was really only transactional back then.” 

He winces at the cold wording although it’s what his brain has been telling him that's what this was. He only hoped she felt the same way, he couldn’t bear hurting another woman with his carelessness. Javi looks up at her again and her eyes are wet. “Don’t waste anymore time. Don’t dwell on all the shit you two probably went through. It–you deserve something good. She—she seems so in love with you. Just…” Her voice broke, and he knew she wasn’t crying for him but for the man that was brutally taken from her. 

He knew she truly meant it. 

Javi knows it’s now or never.

By the time you actually made it to the bathroom, the urge to pee had fled and the urge to spit up lunch presented itself. You felt crazy. And frankly, you felt like a shitty person because you felt bone aching sympathy for Elisa but in the same breath, sick to your stomach at the sight of them leaving the bar together. 

You dangerously cup your hand under the sink water and washed down the bile. 

In the mirror you see yourself under red lights. It’s not often that you truly stare at yourself, you’re afraid of wondering when you’ve changed. You blink looking closer. Your cheekbones are prominent, losing the round cheeks you once had. Lips fuller, eyebrows thicker. Woman, yourself, it fills you with dread how much you’ve changed, how much time has passed. The looming anxiety builds each second you stare at yourself. 

You swing the door open, a patron on line mutters finally. Connie makes a face at them before leading you toward the section. You stumble your own feet like you’re the tipsy one, but Steve stops the two of you before you could make it to your side of the lounge, tray in hand.

“Could you believe it… one bartender on New Year's Eve in Downtown Houston."  He shakes his head, Connie picks a shot off the tray and shoots it back, “Jesus baby.”

You look over your shoulder, at the door Elisa gets on her tip toes and plants a firm kiss on Javier’s cheek. 

You snap your head back like it stung. Your heart racing suddenly, Steve patted his wife's back while she coughed and made a face similar to the one Sol made when you had her try lime back when she was an infant. “Fuck.” She croaks, “By the way… Andrea is Javier’s ex so… definitely no more match maker for me.”

Steve’s brows furrowed, looking at you then at his wife. He does a double take, then his face crumples. Why did she kiss him?

“The girl from the wedding.”

 So, he did talk to someone about it.

“You guys were married?” Connie gasps, you look over your shoulder again and they're still talking by the door. You grab a shot off the tray, shoot it back and take another. “Woah!” 

You close your eyes so hard you feel like you might go down, “No. We broke up because his ex was pregnant with another man's baby, said it was his. They almost got married.” You say it like it's nothing only because you had to. You pick off a pink tall drink from the tray.

“That is just terrible–”

A manicured hand squeezes your shoulder, “Don’t drink before we can toast!” Elisa beams, offering a second squeeze to your shoulder that makes your blood boil. 

And Javi, he has this face that sort of pisses you off. It pisses you off because you want to ask him if he’s alright. He’s got a line between his brow and wall put up. His hair is tousled like he’s run a stressed hand through it and he smells of leather and smoke. He slots between you and Steve. 

He turns his head toward you, he dips his head a bit, a test to your height difference. “Were you able to get past the line?” He asks in your ear. It’s frustrating that no matter what, the timbre of his voice at the shell of your ear sends shivers down your body. The rest of the group continue their conversation and in the mix they begin walking toward the booth. 

“Yup.” Your walking pace slows to match his, you sip, strawberry mojito. 

“O-kay.” He drags out and you really aren’t trying to start an argument. The guilt of yesterday nearly killed you, you’re just finding it incredibly hard to feel normal around all of this. Around someone he was fucking only four months ago. You are searching the rationality in you, they were two hurt individuals finding solace. You’ve had your fair share of partners, of men you’ve slept with to make things go quiet. Fill the time space. He offers a hand when you arrive back at the section and the tipsy pettiness in you wanted to ignore it.

Still, you took it.

Settling back down. Elisa grabs a drink from the table. There’s a redness in her eyes, she looks to you, “What made you move to New York?” 

You swallow, not expecting to be the topic of conversation once again. Javier’s arm rests on the seat behind you. 

“I wanted to start over. Completely. I was turning twenty four, I felt alone in New Orleans.” Clearing your throat, you felt airy and light from the two shots you downed less than three minutes ago. “New Orleans was a difficult place to be foreign from. Everyone seemed to know each other, I found it easier to find a new life farther away.” The tipsyness began to settle with each word, you hoped you sounded well. She nods in understanding and the group is a bit silent for a moment. 

You reach forward for another unguarded drink at the table and take a large gulp, you assume that this would be a polite time to then ask her a question. 

“You mentioned living with Javi? How did that happen?” 

You can blame it on the alcohol tomorrow, her red lips are wrapped around the thin black straw when her brows pull together. She side eyes Javier very quickly, which makes you side eye Javier just the same. There he’s sitting with his eyes cast to the ground, like a dog with its tail tucked. 

Elisa places her drink down, “He offered me his apartment when I was a fugitive. I rarely saw him though so It was nice having alone time in an American funded apartment.” She chuckles, saving herself… from… you don’t know what. You’re feeling crazy. “Perfect roommate situation.”

Although it probably means nothing, it still makes your brow twitch. 

“Javi, did I ever mail you that picture of you pissing in Escobar’s toilet?” Steve cut into the tension with his southern drawl. Javi’s eyes snap from yours then to Steve.

“No, you haven’t.” He drags, like he hasn’t fully registered what he just said to him. “Wait? You took a picture of that?”

“Sure did.” 

The group laughed at his delivery, he was a funny guy. He seemed just like the type of guy who would fit in just right back at home. They share more stories and soon the guys and Elisa are off in their own world talking about god knows what. 

You’re trying very hard to not let it bother you. She’s in between them, cackling loudly, making him laugh. The drinks are flowing and everyone’s a bit more loose. There’s less tension but you still feel the need to be half tuned into their conversation at all times. 

The more Connie speaks, the more you sip. 

It’s out of habit, out of your control, you’re too anxious to speak so you continue to drink. 

“You know he was my first time? Actually he’s been my only and I’m completely okay with that.” She’s leaning forward on her knees, using hands to talk. This is one thing you have in common with Connie.

Oversharing when you’re drunk. 

“Oh god that’s beautiful.” You slur, you’re trying to control it. “My first boyfriend was my first time and until I was twenty-two I was convinced he ruined sex for me. You know what’s crazy?”

“What?”

“There was a time in my life, where I thought that I would probably marry him. Bad sex, verbal abuse and all, I felt like that was the sort of love I was destined for.” You laugh a dry one, it’s rare that you reflect on that relationship anymore. Now it feels insignificant in the grand schemes of shit you went through. But truly it played a bigger role in your life than you’d like to admit. You raise the coupe glass to your lips and down the rest of the pink liquid. Connie presses her lips together. 

“And now?” 

You cough a small burn, they were a bit liberal on the alcohol to mixer ratio. “Now what?”

“Do you feel like that’s the type of love that you’re destined for?”

The corners of your eyes crease, with a nose crinkle, feeling split open by the question. You want to say, I’m too drunk to answer that. But instead you glance at Javier. He has the stem of a green beer bottle pinched between two large fingers. Accompanied with a chuckle that hoots into the glass. 

You look back at Connie, you shrug drunkenly. 

Because the alternative is right there.

“I really hope not.” 

Connie shakes her head, letting your own words hang until it ripens then rots, and your chin jumps at the honesty of it. 

“I’ve known you for two hours and I know that you aren’t.” She shrugs, “I think you know what you deserve.” 

Her eyes do a quick glance to the man next to you.

You haven’t been this wasted in years. Being a teacher allowed you with once a month binges and casual beers. Always ditching the club at 1:30 because you had grading the next morning, you rarely stumbled when calling a taxi. But man, the intense weight of the past twenty four hours and the beautiful woman talking to your man made keeping up with Connie an easier feat than expected.

“Come on Ms. UMiami.” She held your chin, somehow got her hands on a bottle of malibu and poured it down your throat. Elisa clapped at your record breaking twenty second chug. Your bones light, Javier’s touch at your back borders a line in your head. One side inviting you to swallow and kiss him, and the other side shaking it off, he hadn’t given you any attention all night. 

Connie squeals stopping the pour and you sway forward, alcohol dripping from the bottom of your lip. 

The pad of Javi’s thumb comes to your aide, at your chin and then at the bottom of your lip. His gaze intense and a little clouded by alcohol as well, he says it with his eyes, his brow furrowing.

Why are being like this with me? 

You shy away and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, effectively dismissing his touch. His mustached frown deepens, It’s Elisa now who’s being administered possibly illegal amounts of alcohol while Steve is the one to cheer her on. 

You jump to your feet, stumbling and nearly falling over. But in one swift movement, Javier is at his feet, dreading you with an open palm on your stomach. “Easy,” he warns.

 You ignore him. Turning your back on him and taking hold of both Elisa and Connie’s hands. 

They both peer up at you, “Let’s dance.”

As midnight inched closer the ambiance became less lounge like and more that of a club. The music changed from standard background music to songs with synths and pounding. It was an entire sensation, the buzzing in your head, the hands held and the dance floor seemingly crowded now. The low lights make your eyes gloss a bit. The three of you dance. You in the middle and the two women on either side of you. Elisa runs a hand to your waist and Connie holds your hands in the air. The three of you danced, broke a sweat and laughed. It reminded you of your days in Miami, the rare times when you went out with your girlfriends, drinking to forget. It’s torture when you body and mind always forces you to feel. Every intense thought flowed through you at once. 

Your mind runs through all the things you know are true. 

The woman behind me has fucked Javier.

The thought has sent me on a spiral

Javi has uttered few words to me tonight

Yet his eyes are always trying to read me

He stares at me when others talk in his ear

He constantly looks like he’s on the urge of telling me something

I didn’t mean to recoil from his touch but my drunken jealousy has overtaken me

My judgement is terrible and I feel close to the same way I did last night

Your brain hates you for being so aware of yourself, you still dance until your bolero is slipping and a bead of sweat trickles down your neck. You flip around to join hands with Elisa while she tipsily moves with you. 

“You’re in lots of trouble man.” Steve chuckles, patting Javi firmly on his back. Javi shakes his head, leaning forward to watch the little display you have going on. 

Your hands in your hair, the delicate bones of arms lifting and inviting him closer. He won't let you drink anymore, he has taken your wintery mood on the chin. He could read you like a book, the liquid courage allowed you to be jealous without batting your lashes. 

Don’t you know that you’re intoxicating? That he gets high just being around you, that he is only looking at you at this moment. 

Finally, your gaze is like a cool breeze on a warm day. You look at him with a soft little look before it turns to conviction and straightening your spine and showing him that same sweet furrow. You take it away from him just as fast, you face Elisa again who is arguably tipsier than you are, she actually relies on your hold to stand. 

Javi rises to his feet and adjusts his pants with a clearing of his throat. He takes weighted strides toward the dance floor, he catches your attention again. You roll your eyes and he wants to kiss that look off your face. 

In the same motion Elisa notices him, letting go of you and squealing at the sight of Javi joining the dance floor. Before he can piston toward you, Elisa grabs hold of his arm and places her lips close to his ear,

“Tienes que actuar pronto, antes de que lo haga yo” She mumbled with a giggle.

You watch the interaction and completely deflate. 

Javier feels the ribs caging his heart cave at the look you give them before you storm away.  Connie calls from behind you. Javi looks up at the televisions stationed by the bar, only a four minute countdown. He places a hand on Elisa’s arm, “I’m sorry I have to go.”

With that, he’s hot on your heels. You stride past the bouncer still letting folks in. 

The chilly December air smacks him square in the face, his cheeks feeling wet at the impact. 

The streets are filled, like a spring time block party. The surrounding clubs are accompanied by similarly lengthy lines and road blocks. Police turning a blind eye to folks drinking in public, buzzing with excitement and urgency to watch the ball drop inside an establishment. 

He watches you stumble over your heels, pulling your bolero over your shoulders once again, adjusting your hair. 

Javier catches up to you just by the spot where had smoked just an hour ago. His hand delicately catches your wrist. You turn on your heels and it makes a grinding sound in the concrete. 

“What?” You snap, a crease in your brow. 

“I should be asking you the same thing.” He crosses his arms and you follow suit, he shouldn’t find it endearing but he does. 

You bite the inside of your lip, “It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit.” He spits, “Andrea just tell me what you’re thinking about.”

You grit your teeth, “Nothing-just-.” You drop your hands and walk toward the curb, he follows your steps. “Just–help me hail a cab. You can continue having your double date.” You wave your hand out and he truly doesn’t have the heart to tell you that the road is blocked off.

He’s looked at you with a burning rage as if you cursed his entire family. The nerve of you to think he’ll aid you in leaving alone, drunk, in a city unfamiliar. 

“Absolutely not.” He cranes his neck forcing you to look at him. “If you’re jealous just tell me instead of trying to run away.”

It’s unspoken but he says, I left running away in my past, don’t let this nasty habit consume you too. 

You scoff, fully facing him now. “That’s rich coming from you. “

You’re only trying to get a rise, he knows you know he’s changed. And it won't work, not when he knows your– “Just admit you’re jealous.” 

Man, they loved to argue outside of a party. 

You lick your lips and your arms begin flailing with each word. 

“Imagine I introduced you as a friend to a guy I fucked and took a ten minute smoke break with him, and talked to him all night and fucking— IMAGINE he whispered something flirty in my ear right in your face.” She takes a deep breath, dropping her hands. “You’d flip your shit Javi!”

He knows it’s you who introduced yourself as a friend, he knows your anger has blinded you from all logic.

“You’re right, I would.” 

He doesn’t have to think twice, he nods curtly at that. “But I’d also have enough faith in you to know that that guy would never come close to me.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Andrea, yes. Because I know you don’t want anyone else. And yes, I used to sleep with Elisa, no it wasn’t more than that. Yes she stayed with me but it was purely transactional. She was picturing her boyfriend and I was thinking of you. Is that what you want to hear?” 

You chin quivered and he doesn’t mean to raise his tone at you but it seems to be that you’re listening now. He’d never yell but his voice is stern. A breeze comes by and a strand of her sticks to your lips. “We smoked and I told her about you, about us and I’ve been trying this entire night to find the right moment to approach you and I was going to on the dance floor– but Elisa is a sloppy drunk and she told me to make a move before she does herself.” He almost chuckles dryly but your bottom lip is bitten red and your chest rises and comes down at a slow pace. 

You sniffle, hugging your body.

You allow a silence. Allowing the shouts and chatter come to the foreground. Your eyes search his face, lip trembling.

Finally you suck in a breath. 

“You’re just saying that–”

“God you can be so frustrating, Andrea.” 

Your face crumbles even more, fat tears streaming down your face.  He winces at your response. His own chin is on the cusp of quivering, he sucks in a hard breath. 

“I’ll listen to you talk me in circles for the rest of my life until you’ve had enough of me because it could never be the other way around. I want you to frustrate me at all times Andrea, but I need you to know that I hate seeing you upset over something like this because It’s only you. It was you when we were kids, it was you in high school, in fucking Laredo, Colombia.”

You’re shaking your head, there’s black at your water line. He swallows, gesturing to you. As if maybe this will help you understand.

“Andrea, you have to know.” He puts his hand on his heart, fearing it might fall into his hands. “You have to know that it's still you.”

There's a distant sound, a chant, a bustle. Counting down, people pass the two of you with side glances. 

6…

5…

4…

You suck in a harsh breath, unable to form a sentence. Your mind tells you to destroy it, to protect yourself from the things you want. Your trauma responses are a stubborn, stubborn thing. You aren’t even surprised when your mouth moves before your logic catches up. Your brows nearly thread together,

 “You don’t really want that–you’ll get tired of–”

There's a loud pop, collective hooting around them and from beyond the glass windows. It’s like when his building shook when Colombia beat America during the world cup three years ago. Jazz music from the bars flooding the streets, holding and gripping and champagne and–

Two calloused hands on either side of her cheeks, cool palms soothing the heat that flowed there. Her hands fisted on the material of his shirt that wrinkles. Finally, familiar wet lips against her own, pressing firmly like an offering. His body presses into hers like a man starved, nearly knocking her off her feet. He feels her unstable body and swings his hand at her lower back. 

Like a Klimt painting they mold into one and her hand snakes into his hair. Lips moving slowly now, she tries to get as close as possible. Every worry she’s ever felt blurring into nothing. He rocks and she sighs shyly against his lips. Nails raking and messing his hair. It’s a kiss like she’s never had before, like he might materialize into thin air.

Like he will never know her again. 

There’s a tangy salty taste that drops in between their lips. They can’t tell their tears apart.  

Their kiss has delved into a million pecks, bodies crushed and fused into one.

Through the fog in her head, the otherworldly bliss, she regains her senses when she feels the square box in his pocket against her hip. She blinks hard into his brow bone, her lashes flutter at the strong bridge of his nose. 

She’s breathless and sobers up and parts, “What is that?” Andrea moves her hand to his jaw, air horns are battering her ear drum but she wouldn’t want this any other way. 

The most brutal contrast to New Years 1980.

Her thumb runs along the crows feet at the corner of his eyes when he smiles. The pad of her thumb is wet from the tears he’s wearing so proudly. 

He shrugs because she has an idea, she can feel the promise radiating from him. 

“I love you.” 

His smile fades into something else, Andrea’s raw lips break into a grin.

 The words are the easiest thing to say when it’s him as the subject.

Some summer day, sometime back then, her nails itch but still they dig into the battered and chipped wood. 

Her tongue is sticking out, teeth clenched, forehead wrinkled. She’s very, very concentrated. Weightless, the sole of pumas feel violent on his bare hand.

Javi boosts Andrea with a grunt. She looks down at his crumpled face, the way he’s trying to pretend that this is no feat. Half dry, half wet hair, red t-shirt and jordache denim. 

“Shit,” He mumbles readjusting her foot. He looks up, meeting the mischievous eyes. He grunts, “Andrea!” He exclaims, she cackles and decides to free him of this pain. Hoisting herself up on the tree. 

She settles with a leg on each side of the branch, hair sticking hot to her cheeks. Javi climbs without any assistance, settling right in front of her. 

Knees grazing.

She is thirteen and hates her life. 

Except for days like these. 

He huffs when he rests, running a hand through his hair. Droplets fall in the ashy bark between them, painting the tree a dark umber. They swam only an hour ago, dried under the sun and decided an impromptu manhunt was absolutely necessary. 

Genie and Frankie were off searching the rest of the woods. 

Javi promised safety, so she followed.

The sky is exceptionally beautiful, they enjoy silence for a few moments. 

The trees in front of them crowd the air, but there is a spot right in the middle where each tree lacks leaves, leaving them a perfect view of the dock and the mossy water. 

A woodpecker sounds close, maybe two-three trees away. 

“They won’t find us.” Javi says.

She nods and they fall into the comfortable silence once more. She leans back against the wonderful thick branch and curves upward, giving her a lovely place to rest. The trunk functions in a similar fashion. 

She closes her eyes for a moment. The cicadas responding to the sun setting, their pulsating drone, the wood pecker and the sun beaming against the thin flesh of her eyelids. 

She had woken up early to see that her brother had left to do something on his own. Leaving her a note to meet up with the friends at the lake around four. She pattered down the stairs in a bata that was once her mothers, seeing her back and the smell of apple wood and spice. Andrea asked her mother if maybe, they could spend time together. 

Her mother barely looks over her shoulder when she laughs. Cooking breakfast just for one.

Andrea's stomach dips at the memory, the dimple below her eye twitches and the sun suddenly feels cruel. Javier’s presence feels invasive and her brain repeats the same question.

Why must I be this sad at thirteen? 

“I feel sad until I see you-“ He clears his throat, “See you guys.”

Her eyes snap open, a splash of cold water. 

“What?” 

She feels split open, can he read me? 

Javier shrugs, his eyes a beautiful shade of brown in the light. Like a penny only just beginning to rust. 

“Spending time like this with Frankie, with Genie.” He looks over at the reflection of trees on the lake. “With you.” He shrugs again, “It helps me not be so sad all the time.”

Andrea widens her eyes. Never once has anyone been so honest with her. Never has she known a boy to be truthful. 

The sun shifts or maybe the clouds around it do. It beams right in her face, she squints one eye and turns her head. 

“You get sad?” She asks in earnest. 

He chuckles, she doesn’t know it yet but yesterday was his mothers birthday. She doesn’t even know that his mom left the way she did, “Yeah.” The sun decides to not be as kind to him either, he shuts one eye too. “I know you do too.”

The heaviness that pressed her wound tight, loosened and fell. Her shoulders relax. 

“Yeah.” Is all she’s ready to say.  

“I really don’t like it when you’re sad.” He admits, he feels like such a kid at the moment but there’s no better way of putting it.

Andrea furrows her brow, “Oo-kay” She drags, unsure what to make of it. The part of her that thinks she loves him dips and flips and flutters.

“Okay.” He huffs like he’s annoyed, he leans back again and closes his eyes.

Andreas eyes drop, her face flushing so impossibly bright. 

What is happening?

She leans back and looks up at the sky, her body wanting to squeal, she bites her smile and shuts her eyes like him.

A few minutes later she hears her brother and his girlfriend by the lake. 

Javi sits up straight and looks to his right. 

“Let’s go.” He announces, dislodging himself and in almost one swift motion he jumps off the tree. Andrea, dumbfounded, looks down at him. It’s like a ten feet drop, and he didn’t think twice. 

“I can’t get down there!” She shouts.

He scoffs, “Yes you can. Just jump.” 

“Will you catch me?” 

He looks up at her like she should know the answer. 

“Always.”

[marcuspikegf]

harry castillo x single mom! reader

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞

wordcount: 3.4k | requests are open | about me+ masterlist

reblogs and comments are appreciated!!! comment if you want to be tagged! send me asks about this! asks/ideas/anything! inbox is always open :)

a joel miller x single mom! reader if anyone’s interested here.

summary: it's a rainy day in nyc, a couple of months after the breakup and harry castillo accidentally trips over into the cutest 3 year old and and meets her mother too.

warnings: warning this is so cute your teeth will ROT (no warnings just fluff fluff fluff). in my head there was an age gap of 20 something years reader is a single mother but really it can be any age u want, not rlly specified, reader just knows airdrop better than this old man HAH. i think i used like y/n once like. thrice. afab reader, you have a daughter. your ex husband died like 3 years ago.

authors note: i was stuck in the city in the rain today and this idea POSESSED ME. and i had to write it plz cut me some slack it's 5am when i'm posting this i havent slept a wink just i've been writing this. no capitals, its just a lot of yapping this fic, it's a new style of writing. pls let me know if this is shit so i can go back to my old style, this is much more like. idk. stream of thought. pls let me know if anyone wants a sequel, if not this is just a oneshot. so not my ancient rome posessed ass usual...but thats OK. HARRY IS SUCH A GIRLDAD. reblogs and likes and follows are actually just love. ok brb im going to bed now...! (edit, i just woke up) OMG i am so glad u guys like this. i hope u guys like maya she is so cute and teeny and will be using harry has her new climbing frame. reader is just a frazzled single mom who loves her daughter very much. harry realises that a family is something he can still have. i fear i am in the baby fever trenches.

new york in the rain is always…something else entirely. after the break up with lucy, after everything, the summer comes with patchy spells of rain, like clockwork. manhattan’s large buildings cover him from most of the rain, but the road halfway to his office has been blocked since yesterday night, due to emergency works in the pipeline, and he has to walk the last half a mile. and anyway, he’s given this morning off to his driver. the cab driver’s dropped him off here, and now it’s just him and this stretch of road that he has to walk through, and flag another cab on the other side. 

he would obviously rather not do such a thing, because. well — his suit is silk and well tailored, and he wears freshly polished oxfords on his feet he’d rather not get scuffed. it’s almost 9, and he is so ridiculously far away from the financial district, it’s embarrassing. this was not a good time to be late for work, especially not late for work in drenched clothes and no umbrella. he had a reputation to uphold, in the office at least. 

the rain falls harder, and he starts walking faster, head hunched over his phone on the pavement, he needs to call his assistant, let her know that no he will not be showing up today, and yes he will be there for the meeting by 12. should be anyway. 

a splash, and he feels water coat his trousers. they’re grey, and anyone  can see the damn water stains on them now. it’s muddy water too, splotches against his calves and his ankles. he looks up from his screen, to see the offending person who’s splashed his $700 suit. 

to his surprise, it’s a child in a yellow raincoat. excited as she jumps up and down, her brown hair in plaits as she runs into puddles, a jump, a dart, and then she’s out again, stomping her feet onto every single divot where water has gathered.

he smiles at that, anger being washed away as the rain falls. 

and then his eyes land on you, running behind what could only be your daughter. you share the same eyes, the same face shape, you’ re basically mirroring every movement of hers, haphazardly. long hair tied into a bun, you look frazzled, exhausted. 

“maya!” you shout, chasing after your daughter with the umbrella in one hand; attempting to not have it blow away by the wind. the other hand reaches out for her, but not before she trips over his oxfords, scuffing them, tumbling into a puddle.

it’s right in front of him, and a child’s just fallen down, he doesn’t have any children, but he isn’t heartless. 

he stops his speed walking, and holds out his pointer finger for her to grab, and she does so with her tiny hands, wrapping around his finger, tugging at it. she stands up with a little “oof”, and he can see the scrape on her cheek from when she hit the floor, the muddy water on her face, leaving behind a grubby stain. suddenly, something overwhelms him, and he crouches down to her level, to wipe away a little of the grit that’s pressed against her cheek. 

“oh my god, i am so sorry about that!” you say, out of breath, as you catch up to the two of them. he looks at you, and then your daughter. it’s almost as if you’ve managed to copy and paste yourself, a smaller version of you with the same bright eyes, even if yours have been dulled by…well. he doesn’t know. life? 

“it’s no worries.” he smiles back, still not standing up, his hands linger over the child’s cheek, the scrape bleeding a little, “hey, is she okay?”

you scrub your face with your hands, and crouch down to your daughter, and he realises that you’re short, quite a bit shorter than him, anyway.

“maya, angel, are you okay?” you wipe the blood away off her skin, the red staining your thumb as your eyes mist up. you hate to see her in pain, that much is obvious. 

“otay.” she holds up her thumb in agreement, and nods. harry’s a little surprised kids can be like that, all soft one moment, all solid the next. she scrunches up her nose, and her fringe sticks to her forehead, she can’t be any more than three, a toddler running loose in new york on a wednesday morning. sure, that might as well happen, he think. 

“mumma’s still going to check, okay?” you kiss her cheek, and then straighten up, lifting her up in one swoop. he takes it as a cue to stand up too, shaking his arm, and picking up the umbrella you’ve dropped to pick your daughter up.

“your umbrella..?” is literally all he can manage, because his stomach is doing flip flops right now, looking at you. you, with the pretty eyes, fogged up glasses perched on your head. you’re wearing formal wear, a blouse and a floral skirt, and your daughter smiles looking at him holding out the umbrella.

“umbella.” her small hands try and grab it, but there’s no way she’ll be able to hold it, and so he keeps a grip on it, steady.

“i don’t think i have any room for it.” you huff, “you keep it mister!” you wave at him, with your left hand, “seems like you need it.”

no ring.

so why did he notice that?

you smile at him, and he smiles back, before you start walking towards the nearest open coffee shop.

and then he jogs up to them, “hey! miss!” what’s possessing him to do this? he’s fifty for god’s sake, and he sounds like a nineteen year old with a crush.

you turn back, and see him holding out the umbrella for you, “yeah..?”

“your daughter tripped over my shoes,” he sounds sheepish, “let me buy you a coffee, it’s the least i can do ma’am.”

you frown for a second, and then hear the thunderclap, look at the downpour. “okay…yeah, sure. okay, why not.”

maya curls around your neck at the sound of the thunderclap, and the sight squeezes something in his heart. you soothe her with a kiss to her forehead and a stroke on her hair.

“she can’t stand thunderstorms.” you say, nodding at her, “i’m trying to get her to nursery, but the subway wasn’t working? they’re saying the tracks got flooded?”

“they need to fix that, sooner or later.” but he hasn’t used the subway in years, his driver takes him everywhere. 

“mhm.” you agree, and the two of you step into the coffee shop, it’s upscale, the ones that sell the bags of their own brand, artisanal coffee in store too. 

your daughter — maya — with her brown plaits, blinks up when she smells coffee. and then snuggles back into you again. she’s so tiny, with her little hands playing with the loose strands of hair around your neck. is this what he’s missing out on?

“so, what do you want, anything, it’s on me.” he says, putting the umbrella back in it’s case, and putting it in the empty water bottle holder of your bag. 

you frown, and then look down at your daughter. “what do you want baby?” 

he didn’t expect you to ask her what she wanted, he just thought you’d get something expensive and leave, what with him inconveniencing you. instead you ask maya, and she murmurs something in your ear.

“have you been here before?” you ask, frowning as he reads the menu. 

“this is a chain, there’s one near my work place in the financial district.” he says, noncommittally, there’s no reason to tell her what he does, not yet. 

“oh okay,” you say, and then you whisper back to your daughter, “i think if you ask the nice man, he’ll know more than me, okay baby?”

she nods, and then peeks her head out of the crook of her mother’s neck. 

“hi.” she says, her voice oh so delicate.

“hi.” he says, a little awkwardly, he’s not great with kids. never has been, probably never will be. 

“what’s ‘our name.” she asks it so confidently, it throws him off. in the middle of the line for the counter. you laugh at that, and harry thinks he quite likes the sound of your laugh. 

“i’m harry castillo, but you can call me harry.” he holds out his finger again, and she shakes it with her little hand.

“go on, ask mr castillo the question.” you prompt her, gently.

“otay.” she frowns, like she’s remembering. “what’s really sweet here? mumma says i can’t have sweets at home. your teeth get holes. but what’s super sweet here?”

he laughs at that, and you shake your head, “maya! you don’t have to tell mr castillo about home baby.” but he wants to hear about home, he wants to hear about how silly it is raising a child, what your home is like, what maya is like, what you are like.

“it’s harry, and it’s fine, really.” home for him is a huge penthouse with nobody inside. so really, anything is interesting to him.

“otay. can ou tell me what’s sweet here?” she asks, more seriously.

he hums, looking at the menu. “maybe the caramel hot chocolate it’s caramel and chocolate.”

you smile at that and so does maya, matching smiles on your faces, why does it light up the room, why does that light up his morning.

you get to the counter quickly, and he tells the barista what to order, putting his card to the machine before you can even see that he’s picked out two pastries for you two too. is the total $28? yes, but that’s a small price to pay, for everything.

you sit at the couch with your daughter beside you, and the barista calls out “maya!” 

you watch as he picks up the plates and cup from the counter, and brings it to you. your daughters eyes widen, and she starts drinking from the cup with the straw.

“you don’t have to do this!” you push the cinnamon bun towards him, your daughter has unfortunately already got her hands on the glazed cherries, and has them in her fist right now, “please, let me pay you back.”

“no, it’s fine, really.” he still has that awkward smile, “i did trip your daughter up.”

“by accident, and it’s fine, kids fall over all the time.”

“but are you sure she seems okay?” he frowns, and he notices your eyes catch his hands. 

“she’s fine, i promise, it’s nothing more than a little graze, see?” you point to her cheek, and the scrape has scabbed over already. 

“and her head and everything…?” he says, and you smile again, more reassuringly.

“yes,” you take a sharp breath, “kids are meant to survive, i promise, she’s okay.”

“oh.” he says, quietly, “okay.”

“no worries mr castillo, thank you so much, maya will be raving about this for days now.” you smile at him, genuine gratitude, and it’s at this moment where he realises that he would spoil you and maya forever. if he could.

“i didn’t catch your name..?” he asks, gentle smile on his face.

“oh yeah, of course, it’s (y/n).” your focus is on your daughter now, who asks if you can cut up the cherry turnover into smaller pieces for her. it’s clear you have no idea who the hell he is, and he’d rather it stay the way.

it’s cute, how quickly maya smiles at him, how you smile at him. he walks up to the counter to get another paper straw as the one in maya’s cup starts to disintegrate, and the barista there smiles at him.

“lovely family you’ve got there.” she says, handing the straw over, “your daughter looks just like your wife, except she’s got your smile.”

those words make him freeze. daughter, wife. you just met them half an hour ago, and suddenly you do look like you and maya would suit his apartment better, suddenly it looks like maya’s little smile looks a little like his own. 

“oh that’s…” he trails off, just take the win man, you aren’t going to get a wife and child. not at your age, his mind thinks. “thank you.”

“no worries, have a nice day!”

and he walks back to the couch where the two of you sit, sitting across you again. 

“here’s the straw.” he hands it over, and you swap out the straw that’s broken for the other one. 

“thanks.” you smile, and nudge your daughter.

“tanks mr catillo.” she sniffles, and then sips the hot chocolate again.

“it’s harry, and it’s fine, really.”

is it? his heart is melting. 

“do you have anywhere to be later?” he asks, and your smile turns into a frown quickly. that was a silly question.

“yeah, work. maya can’t stay without me too long in weather like this, so i’m just taking her to work with me.” you sigh, “i mostly work from home, but the office says you need to come in on wednesdays.”

“oh, which way are you going?” he asks, and you shrug.

“midtown, i work at a tech company, but i doubt i’ll be anywhere at this time of day.”

he laughs at that, all rich like butter and biscuits. “yeah, fair enough, i’m trying to get to the financial district without looking like a wet rat.”

you smile at him, and he can feel your eyes ghost over his curls. “no, i don’t think you look like a wet rat mr castillo.”

“it’s harry.” he sighs, and leans over the table, maya mimicks him and does the same. they’re content in making silly faces at each other for a bit as you scroll through your inbox. 

“i’ve never seen her take to someone so quick.” there’s a smile on your face, proud. “she’s always very shy, but she loves jumping up in the rain.”

he hasn’t thought of lucy, or matchmaking, or anything right now. just the woman in front of him, with the child currently blowing a raspberry at him. 

“maybe i just have a trustworthy aura.” he smiles, all charm.

“or maybe it’s because you gave her three sources of sugar.” but there’s no bite to your words, not really, “thanks, i can’t wait for the sugar crash that’s going to come next.”

maya has a fringe that sticks to her face with the rain, and your glasses that are fogged up sit on your hair, and you smile at him like he’s the only man alive.

oh god. he’s sunk in so deep, it’s ridiculous.

and he doesn’t even know if you’re single, available, whatever. no ring doesn’t mean, no father.

“can’t you give her to her father?” he blurts out, and your vision darkens.

“no, um, maya’s dad died two months after she was born.” you shake your head. “daddy’s with the stars now, isn’t he?” you say, in hushed tones to your daughter, but it’s like you’re saying it for yourself.

“oh.” he gets quiet again, “sorry about that.” 

“no it’s fine, really.” you say, with some resolution in your voice. the sun is finally peeking out of the clouds, and this magical moment has to come to an end, soon anyway. 

maya burrows into your chest again as you coax her to stand up, she doesn’t want to walk any longer, and harry doesn’t know how long you’ve been walking for anyway. without a single thought, he picks up your daughter like she weighs nothing.

maya shrieks with laughter, this is higher up than she’s used to.

you just stare at him with narrowed eyes, but he just sort of stands there, six feet tall with a child perched in his arms, waiting for you to say something.

you huff, and then close your eyes, as if to say “i’m trusting you with this.” and then your eyes harden, “if you hurt her..”

his face blanches, but he still holds onto her like she’s precious, and she is precious, with freckles on her face and bright eyes like she’s the sun incarnate. 

she sits on his shoulders once you leave the coffee shop, the water is drying quickly and there aren’t too many people on the streets. your eyes still linger on your daughter, but also trail over his broad shoulders and broad back. 

tugging at his hair with her small hands, squishing his face, “don’t pull mr castillo’s hair.” you scold.

“it’s fine really.” 

“are you sure?” you ask, worried.

“i’m sure.” he nods, and maya is folding over his face now, dangling her face against his. 

“do ‘ou like cheese? stars make noises? can ‘ou read?” rapid fire questions that come out of her mouth. you smile as he painstakingly answers them “yes i like cheese, i don’t know about stars sorry, and yes i can read.”

she hums thoughtfully, and then sits back up, playing with his hair. the blocked off road is coming to an end now, and you reach at her feet, in little wellington booties. 

“cmon now, time to say goodbye to mr castillo.” he’s given up correcting you.

“arry.” she says, sadly, hand still in his hair.

“careful now maya-bear, mumma has to go to office, you need to come with me okay?” you reach out for her? and harry tries to pass her down, but her hands pull at his shirt.

“come on now.” you coax her again, “you can see mr castillo later on, okay?” and she clambers off him, and onto you. 

“thank you for that.” you whisper, gratefully. 

“no worries miss.” he smiles, a blush on his cheeks. god what he wouldn’t do to have a family like this, a wife and his own child, running around. then he wouldn’t even have to tell them to go. 

“it’s (y/n),” you clear your throat, “it’s fine, call me that and i’ll call you harry.”

“(y/n) it is then.”

“right—“ you put maya down, and let her walk beside you, holding onto your hand. “this is where we say goodbye, right?”

a feeling in his chest. would this be his last chance?

“are you free tomorrow evening?” he asks, far too quickly. 

“tomorrow..evening..?” you stutter, “um, maybe? i dunno, i’ll have to check, probably not though, mayasitting .”

“oh, i was just wondering if you wanted to get some dinner.”

“oh, OH.” you blush, “right, like. that. and this is dinner dinner, and not just, dinner.”

“…what?” he knits his brows.

“no, i mean, never mind.” you shake your head, maya pulling at your hand to turn right. “like, dinner as in. like feeling bad for a single mom sort of dinner or-“

“no, date dinner.” he likes when you stumble over your words, it’s cute.

“ah, date dinner.” you hum, “yeah okay, if you’re okay with maya coming.” a protective hand on her head. “i’m not going anywhere without her, or your house.”

“no, of course.” he glances down at maya, “of course she can come. there’s a nice pizza joint in downtown manhattan that you should come visit. it’s near my office.”

your lips quirk upwards, a ghost of a smile, “okay, yeah, sure, i’d like that. would you like it maya?”

maya grabs onto his trouser clad leg with her grabby little hands (sticky with sugar from the pastries) “PIZZA!”

“okay, so that’s decided then.” your mouth is dry as you watch him smile down at her and shake her hand again. he’s so good with your girl, it makes your heart thud, “can i get your number?”

he nods, and then passes over a business card, and you laugh as you read over it. “i meant maybe airdropping my contact over? but this works fine too.”

greying hair, wrinkles around his eyes, sure he’s not your usual type, a a bit older, but you haven’t dated since your husband died anyway. 

you ring the number you’ve just inputted, and his phone rings. “save me right now, so you can find me faster.”

“okay, okay.” he puts your name down, “see you six pm? i’ll send the location over?”

( maya doesn’t let go of his leg until she’s promised she’ll see him tomorrow, 200%, and somewhere in his shattered broken heart, a seed of hope grows. )

thank you for reading!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! any comments are very appreciates. lots of loveeee angie

[damneddamsy]

CUNNING LINGUIST | HARRY CASTILLO PART 3 of 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐎

A DECENT THIEF, A SMITTEN BILLIONAIRE, ONE VERY INCONVENIENT ATTRACTION. SEX, LIES, LARCENY—ALL BEFORE THE SUN COMES UP. EASY PEASY... RIGHT?

-> READ PART 1 AND PART 2 HERE. MASTERLIST HERE. A.N. -> WE ARE OUT OF THE WOODS AND IN THE CLEAR! okay I had such a blast with this, you can tell exactly where I lost motivation and quit, and came back - especially for the filthy smut 🫦🤍 W.C -> 15k+ C.W -> 18+ MDNI, sexual themes, drug abuse, peer pressure, third person POV, fem reader, thief reader and she's a bad bitch, harry is fucking rich with a big dick that's what, harry's a munch, hot boy dave york is conned, age gap, luxury brand and pop culture references, witty repartee, cat-and-mouse dynamics, romcom everything.

In New York, everyone’s always stealing something. Time, money, identities, hearts. She just happens to take all four, efficiently, elegantly—and you’d be amazed what people give up for free when you smile like you’re in love (bonus points if you can cry on cue and pretty.)

This shithole city doesn’t give a fuck who you are, but it will absolutely let you pretend. It’ll watch you strut into a club as though you own the deed, and if you’re smart, if you’re hot, if you tilt your chin just right—by sunrise, you might.

Confidence is currency. Audacity accrues interest. She learned that early, and now she practices it daily. So, some quick survival tips for the nightlife jungle—offered by a girl who’s made a living out of slipping through cracks, open wallets, and the occasional soft-hearted sucker. Offered with love, of course. Not everyone’s out to rob you... Just most of them.

First lesson: your looks matter. Look impossible. Look like the woman they’ll lament over losing—and fear never holding.

Yeah, yeah, it’s dark inside, lights strobing, and most people are squinting through three martinis and desperation, but still—perception is everything. The illusion has to dazzle before it devours.

You show as much skin as you can because weaponised femininity is an art form. You flaunt your impressive pair of tits to make the door guy dream about you later, alone, where he might remember your name and will let you in next time, even if you're late, even if you're not on the list. It will buy her an extra fifteen minutes if shit hits the fan.

Wardrobe rules apply: black is classic, red is dangerous, nude says you’re not here to play nice. She preferred black; she was old-fashioned like that.

Even the goddamn jewellery was strategic. A necklace gets lost in the noise, but earrings twinkle when you turn your head to the music. Bangles and bracelets jangle when you reach across the bar. So, yes—your accessories should catch the eye and plant a seed. Your target should remember how you sounded even when they can’t quite remember your name.

And the heels must hurt; that is a non-negotiable. You or them, no matter. Your shoes need to make a statement, and pain is part of the deal. You want stilettos that announce you, that clack like gunshots through the blaring music.

Your eyes are the bait. You curl your lashes until they graze the big guy upstairs, line your lids in black with kohl, spread a dusting of eyeshadow, because when the lights hit, when glitter shivers off the disco ball and it's divine dust lands in your hair—it’s your eyes that the prey catch first, and then especially.

It’s about being a myth, not a beauty. Men like to think she’s a mystery, project stories onto her, make her their tragic muse before she’s even opened her goddamn mouth. Women assume she’s a threat, and she is.

They were both right, not because she’s competing—Jesus, she was past that, and playing an entirely different sport. She reminds women of power, of the sharp-edged version of themselves they once promised to become, but talked themselves out of for their dull, faithful men. Boo-fucking-hoo.

But no one ever sees the theft coming, not until they’re staring into their empty purse, their AWOL pride, their overdrawn heart, their unanswered text thread at 2:14 a.m.—and somehow, still hoping to see her again.

Therein lies the trick: she leaves a bit of herself behind. A little ache, a little memory.

And tonight, she was wearing the earrings. She’s got the lethal heels. Her eyeliner was on fleek, her hair was glowing, and her smile was a small, sharpened blade.

Her newest target was exactly where he belonged: perched in his private booth, flanked by laughing sycophants, sipping a champagne—and looking about as foolish as a grown man with a coke-dusted nose could.

She’d get to him, sooner or later. Probably sooner, if he continued to throw back Cristal and ruin her entire agenda.

Tonight, she came into the club with two things on her to-do list: Dave, and the newest Saint Laurent lipstick.

And, priorities: the Saint Laurent Rouge Pur Couture. She had been dying to get her hands on one ever since it crossed her Instagram feed. An easy win.

There’d been a lovable, utterly shit-faced gaggle of girls in the restroom who were on the quest of collecting random women like lost puppies once the tequila hit and their boyfriends started looking over their shoulders. It was biology at this point—one shot too many, one whiff of hand soap, and suddenly every shiny woman within mascara-smudged scope was “baby” and “bestie.” Sisterhood, powered by Don Julio.

They’d taken one look at her in the mirror reflection—black dress, mile-long lashes, red lips—and still decided she was—

“One of us, babes!” a girl squealed.

Gorgeous, glitter-dusted amateurs, and she didn’t belong in those circles. She wasn’t the type who got invited to group chats or bridal showers or giggly Sunday brunches. Her notion of girlhood came with lockpicks, fake IDs, and getaway plans.

But there was a… delight about this. Some part of her, the silly, rusted-out romantic, appreciated the way they looped arms around her waist like they’d known her for years. How they complimented her earrings (stolen, obviously), fawned over her rocking body (regular starvation), and told her she was too pretty to be dancing alone (about to steal, obviously).

Still, she smiled, let herself be tucked into their little tequila-fuelled huddle. When one girl—brunette, glitter and sequins all over her chest—swayed precariously toward the toilet bowl, she caught her by the shoulders.

“Slow down, baby girl. You’re gonna crash,” she murmured, steadying her.

The girl whined aloud, glassy-eyed, and completely ignored her. Retching in between. “Omigoooood, babe. Hiiiiii. Babe, babe, you have to listen to me... my boss is, like, the biggest demon fucking haemorrhoid.” She gagged. “Like—like festering! I think he has a medical condition, I swear. He smells like Tums.”

“Sounds like a man, alright,” she played along, guiding her toward the stall, the feathery satchel hanging invitingly off the girl’s shoulder. “What’s he done now?”

While she held back the girl's curtain of highlighted hair with one hand, her other slipped inside the bag. Right between the tampons and deodorant: YSL lipstick secured. Girl code… technically unbroken? She even rubbed the girl’s back a bit, purely for karmic insurance.

The girl groaned miserably into the porcelain. “What has he not done? I swear to God, he breathes near me, and I get hives. Like, I need to leave his fat ass to burn in that shitty building. Do you think I have trauma or some shit? Why am I doing this to myself?”

She hummed. “Oh, sweetie, that’s not trauma. It's a generational curse.”

The girl made a wounded sound. “You get me, girl. You get me. I would, like, literally let you kill me right now. Like, just stab me. Stab me with a pitchfork, right now.”

“Ooh-kay.”

She sniffled into her wrist, then hiccuped. “No, like—real talk? You’re my girl. I feel that in my soul. Like, if you ever needed a kidney…”

She managed a small smile down at her. Didn't even know her name, but—“I’ll let you know, darling. Let me get you some water.”

It wasn’t hard, this faking. She could fall into the rhythm of girl talk—the exaggerated eye rolls, the excessive sympathies, the petty camaraderie born from mutual exasperation, and gasp and throw in a “No way, shut up.” And for a second, stupid as it was, she let herself enjoy it.

Dave, however, was going to be more work than a sweet, drunk girlfriend. He was going to play hardball right over her head.

Early forties. Financier. Exuding that classic hedge fund swagger—just another faceless cog in the Wall Street machine. Not as menacing as her favourite Big Dick Castillo, but still smug enough to make you want to throw a punch. Married, two kids, wearing his self-satisfaction like a badge. A walking cliché.

Ooh, her favourite kind. Because beneath the wholesome family-man façade, his firm was little more than a laundering operation for dirty money—classic cover, really. A bit of digital sleuthing—deep dives through shell companies, a fishy dollar seventy-two on a shady document scanner app—and voilà, the truth emerged. It turns out that no one with that many offshore accounts was in the business of goodwill.

And judging by the faint shimmer of white powder clinging to his nostril, his sinuses were on the same page.

She fought the urge to abandon ship. Honestly, the one thing that seriously soured the art of acquisition was the cokeheads. Not just because they were erratic, sweaty, and prone to emotional meltdowns, but because nothing killed the vibe like trying to seduce a man whose pupils looked like deer in headlights.

She frowned into her drink. Goddamn it. Such a waste of potential, especially when she looked so drop-dead sexy tonight.

All this heat, this careful curation of skin and charm went down the drain, just because Dave couldn’t stay off the party favours. And don't even get her started on the dress.

Her dress deserved better. Black tube, barely-there hemline, vacuum-sealed to her curves like God’s gift to architecture. She was basically sex-on-legs.

But Dave was the kind of easy pickings who’d snort his hunger away and spend the rest of the night dithering in place, uncontrolled tirades into crypto and shadow governments, wiping his nose on a $500 Louis Vuitton pocket square.

Her fingers drummed the rim of her glass. Hmm, decision time.

She could walk out and save her energy for rehearsals at her blackbox play tomorrow, run some lines, and practice her exits and entries. She could hunt prettier prey with better impulse control. But… she was bored, and her reflection in the brass rail screamed dangerous, undefeated, deliciously spiteful.

Coked-up mark or not—she’d already invested in the dress and the makeup. And the Saint Laurent lipstick, which was currently doing more for her self-esteem than outrageous therapy ever could.

So. Showtime.

She threw back the last of her drink, licked the salted rim, winked at the poor bastard who offered to pay for it (another rookie mistake), and eased through the bumping, grinding and jostling bodies.

Troye Sivan thrummed from the DJ booth, his voice velvet and ache, singing “Breathe, one, two, three, take all of me…” and for a moment, she allowed herself his advice, remembered why this worked—because no matter the chaos, the diamond glares, the overpriced cocktails, the privileged boys—she was built for this.

Dancing was the easiest con in the book. You want to blend in, be one of the masses—flash your sweaty pits, wobble like you're chasing a serotonin drip, and mouth the lyrics like your life depends on it.

But if you want to land your mark—you become the room’s every pulsation.

“It's so good, it's so good…” and hell yeah, it was about to be.

Her hips began to move, lethargic at first, a suggestion, then her arms slipped overhead, fingers tangling through darkened waves of hair. Her shoulders rolled, head tilted back just enough to bare the slope of her neck to the gods, or anyone rich and bored enough to care.

She became sex itself. She sold the lie with her body.

And she had an amazing body; she knew it. Not in the dead-eyed influencer way. Her body was au naturel survival. Her body was the sexiest bait. Her body had starved, paid rent, escaped cuffs, and danced circles around richer girls with shinier teeth.

And she wasn't lying when she said stripping had crossed her mind more than once when she first got away from home—but she’d always had this uncomfortable fear-of-success thing. Once people started throwing money at you, it was easier to forget your worth. She wasn’t born to be bought. No way—she was made to be earned. Inherited, even. Weaponized.

The dress helped as her hands traced her figure. Skin-tight, no frills, no coquette games tonight. No false veneer of a good girl with a mischievous smile. Tonight, she was straight-up sin in heels. A living, breathing, grinding fuck-you to restraint.

When the bass dropped, she spun—hair whipping, smile sinful—and contact.

Mid-sip of his Cristal, half-listening to his over-laughing companions, all of that evaporated the second Dave's eyes locked on hers. She could almost chart the chemical reaction in that little brain. Ego, lust, cocaine. A trifecta of poor decision-making.

What can she say? She never missed.

She bit her lip, flashed him the I-just-might-be-trouble-look, whirled back around, pushed her hands through her hair again, slower this time, letting his eyes linger where they naturally would.

Sure enough, it came—a single finger, lifted from the grasp on his champagne flute, curling like a crook of fate. Come here.

She arched her brows, played dumb, pointed to herself like me? as though the entire performance hadn’t been orchestrated for his benefit alone.

He smirked, brows arching back, gaze piercing right through her, sinking an arrow right back. Lo and behold, ladies, you have just acquired your mark for the night.

Hook, line, and sucker.

Of course, it was too good to be true.

Sometimes, disillusionment takes the bus. Sometimes, it charters a private jet straight to your doorstep with champagne service and a big fucking bow.

Because three people away in Dave’s booth, nestled comfortably in the shark tank of Manhattan’s nightlife, sat...

Harry Castillo.

Motherfucker.

He was staring right at her. Correction: staring through her. Maybe he’d been watching all night, as if he already knew the dress she picked, the plan she hatched, the mark she’d baited—and exactly how long it would take before she noticed him.

As much as her heart stuttered like it was a bad engine, as much as her thighs clenched with the very inappropriate memory of how good he felt between them, she was pissed.

What the hell was he even doing here? Didn’t he have world markets to destabilise? Suited men to blackmail? Oligarchs to dine with? But no—Harry Castillo’s avocation tonight was apparently ruining her meticulously planned night out… and, inevitably, her panties. Although that was secondary (mostly.)

It had been what—a week? More? Nine-point-five days? Nine-point-five agonising, hyperaware days of radio silence. Not that she was counting, she’d been busy. She couldn't give a flying fuck because really, she’d missed his incredible, fictitious dick more than him. Statistically speaking, her vibrator had seen more action than Harry in recent memory, and her wrist was on the verge of a repetitive strain injury. Imagine the obituary—death by disproportionate fingering. Feminist martyr. Gone too soon.

But the problem with Harry was that he didn’t just exist in the bedroom—or against brick walls, or lobby bars, or dark corners of expensive cars. The man bled into her daily routine like an ink stain.

Subway rattling underfoot? She thought of his sleek, plush-leather Maybach, floating across pothole-riddled avenues. Shovelling late-night cereal? That fancy restaurant, his hand up her skirt, ring skating, his unholy fingers thrusting against her clit in ways that permanently lowered her IQ. Ducking behind alleyways to avoid security? Great—another reminder of the exact spot she’d dropped to her knees for him and sucked him off for powerplay.

She couldn’t walk ten blocks without some memory of him ambushing her, couldn’t sip coffee, couldn’t cross the street, couldn’t—get this—hear the rev of a car without reflexively looking for his stupid, devastating silhouette.

For the first few days, she’d leaned into it and told herself it was a strategy. Emotional conditioning. If he showed up again, she'd be ready. Cool, detached, dangerous.

By day four, after sprinting to her window every time a car door slammed, craning her neck for every sleek, black SUV that passed her block, she pulled the plug. Hard stop. No one man—no matter how frustratingly obsessed, too rich, or ruinously skilled in bed—deserved that kind of free rent in her head. She had bigger things to focus on. Hustles to plan. Futures to scam into existence.

Ultimately, she was doing fine without him. So naturally, here he was.

Seated like the final fucking boss of temptation, eyes locked on her like she was the only thing in the building worth ruining. Fantastic.

Yet, her quick eyes dragged over him against better judgment. But sense never stood a chance when it came to Harry.

No blazer this time. Just a pale shirt, crisp, exclusive cotton that was definitely dry-clean only, clinging to broad shoulders women lost court cases over, top buttons close to undone, dark curls so sexily tousled, dark eyes immeasurable, jaw dusted in that unfair, end-of-day scruff that made him look like sex incarnate (the bastard,) legs sprawled wide enough to claim real estate, hands knotted loose between his thighs—nonchalant, lethal, maddeningly gorgeous. Solely capable of making her beg.

Christ, she had never wanted to get dicked down so badly by someone she actively resented at that moment. And judging by that smirk curving the corner of his mouth—he knew exactly what he was doing to her.

He raised his brows at her. You're so fucked, he seemed to say.

She ran her tongue over her top set of teeth. Bring it, Richie Rich.

Before she could finish mentally cursing him to hell, a wolf whistle shattered her focus.

“Over here!”

Oh, come on. She should’ve clocked it earlier—the first sign this was spiralling: not a single woman in Dave’s booth. Just five men, all testosterone and powdered egos. And off to the side, Harry, lazing, observing her like the end of the story was already written.

See, she was brave. She could walk into a room of men and con them blind, but you don’t strut into a lion’s den solo and expect to wrestle the alpha down on your first try. Still, it was too late to run, and she made a habit of holding her own.

She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, refused to give Harry the satisfaction of another glance, and headed for the steps.

Dave patted the seat beside him, all cocky grins and middle-aged entitlement. His hand stretched along the backrest, already marking territory. “C’mere, baby. Sit next to me. You’re fuckin’ hot.”

Tell me something I don’t know, she nearly said. But no, tonight wasn’t about sharp tongues. It was about playing dumb, wide-eyed, and pliant.

The amusing part is that there wasn’t even much acting required because she really was royally screwed. In heels, in over her head, in heat.

“Not so bad yourself, handsome,” she chirped, slipping past the lacquered oval table where cocaine lines shimmered beneath the sterile glow of LED lights, and debit cards lay scattered like tools of self-destruction. Half-drunk cocktails left greasy rings in their wake. There was the stench of money and moral rot, an emulsion of power and decay that clung to every surface. She could say it with conviction: she hated this breed of man, right down to her bones.

She sank down beside Dave anyway, smile tight, spine straight, pulse tip-tapping against her ribs. She inhaled a ready breath, listening as the boys played ‘empire’.

“...so, she married the founder, waited two years, then flipped the prenup clause like it was a goddamn switch. Walked with ten per cent equity—just enough to screw the board. Genius.”

“She fucked her way into a liquidity event. Respect. That’s activist strategy.”

“I swear to god, man, women don't climb anymore. They annex.”

“First date litmus test: open to sue. If she smiles, fuck off. Right, Harry?”

To her surprise, Harry stayed silent, eyes cool, not rising to their talks, watching her, lips set on his glass.

Just listen to these assholes. Women were either currency or casualties in their contact sport called finance. They didn’t even hate women, because that would require conceding to them as a threat. All strategy, no stakes.

Anyways, these assholes were still her hustle. Harry or not, she was here to work; she had a Blancpain watch to gut, a man to milk for every last drop of delusion before vanishing into the night with his Amex, and possibly his dignity. Feelings—horny, complicated, dangerously tall feelings—could take a number and get in line behind the paycheck.

Focus. Control the narrative. Play the oldest game.

She crossed her legs toward Dave, angling herself so the short black dress barely held diplomatic relations with modesty. His cologne hit her next—obnoxiously citrus, layered to extinguish the whiff of suburbia clinging to him. Two-and-a-half kids, a Connecticut community, and an ageing Labradoroodle. A mask, nothing more.

His hand landed behind her neck, sloppy fingers skimming her bare skin. The entitlement was baked into the touch.

She trailed her finger down the gold band on his hand, the one that sang the latest tune, ‘married with kids, but bored as hell.’

That poor woman at home. She had done her research—lovely, pure Carol. Carol was probably wrangling PTA group chats, tucking away monogrammed hand towels, and dutifully refraining from turning into the cautionary tale all suburban wives feared (ahem, her.) Meanwhile, her husband was here, balls-deep in his midlife crisis, shopping for a new mistake in a sexy dress.

She knew this run-of-the-mill type. They all had that same fracture line running through their skulls—the nifty, hideous little compartmentalisation. Men like Dave knew two lanes: the wife, the angel on a pedestal, unsullied and glorified; and the other women, sinners by default, for whom no forgiveness was required.

He looked at her as though both problems had solved themselves tonight. So, what he needed from her was the performance. The story. The fantasy that they were corrupting a soft, sweet, innocent woman.

“What would your wife say,” she murmured, lips inches from his ear, “about you touching me like that?”

Dave's eyes were already halfway down her cleavage, entirely unbothered by his own infidelity. “We’ll never know, will we?” He grinned. “So... what’s your name, baby?”

She let her expression soften, tilted her head just enough to coax his hand higher and the illusion of control into his palm. Her lashes dipped low, all diligent reluctance, as if he were maybe pulling her into dangerous waters.

“Angel,” she whispered, breath skimming his ear. “You looked like you needed one.” And men like him always did.

He chuckled and touched his chest. “Dave. And, is that right?” His hand grazed her skin again. “You think you can ease my conscience?”

She pursed her lips. “Redirect.”

“You offering me something, Angel?”

“I’m offering everything,” she said, breathy, “you’re silly enough to think you’re taking.”

And it hit, right there—the sharp click of his pupils dilating, that primal rush of power simmering under his smirk. He thought he’d won, ready to peel apart some unwilling, trembling little thing.

She played with the chain around her neck absently, allowing him to drink in the posture—the bitten lips, the hunched shoulders, the soft doe-eyed lean—and already, she could feel the Madonna-Whore wires in his brain short-circuiting. Was she both? Neither? More than Carol will ever be?

A beat passed. His eyes never left hers, dark with the certainty that this dumbfuck was deciding her fate.

She smiled up at him. “You gonna save this angel or ruin her, Dave?”

His teeth flashed. His hand slid lower, thumb circling her pulse. “Both.”

“I think I'd like that, too,” she said, lips ghosting his jaw.

He laughed—loud, crude, the kind of humour that thought volume made it charming. Not nearly as dangerous as the sound of Harry’s silence across the room. She could feel him without looking—coiled, unreadable, a quiet, expensive storm simmering behind tumbling ice and shadows. His hand fisted around his lowball glass, tracking her every move like a predator just waiting for the excuse.

God, how fun was this? She got to rile up two men tonight.

“I like you,” Dave drawled, raising his glass like he was knighting her with his approval.

“Get in line.” She winked, stealing the glass from his hand, taking a small sip of his Cristal. Lipstick mark affixed—another little signature of the evening’s performance.

Then—crack.

The glass slammed the side table, Harry’s empty lowball, abandoned. The impact sliced through the air like a warning shot. Her eyes flicked over—indignant Harry, sinking back into the couch, one leg crossed, exactly like a man two seconds from rearranging the floorplan with pure rage.

Her little rich boy was jealous. Poor, possessive bastard. Should have come to her sooner. Let him suffer a little for how easily he had forgotten the most ungettable thing in his life.

She should have left it at that—the satisfaction of rattling his gilded cage—but Dave leaned in, voice sticky with suggestion. “You wanna do a bump with us?”

Instantly, the party mood curdled.

Her gaze swept the table once more—the lingering chalky dust, the faint chemical tang in the air. One of his friends nearby rubbed his nose, fresh off a hit, wild-eyed and wired. The accompaniments to legal liability and bad decisions.

She’d seen this film before. She did not like how it ended—with her unconscious, robbed, or worse. Right now, she was surrounded by those men who laughed at boundaries, who thought ‘no’ meant “try harder.”

Bearing up her bravado as her shield, she strapped it tight and smiled back.

“Tequila’s fine,” she deflected, tucking her fear beneath polished charm. “Hey, do you wanna dance with me instead?”

“C’mon,” Dave coaxed, arranging a line for her with casual menace, “Everyone’s doing it. Just one hit, you’ll love it. You scared?”

She nailed the doe-eyed look. “Um...”

Of fucking course. Peer pressure with a side of potential defilement. What a wholesome evening.

Her eyes slid sideways to Harry, an involuntary move—a silent Hail Mary, hoping he'd see the cracking edges beneath her smile. Maybe he’d intervene, and he’d finally act like the territorial sociopath she believed he was.

Harry's gaze met hers. His jaw flexed so tight she swore she heard teeth grinding. You're another beautiful fool, she could hear him growl at her.

A long, murderous beat—then he stood. Tall, simmering, the devil incarnate in designer threads. His shins nudged the table—sending the glassware skittering—as he prowled toward the bar. Maybe the bartender owed him blood.

Well. There went her backup plan, straight to drown in his own ego. She swallowed the lump of disappointment, slipped her best game face back on. Alone again, nothing new there.

Another piece of advice, ladies: you get yourself in a sitch, never, never, ever rely on a man to get you out of it.

“What crawled up Castillo’s ass?” one of the guys muttered, oblivious, watching Harry retreat.

Probably you idiots, she thought, but smiled thinly instead. “Oh, you know… just someone’s bad taste.” Hers, for example.

Five pairs of eyes locked onto her as she scooted toward the edge of the low, leather sofa. Predatory, curious, bored. All varying shades of male interest.

“Go on. Just one sniff,” one of them goaded.

Her gaze drifted to the coke line spread across the glossy table. A fine, glistening stripe of catastrophe. Her pulse boomed, her throat constricted, and she could practically hear the caution sirens wailing behind her ribcage.

Jesus Christ. Was she really about to do this? Snort drugs with strangers in a club?

She’d danced through plenty of vices. Indulged in sex very young. A little hard liquor when she had barely grazed the age limit. Some of her neighbour's weed that made her snack pantry disappear. A soft spot for toxic men and questionable marriages. So, this?

Yeah, no fucking way.

She smoothed the hem of her black dress, unfeigning hesitation, playing the wide-eyed rookie they all wanted her to be. Her eyes flicked up to Dave, who leaned in, high off himself more than the drugs.

“Um,” she breathed, fingers twisting her chain, selling every ounce of nervous damsel. “It’s not… like… strong, is it? Will it wear off later?”

The dude beside her—slick-back, Rolex, dead eyes—snorted a laugh and nudged her elbow. “You’ll be fine, love. Loosen up.”

Right. Because trusting coked-up finance bros with her bloodstream was exactly how her night should end.

In her head, alarm bells clanged loud enough to drown out the blaring of a psychedelic pop song overhead. Quite fitting, but she wasn’t dying tonight. Not here, not on some rando’s agenda, not draped over some schmancy sectional with a brain aneurysm and a story that ended in headlines. Local woman overdoses trying to scam hedge fund coke bros.

She had to redirect, somewhere, fast.

Her eyes flicked around—options were limited. Table cluttered with credit cards, glasses, and the tragic remains of their self-importance. But the champagne flute, half full, perched precariously near the edge. An accomplice waiting to be enlisted.

Perfect.

With a qualified clumsiness, she reached for a napkin, elbow grazing the glass. It tipped, crystalline liquid cascading across the table, her very own liquid sabotage. Champagne rushed over the coke line, a tidal wave of panic following right behind. And, even—jackpot—the entire bag of coke, tucked too close to the chaos, skated into the mess.

A round of curses detonated around the table. Drinks sloshed. Cards scrambled. Dignities evaporated.

“Fuck!”

“Watch it!”

“Fucking bitch,” another snapped, scrambling to salvage what little remained of their powdered investment.

She could’ve laughed—truly laughed at the absolute drama of their faces—but survival demanded better acting. Waterworks. Classic, effective, timeless. She'll play into the me-woman-me-stupid-trope.

Her lower lip wobbled. Her eyes glossed over, panic flickering just right. “I—Oh no, I’m so sorry.” Her voice broke, a little whimper laced with delicate devastation. “It was an accident, I swear—I didn’t see the glass!”

Dave inspected the coke bag, dripping champagne, a glower sharpening his already animalistic features. His jaw twitched. “You just cost me five grand,” he muttered, flicking excess liquid off the soaked plastic.

“Omigod, I’ll just go. Sorry,” she murmured, voice honey-sweet with false regret as she slid off the sofa, threading herself between the stretch of legs and the coke-slicked table. Her heels clicked softly against the floor, the keen sound of a near-escape.

She was halfway to the sweet salvation of a dramatic exit when a hand clamped down on her wrist.

Her spine stiffened. So much for grace.

“I said,” Dave repeated, laced with entitled menace, “you cost me five grand.”

Unbelievable. First assault, now bankruptcy. Truly, her week just kept getting better. Tomorrow, maybe she’d get hit by a train or fall into the sewer. All equally glamorous endings, the way this was going.

“You think you could just take me for a ride?” He snorted.

She met his eyes, calm, flat, although her stomach dropped like a rock.

He went on, leaning too close. “You think I don’t know every backdoor in this building? You think they’d blink if I dragged you out of here and got my money’s worth another way?”

“Are you trying to frighten me?” she asked coolly.

“No,” he said, letting the smile sharpen. “That’s only the prelude.”

Her mind split in two like clockwork—the practised con artist in her tallying exit strategies, the survivalist in her cataloguing every man’s face and mood. She could swing this one of two ways: turn up the waterworks, sob her way out, and collapse into the distressed maiden act. Or she could shatter the performance entirely, drive her fist straight into Dave’s nose, and bolt for the door, praying the bouncer at the front still had a thing for her tits and debatable life choices.

Divine intervention wasn’t really her style, but tonight, she’d take it.

And such a decree, it seemed, arrived on a silver fucking platter—wearing Harry Castillo’s custom-tailored charming superiority.

“Five grand?” Harry’s voice slid through the tension.

She exhaled a sharp one, pulse slowing to its usual pace. Her ex-target's timing was annoying—annoyingly immaculate.

He approached with the lazy confidence of a conqueror, eyes raking across Dave like he was considering a refund. “What sort of cheapjack coke has your dealer been selling you?”

Dave’s grip faltered but stayed stubborn, his cautioning gaze snapping to Harry. “Stay out of this, Castillo.”

Harry’s mouth curled—a small, savage smirk—and he stepped into the booth, entirely unbothered. His fingers swished toward Dave’s hand on her wrist.

“I trust you wouldn’t want Carol knowing you’re strong-arming a minor for drug money,” Harry drawled, letting the words sink in.

Dave blinked, thrown thoroughly off-script. “Minor... the fuck are you talking about?”

Harry’s brows lifted with false innocence. “Assistant’s kid. Look at her.” He gestured toward her with a careless wave. “She’s got Polly’s face all over.”

Well, thank god for Polly, the mother she never had, because Dave’s hand dropped from her wrist as if she were radioactive without even stopping to review the falsehood.

“Jesus Christ, man,” one of the men hissed, stepping back so fast his drink sloshed onto his loafers.

“Seventeen, I believe,” Harry added evenly. “Dumbass girl probably snuck in here with a fake ID.”

Now that was uncalled for. She narrowed her eyes at him, who granted her a minuscule twist of his lips.

Meanwhile, they all recoiled in unison, predators realising the prey came equipped with hidden landmines. One of the finance bros physically hid his face behind a cocktail menu. Even Dave retreated, guilt clashing awkwardly with his coked-up audacity, scrubbing nonexistent fingerprints off his hands.

She flicked her eyes back to Harry, playing her part to the hilt. Wide-eyed, wounded, a tremble threaded into her lower lip.

“I just wanted to have some fun,” she whispered, injecting just the right amount of vulnerability into the lie, the master of heartbreaking naivety.

Peer-pressuring a woman was one thing, but peer-pressuring a teenage girl? That was lawsuit territory, prison for life, middle-aged careers and families going up in flames.

Harry, ever the opportunist, fished a sleek card from his pocket, twirling it between his fingers before tossing it onto the table like his personal poker chip.

“Bill me,” he said, all crisp and cool, eyes never leaving Dave’s dumbstruck face.

The men stared at the card—the consequences of the last five minutes dawning like a migraine. She couldn’t help it—the corner of her mouth curled into a victorious little smirk. Another tally mark added to the Harry-and-Eve rapidly growing scoreboard.

“Or get the hell out of here,” Harry concluded.

Predictably, the suits slunk out of the booth faster than a Wall Street conscience—Dave and his little pack of coke-dusted wolves slinking off, their egos dented, careers quietly flashing before their eyes, before Harry’s security even had to flex, his little team lingering nearby like dark-suited gargoyles, earpieces aglow, expressions unreadable.

She could’ve mourned the loss of what would’ve been a blissful early birthday present in the form of a maxed-out black Amex—oh, the tragedy—but Harry’s eyes were already back on her, grave with concern, a little amusement, all of it that burned straight through her spine.

She flopped back onto the velvet cushion, dabbing at her eyes. Jesus, the lengths a girl had to go to keep mascara intact. She’d spent forty-five minutes crafting this face; she wasn’t about to let cocaine, entitled financiers, or Harry-fucking-Castillo ruin it.

A neatly pressed, faintly cologned handkerchief appeared in her peripheral vision.

“You’ve got to pick your battles, sweetheart,” Harry murmured behind thinly veiled laughter.

Sweetheart. He said it like he’d bought the patent, and now it belonged exclusively to her.

She nabbed the handkerchief, noting the ridiculous quality—soft Irish linen, smelling of the same Jean Paul le Castillo, greenbacks and composure. Of course, he was the kind of prehistoric gentleman who carried chivalrous handkerchiefs.

“Appreciate the save, not the mansplaining,” she muttered, dabbing the corners of her eyes, speaking low enough to test him.

Predictably, he caught it—one dark brow arching, mouth twitching. “Remind Polly to ground you when we get home.”

She side-eyed him, folding the handkerchief neatly in her lap. “Get me back before curfew, at least.”

His gaze swept over her, lingering on the hem of her dress as she smoothed it back into place, tugging at the too-short fabric, reclaiming her armour. Her pulse hummed, electric with proximity—the swish of his crisp shirt when he sat down beside her, the clean scent of him winding through the smoky air, the flex of his knuckles as his hand hovered near her thigh. Another arm reached the table to drag his card back into his pocket.

“Are you alright?” Harry leaned in, knowing, darkly amused. “Or am I carrying you out of here in my arms?”

“Takes more than coke and groupthink to break me,” she mentioned, flashing teeth.

Harry’s fingers grazed the back of her head, deceptively tender, the pad of his thumb pushing back a strand of her hair. “That’s my girl.”

She huffed. “I didn’t know I belonged to anyone.”

He gave her that trademarked smile, the one that always came just before he tightened the noose. “No, but I do enjoy the illusion.”

“Mhm. So does everyone here.”

Harry chuckled, low in his throat. “Can't ever have the final say with you.”

“And you didn’t have to make enemies out of your colleagues just to play white knight,” she noted, eyes scanning the crowd—searching for exits, reflections. She had to get the hell out of here.

He tilted her chin up with two fingers. “You insult me by calling them colleagues.”

She managed a smirk. “You can’t blame me. All of you have that same look dudes wear after selling too much of their soul.”

“We closed a deal this morning,” he agreed. “Dragged on too long. Call all of this… tacky revelry.”

“Tacky’s generous.”

Harry shrugged. “They’ll wake up with hangovers and panic attacks. I’ll just wake up richer.”

“Mm. Then I guess those assholes won’t miss this.”

Without missing a beat, she slipped her hand open, revealing the silver gleam of his Blancpain Carrousel watch nestled in her palm—worth more than her cumulative life choices. His eyes widened a fraction, but before he could reach to snatch for it, before the mock scolding could land, she flipped her hand, revealing nothing but air.

She smiled sweetly. “Oops.”

Magic, sleight of hand, classic ‘Eve.’

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, amusement still running rampant in his eyes. “Did you fence my Hublot already? That's why you need a replacement?”

She cocked a brow. “Honey, how do you think I can afford to look this good right now?”

Harry’s unguarded laugh broke loose, and it landed right between her ribs.

“I missed you,” he admitted, blunt, simple, cutting straight through the mess of games.

Her smirk faltered along with all her loaded defences—polished, sharpened, bulletproof—soon, an invisible, unsettling feather tumbling through her chest.

She reached out, palm cupping his jaw, tracing the shadow of stubble along his cheekbone, down to the scruff of his chin. His skin was the warmth she missed, the faintest catch of his breath betraying how close to the edge he always ran when it came to her.

“Am I your little tax write-off tonight?” she murmured.

“I’d declare you on every form if it meant keeping you,” he triumphed. Hot. Hot, smoking, smooth-talking fucker.

She dragged in a breath, eyes flicking to the dance floor, pulse crawling like static under her skin. For once, she wanted it simple. No hustle, no angles, no strategy. Harry’s hands on her body, her head blissfully blank, the pain of wanting replaced with heat, noise and friction.

Fun. A selfish, reckless little appetite sitting dead centre in her chest.

“Dance with me,” she offered, the plea slipping out softer than intended.

Harry’s grin curled. “Planning to treat my body like a pole?”

She snorted, smacking his chest with the back of her hand. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve seen hotter poles.”

He unfolded from the booth like a serpent straightening its spine, fluid, tall, lethal in quiet increments. His hand outstretched with that rich-boy charm, dark eyes full of darker promises.

“Fair warning, sweetheart. I tend to ruin women for lesser men.”

“Oh, baby.” Her grin sharpened to match his. “You don’t call me Eve for nothing.”

She slid her hand into his, slender and fine-boned, engulfed whole by his broad, long-fingered palm. For a half-second, that ridiculous ache tripwired through her again. Look, she had a birth certificate stating ‘female,’ a lifetime of sharp edges and sharper wit, but it wasn’t until her fingers threaded through his that she actually felt delicate. A girl, weightless in the grip of someone far more powerful.

She detested how much she liked that.

The bass thumped, Selena Gomez purring overhead about tight dresses and having her hair up real nice, about looking good for her man. Wasn’t that her biography?

She wasn’t hiding a damn thing tonight—attitude weaponised, broken glass smile, dress too tight.

Harry caught her off-guard, spinning her beneath his arm—completely at odds with the synth-drenched, too-smooth club mix vibrating through the floor. She stumbled right into the twirl, laughing, breathless, free for the first time all damn week.

“What the hell was that?” she yelled over the music, still giggling.

He played innocent, tilting his head. “What was what?”

“That,” she challenged, stepping in close enough for her words to skim his lips. “That boyband twirl. Can you really dance?”

The club became hell all of a sudden. A first-class, overhyped meat market where the walls sweated, the floor stuck to your heels, and the bass was so low it buzzed in your teeth.

Harry Castillo looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. And yet, why was he here?

It was written in the stiffness of his spine, the way his flashy watch probably cost more than the entire liquor stock behind the bar, and that tan skin was severely allergic to the lower tax bracket. He was a hostile takeover epitomised, uncertainty coiled in every line of him as though his hand remained at her waist, mighty big and possessive, he hadn’t moved much beyond that—he truly wasn’t built for this scene. Adorable.

Yet, he tried to change the running system, his thick fingers dipped into her hair, sweeping it up to scrape featherlight, stubbly kisses across the column of her neck, while the other hand stroked down to squeeze her ass. No part of her body went untouched, setting out a wildfire across her skin, cooled by the gold on his emerald ring.

Sliding back into him, she let her hips roll slowly, eagerly, a grin curving her lips, grinding against the unmistakable, much-missed, huge hardness behind his zipper. His hips crushed forward, and she had him right where she wanted.

“Seriously, Castillo,” she drawled, tipping her head back against his shoulder. “What’re you doing here?”

His hand flexed at her hip, the other sliding down, along the curve of her ass to palm up her ribs, drawing her tighter into his frame. His mouth skimmed the shell of her ear, rumbling—

“I’m here for you, Eve.”

The synth-pop tune pulsed around them, sweat and glitter blanketing the air. Her heart hiccuped—unexpectedly. That little kink of sincerity in his tone, tucked beneath all that unfailing charm and the ‘Eve’ bullshit? That wasn’t supposed to be there.

She masked it with a teasing hum, arching back further into him, feeling the delve of his muscles. “Pretty, pretty bullshit. I can smell the corporate disgust radiating off you. You’re about to file a noise complaint, hm?”

He chuckled, mouth grazing at her earlobe. “Can’t say I give two shits about the music.” His hand roamed higher, fingers skating along the bare edge of her ribcage beneath the slinky hem of her dress. “Or the people. I didn't come here for anyone else.”

Bodies knocked into them from every side—most drunk, all desperate—but none of it registered. His focus was razor-sharp, honed on her, the only thing anchoring him in this overstimulated neon haze.

She spun in his grip, facing him, hips still swaying to the beat, hips grinding lazily, eyes skating over his flushed throat and crevice between his pectorals of his open collar, the crack in his usual composure, jaw clenched like he was enduring this place only by the skin of his teeth.

“Admit it,” she teased, palms bracing against his chest, fingers curling into the expensive fabric. “You hate this.”

“I love this,” he corrected, and dipped his head lower, lips grazing her jaw, stubble scraping. “I hate being ignored. Let’s go somewhere else, anywhere you like.”

She wavered, just a bit. Because his voice—velvet, rough, so sexy—surged into her bloodstream and made promises her body was already cashing. But the little smirk still curved her lips as she leaned in, tongue brushing his lower lip in retaliation.

“You want another round in the alley out back?” she goaded, all breathy, then did the whole ‘knuckles up, tongue-in-cheek’ gesture, the ubiquitous sign for a blowjob.

“Jesus, stop.” He swatted her hands away while she fell about into laughter. Little (Big) Holy Willie.

His hands circled her waist, grip firm, grounding her as the anchor to the beating pulse of the club. His mouth hovered just above hers.

“I'd like to fuck you through every wall in this hovel, sweetheart,” he murmured, hard, controlled, coming undone in increments just for her. “But I’m a gentleman, and you have standards. So, let’s do it in private.”

She flashed her teeth. “Do what?”

“Eve,” he warned, deadpan, with a wicked glint.

“Do Eve?” she echoed.

And with that, his palm slid down, fingers curling around her thigh, hiking her leg up around his hip, grinding her against him right there in the middle of the glowing crowd.

His dick—heat?—slammed like a freight train. Every cell lit up in Vegas neon. She didn’t know who gave him permission to have rhythm, but apparently, he came prepared. His hips tracked the slow grind of hers, and despite herself, she felt his body—so amazingly hard everywhere—fall into step with hers. She could smell it on him: he was all corporate meetings and black-tie galas, not sticky dance floors and synthetic club bangers.

“Say please,” she dared breathily, teasing because it was all she had left before she melted into a puddle of ruined composure.

Harry’s grin carved, predatory. His thumb stroked the inside of her thigh, just shy of indecent. “Don’t make me beg in public. So unseemly.”

And yet—the way his eyes devoured her, the tension rippling through his body... something said that he didn't need to lift a finger.

She smirked, heartbeat ricocheting off her ribs. “Then lead the way.”

That was all it took for his huge hand to close around hers, and he pulled her through the crowd, a storm chaser finally capturing the hurricane.

Harry began to rattle off suggestions by the time they got out of the entrance, exactly like a rich, older man desperately googling “fun things poor people do at night.” Every option was a new level of uninspired, more aggressively beige than the last.

“There’s Central Park—”

“Pass.”

“How about the ferry to—”

“Nope.”

“Then we could—”

“Boring.”

She cut him off mid-thought, mid-syllable, mid-pathetic attempt.

He stopped dead in his tracks, hand falling away from hers, exasperation written plain as day on that aggravatingly handsome face. His brows ticked up, mouth tugging at the corner like he couldn’t decide if she infuriated him or turned him on. (Both, unmistakably.)

“I’m drawing a blank,” he admitted, that rich-boy exasperation lacing his voice. “Why don’t you enlighten me? What does the patron saint of bad decisions classify as fun these days?”

She patted his cheek with mock sympathy, palm lingering just long enough to bug him. “Finally got it right.”

Then she pivoted on her heel, strutting ahead as though she owned this side of the pavement, which, technically, in those heels, she could have.

The Maybach waited exactly where she had pictured it would, idling by the curb as if it were above traffic laws, because money radiated that effect on vehicles like his. His ever-suffering chauffeur, Ben, leaned against the sleek-black hood, cigarette tucked between two fingers, eyes narrowed like this job aged him hourly. Two of Harry’s security detail flanked him, muscle-built and miserable, equally thrilled.

“Evening, boys,” she sang, offering a flirty little wave. “Missed me?”

All three sighed in unison, a chorus of unified regret.

“Ma’am,” Ben greeted, dragging on his cigarette, smoke curling lazily. “Can’t say I did.”

She pressed her hand to her chest, faux-scandalised, lips parting into the softest pout. “Aw. I’m so touched.”

“Not a compliment,” Ben deadpanned.

She leaned in, lowering her voice, letting her gaze flick lazily down his frame, smirk sharpening. “Didn’t say where I wanted you to touch me, Ben.”

Ben choked on smoke mid-drag, coughing so violently one of the security guys clapped him on the back, and Harry—predictably, maddeningly—materialised behind her like a storm front, his palm sliding to the small of her back like he couldn’t help stake his claim, fingertips idly playing with a loose strand of her hair. Territorial, always.

“Bed-Stuy, then, boss?” Ben asked Harry, recovering with a shake of his head, stubbing out his cigarette.

Her smile stalled. She glanced between them, lips still curled, but her eyes narrowing in real-time. Her apartment. Her street. Her stretch. How the hell—?

Her gaze darted to Harry, sharp, narrowing slightly. “You know where I live?”

Harry's face was pure unbothered amusement, all dimples and expensive teeth. “Relax. You’re not exactly off-grid.”

Her stomach flipped somewhere between ‘that’s hot’ and ‘that’s horrifying.’ She opened her mouth—probably to call him a stalker—but he cut in, voice all confident, like he was reading her mind.

“Lady’s choice tonight,” Harry declared, nodding to Ben as his hand curled gently at her waist, possessive but teasing. “Where to then?”

“Hold on a sec, let me get this straight,” she reaffirmed, tilting her head. “Anywhere I want. Anything I want. And you’re footing the bill?”

Harry nodded once. “Dot.”

One blink up at him, slow and suspicious.

Then she leaned in, close enough to speak only for him, and that if she wanted, she could’ve bitten his ear clean off. “You do realise I’ve robbed you. Twice. I’m not usually in the habit of giving the game away for free, but you're completely unsalvageable.”

Harry flashed her a careless grin. “And do you remember what I told you?”

She scowled. “That you don’t care.”

“Still don’t.”

She drew back, lips parted like she might argue, but the words stalled in her throat. No bait or bravado—what the fuck was he playing at?

She tried to run the math again. Was this the world’s most expensive attempt at getting laid? Did he want head so bad he was willing to bankroll her night and let her rifle through his pockets again afterwards?

But then the thought twisted sideways, turned uglier.

Her smile faded, arms crossing defensively. “I’m not a charity case, Harry. I get by just fine without your fancy ass.”

Harry’s brow lifted, almost imperceptible. But he didn’t correct her, only watched her for a beat, unbothered to coddle or compliment. He wanted her, and he wanted her whichever way she would have him.

She hated that she couldn’t tell if he pitied her… or respected her. Maybe both, or neither, or perhaps he liked the game too much to stop playing.

She straightened, scoffing half to herself. “Jesus. You really don’t care, do you?”

Harry shrugged. “Hence my question: where to?”

She bit her lip—too late to hide the twitch of a smile. Free rein on a billionaire’s platinum card, a Friday night just stretching its arms.

So many options. So much lost principle. So much appetite.

She could’ve dragged him straight to an ATM and punched in the number that would float her rent for a year. Two, maybe three, and it wouldn't have left a scratch. But she also wanted a splurge at Bergdorf’s. A proper coat that didn’t reek, a nice pair of stilettos that didn’t cut up her heels. A gold tennis bracelet that girls loved to flash nowadays, the signature Van Cleef pendant, Dior lipstick in that deep vampy shade that only she could pull off. A laptop that didn’t glitch every three minutes, or maybe the newest iPhone! Groceries, not snacks, new lightbulbs, duct tape, plumbing that didn't sound like it was choking a ghost.

The list seemed never-ending, and the ache ran deeper. So why the hell was her brain short-circuiting now?

She knew what she wanted, but she didn’t know how to ask for it without surrendering something of hers in return.

She glanced at Harry—tall, collected, impenetrable—watching her as though he was waiting for the mask to settle. Expectant, ready to grant whatever ‘Eve’ asked for.

It wasn’t her wants he was willing to bankroll. It was Eve’s.

Eve would grin, tug him into another club, and drain three flashy cocktails. She’d dance on him, ride the high of attention until last call, and she’d want nothing more than what was already on the table.

But she—whoever she was when the act peeled back, behind the lashes, spine, smirk—wanted so much more, it physically hurt to name it. A life that didn’t depend on transactions, perhaps. To have money, to spend, to be left free of worry that came with being poor.

She looked away. This wasn’t fair. To ask was to expose. And exposure killed the thrill.

Harry put his hands on his hips, chin tipping, that calm never once slipping. “How about some coffee while you make up your mind?” he offered.

She let out a breath, lips quirking. “Coffee it is.”

Don’t get her wrong—she didn’t hate men. She was a cynic, not a hater.

No, she loved men.

Fascinating creatures. Loud, fragile, full of conviction and contradiction. Stupid and brilliant in the same breath, loyal when it served them, treacherous when it didn’t. Endlessly expressive. They wore their tells like tuxes and strutted around thinking it made them mysterious. She found them irresistible—not for their wallets (though that was convenient), not even for their affection (though she never turned it down)—but for the chase.

She loved them the way a lioness loves the second before the strike: the flicker of fear in the gazelle’s eyes when it still thinks it might escape. That tension. That dumb, beautiful hope.

There was something holy about that moment. Power dressed up as flirtation. Danger mistaken for desire.

Her fancy gazelle had gone past all subterfuge, and she could almost admire the optimism. And absolutely, hilariously, out of moves to resort to—

“Why is the cat wearing socks?”

Harry had set his cup down just to lean in, elbows brushing the edge of the table, face close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath ghost across her cheek. Space, to Harry Castillo, was more of a theory than a boundary. He liked to hover, press, linger—because gravity had rules for everyone but him.

She clicked her tongue and pointed to the doodled napkin between them, where her pen had gone rogue in a swirl of boredom and caffeine.

“They’re obviously boots. And the cat is a lioness. See, she’s got this little nose, whiskers, and sipping a martini, too.”

He squinted. The cat—nay, boldly feminine lioness—wore sunglasses the size of hubcaps, a martini clutched in one paw, and a suspiciously smug smile on her face. Her tail curled into a perfect ampersand.

“So, she’s got a drinking problem,” he noticed.

“She has fun,” she grumbled, tapping the sketch. “Lifestyle management.”

His finger hovered over a cluttered pile beneath the lioness. “What is this mess she's sat on?”

“Lounging,” she corrected. “She’s lounging on her spoils. Three NDAs, her boyfriend's credit score, and, look, her cute little Birkin.”

He grinned, still studying the sketch, having way too much fun. “And this?”

“That’s her tiny yacht. And an emotional support private island. Pretty rich pussy.”

He laughed, and her smile grew wider. “Pretty rich pussy, IRS-proof.”

Now, more than she liked people themselves, she liked drawing them.

When everyone had speech bubbles and exaggerated limbs, life became cartoon logic. Funny, safe. The loud ones were bantam roosters in business suits, all puff and no threat. The liars had Pinocchio noses. The flirts sported heart-shaped eyes.

She felt everything—too much, too fast—but sketching someone turned them into a caricature, a concept that you could erase and redraw if they started to look dangerous. Any man might tower over you in real life, but in a sketch, he was two inches tall and had puffs of steam coming out of his ears. What was he going to do—smudge?

Men, especially, ooh, they were gifts. They walked into her life already halfway storyboarded—setups to their own jokes, taglines, recurring props, brought monologues, simply begged to be illustrated.

Harry Castillo was already a dozen panels deep in her sketchbook. A swimmer’s body, toothy smirk, James-Bond-esque bowtie suit. Crown made of credit cards. Breast pocket replaced with a locked vault. A knowing grin that was stacked like pearls. And always, always those sunglasses—mirrored, smug, and reflecting the ace he never quite put away.

What mattered was that she never drew directly. The villain could be a cat. A shadow. A woman in a mink coat, faceless and leaning on a wine glass. Vague, stylised, gone in a mist.

Cartoons, like people, became whatever the reader wanted them to be. Just like her.

And tonight, she—pardon, ‘Eve’—was presently regaling chamomile tea at thirty-six floors up, locked in yet another one of Harry’s latest haute-cuisine shrines to control. This one: a mirrored box of a private dining suite perched far above the city, a jewel case for the damned. A white-linen table nestled against the window, the full, uninterrupted skyline lay bare before them. From up here, the chaos hidden, the lives smoothed out—truth seen through an elegant telescope.

The wide mirrors around them reflected sky, steel, and the sheen of artificial civility, and she caught their image in the panel across from her—Harry seated beside her, a stoic interrogator, her curled into the velvet cushion nearby. A two-way reflection, a cage or a stage, but either way, they were the only ones watching.

Flawless Central Park unfurled below like a frozen lung, motionless in twilight’s grip. The spires of the Upper West blurred into fog. Uptown dazzled. Midtown winked. Fifth Avenue cut across it all like a golden scar—white headlights pulsing forward, red taillights bleeding into dusk, the traffic bones of the city, arteries of light running through the city’s heart.

Maybe Harry dragged her up here to spook her into honesty. Vertigo as an interrogation technique, high tea with a side of psychoanalysis. Nice try.

He templed his fingers at one knee, composed. “You mind if I ask you something?”

She arched a brow. “Better not be dull.”

He ignored that. “You didn’t finish school.”

Whoa-ho, whiplash. Most men came in with a crowbar; Harry had brought a scalpel.

Which begged the question: what the hell kind of dossier did Harry have on her? With transcripts? Receipts? Polaroids of her standing alone at that bus station, sixteen years old, ticket clutched in one sweaty palm and Walkman in the other? Did he know about the idiot boyfriend who promised a home and a future, then vanished with her money and her trust in the same breath? Had he read the file labelled: ‘All the Shit She Survived Instead of Graduation?’

She offered a sigh that could’ve won awards. “Not a question. And what a ball buster.”

“You did great. Near-perfect scores. Could've gone Ivy League.”

“And yet here I am,” she said, gesturing at herself, “glamorous disappointment of the century.”

“So what happened?”

Oh, he really wanted her to answer. If he understood the break in her story, he could claim some piece of her future. As if the line between versions of her was so thin that a piece of paper could change it, or a diploma would’ve rewritten her circuitry, or scrubbed the rust off her bones. But part of her still appreciated the premise—an alternate life, simpler, duller, happier, safer.

So instead, she narrowed her eyes. “Now it’s snooping.”

“Compared to larceny?”

“Touché,” she muttered, reaching for a pistachio macaron. “Look, if you're trying to sponsor my redemption arc, you're way over budget.”

“Then you must be mistaken for someone who has a spending limit.”

She smirked, biting into the pastry with a crunch. “Now we're talking.”

He sat back, the velvet seat sinking under him, possibly realising—for the first time, and not the last—that this wasn’t going to be some simple seduction narrative. That it would take more than two Michelin stars and his best brooding expression to make her fold.

She flicked her hair over her shoulder, setting her elbow over the table to rub at the dollar-store amethyst sparkling at her ear. “Giving in so easily?”

He studied her. “You didn’t plan to rob me that night.”

A pouty grin tugged at her lips, feigned and feline. “Boo. Where’s the thrill if you ruin the mystery?”

He scratched his cheek, as if to hide the smile threatening to escape. “Old Billings, Max, Dave… they had routines.”

She laughed. “Are you sad that you didn't get one?”

“What set me apart from them?”

Now that was interesting. Not that he’d done his homework—she expected that—but that he wanted her rendition of the answer.

Her gaze flicked involuntarily to the emerald ring now resting beside his coffee cup. The stone winked up at her like it remembered everything, and upon catching her glance, he rolled it inward, hiding it in his palm.

She licked her bottom lip. “Should I be honest?”

“Since when do you believe in honesty?”

True. She breathed out once. “I wanted the ring,” she said. “And then I wanted the man wearing it more.”

Emotions were fucking chaotic, especially after thinking about home that she had not thought about in a long time, she’d called a time-out, put her schemes on ice, just for a breath.

And then he ruined it. That smug, vainglorious grin—equal parts teeth and trespass—sprawled across his face.

“Please,” he said, resting his chin on his hand, every inch the prince of bad ideas. “Indulge me. You wanted me—how?”

Her head dropped briefly into her hand, one thumb rubbing the inside corner of her eye like she could press away the stupidity.

“Asshole,” she muttered, already smiling. She hated how easily he made her laugh.

He clicked his tongue lazily. “Not really open to being pegged by a girl I just met.”

She blinked as the words took a scenic route through her brain before arriving. Then chimed out a laugh—unplanned, unfiltered, full-bodied.

“That’s not what I—” she tried, gasping between laughs, a hand over her mouth. “As opposed to what? A year of mutual respect, and then getting folded like a lawn chair?”

“Bare minimum, ideally. At least, a playlist or some candles,” he said, too smoothly, a perfectly valid philosophical stance.

“A safeword?”

“A mission statement.”

“You’re the weirdest man I’ve ever slept with.”

“That’s rich coming from someone who just tried to proposition anal sex to me with an innuendo.”

“Accidental innuendo.”

She was still laughing. One hand came up to wipe under her eye, smudging a trace of eyeliner, the laughter simmering down into that dangerous, post-giggle stillness—she looked at him differently now: a man bold enough to go there and foolish enough to think she wouldn’t follow.

“Well,” she said, a finger tracing the rim of her teacup, “I think we’re... plugged up at pegging.”

He winced—more theatrical than sincere—but his shoulders shook with laughter. “Ooh. A little liquor in the front, poker in the rear?”

She gasped, giggling. “Poker in the rear!”

And then the velvet-panelled door swung open behind them.

A waitress, trying not to look like she regretted her life choices, stepped in to top up Harry’s coffee. She had that soft, apologetic posture of someone well aware they’d interrupted something, but not exactly sure what.

Harry tore his gaze from her, miserably attempting to contain her laughter, and had a single, irritated glance beneath his lashes for the waitress.

“Miss,” he said, twice as sharp, “I specifically requested discretion from your waitstaff.”

The poor girl was flustered. “Oh—I wasn’t told... I’m sorry. Uh. Sir.”

He didn’t scold; instead, he flashed a folded bill between his fingers—a crisp fifty. “See to it no one sets foot in here unless I say so.” Then, because he wasn't a disrespectful asshole, he looked up at her and gave her the infuriatingly magnetic eye-fuck—“Thank you.”

She fumbled, took it, nodded, and made a quick retreat, nearly bolting them shut inside the mirrored room.

Now, however human Harry tried to seem in her company—however amused or charming or barely discomfited—there were always moments like that, reminders that he didn’t need to yell to take control of a room. All he had to do was make the price of silence look like a tip.

You have to understand—money was the polite way to scream. You didn’t need to raise your voice when you could raise the offer, and she bet that Harry never had to ask twice, only had to let the room catch up.

“How much of the pegging chat do you think she heard?” she asked.

“Beats me,” and he winked.

His strong arm slid low beneath the table, fingers hooking around the leg of her chair, dragging, easing her closer to him. His hand skimmed down the length of her calf, appreciative, possessive, before slowly coaxing her leg up and over his lap.

He had a thing for her legs, that much was obvious. His hands always found their way back to them, caressing his own familiar territory that he could get lost into.

She wasn’t surprised; most men did. She had great legs—sexy, sculpted, fluid in motion and stillness alike. But more importantly: they were the only part of her that ever opened for any man.

He let his gaze trail appreciatively—from the delicate black strap slung around her ankle to the hemline clinging to her thighs, that insufferable grin softening just enough to land between admiration and intent.

“Would you mind if I taste your pretty, rich pussy?”

She laughed, indulgent, admiring his nerve. “You’re horrible.”

His palm moved slow over her leg. “Do you require more context?” he murmured. “I can beg. Put my shoes on my ears and bark like a good boy. Is that what you want?”

She tilted her head, amused. “Why do you think degrading you is my first impulse?”

“Because all my money’s already on the table,” he said, gesturing lazily to the room around them—him, the dinner, the silence bought with fifties.

She rolled her eyes. “You really think I get off on reducing you?”

“I think you get off on knowing you could.”

He wasn’t wrong. “Hm, true,” she said, teeth clicking gently against her tongue. “No, I want to ask you something.”

He blinked. And for a moment, that stupid flicker of hope that she might want more than the game, or that she might see him beneath the grin. She saw it and filed it away.

He squeezed the back of her thigh. “Shock me, sweetheart.”

“Do you not despise me?” she asked, lightly, casually. “For being this selfish? For doing what I do?”

Harry leaned back, hand still fixed to her thigh. He smiled again, slower, more knowing this time.

“I find your selfishness sexy. Besides, I don’t confuse appetite with cruelty,” he stated, considering her stance. “You take because you know no one’s going to give. That’s math.”

Cool. She didn’t expect that answer. “And the math... checks out for you?”

“I’d rather deal with someone who knows what they want than someone who lies about it,” he said, with a wry twist of his mouth. “Wanting, desiring: that is honest. It’s need that makes people dangerous.”

She was intrigued. “Do you need?”

“Never had to,” he said simply. “But you do.”

Need was the fallacy men sold you when they wanted to feel necessary. When their desire alone didn’t move you, they made it your problem. Their hands came with solutions, their mouths with guarantees. She’d heard it before, in hotel rooms and back seats, whispered in the throes of orgasm or the comedown of guilt, half-meant: Let me help you.

She was not about to fold to the soft sell. “And what makes you think that?”

He dipped his head, his breath brushing the inside of her wrist. “I saw it,” he murmured. “The way you stalled when I asked what you wanted. The way you let me touch you. And the way you looked at Dave.”

“Dave was nothing,” she contested.

“I know,” he smirked. “You didn't want him.”

She opened her mouth to call him on the contradiction—to challenge this magician’s trick of flipping her intentions upside down—but he was already crowding her space, his body sliding between her legs, her thigh instinctively hitching higher around his hip.

Then he closed the gap, shut her up with a peck, a kiss, then another, two more, controlled, unhurried—a thief testing a lock he already knew would open.

His nose brushed hers in a featherlight stroke. “You want me,” he murmured. “You desire me. You need me. And I requite—tenfold, sweetheart.”

Well, that was brand new information. Her breath hitched, and a scoff disguised the sound. “So, you do need.”

Her lips skimmed the tip of his nose, a ghost of affection.

“Since I met you,” he admitted.

Her lips drifted to his cheekbone, trailing across the sharp edge of it, down to his ear—a soft hum of menace and thrill. “You need to eat me out right here?”

He gave a low, broken laugh. “Desperately.”

“Well,” she whispered, “desperation suits you.”

Then the reflective world tipped.

In a blur of muscle and motion, she was lifted—effortlessly, possessively—and placed atop the linen-covered table pushed against the floor-to-ceiling window. One hand splayed behind her for balance, the other gripping the edge of his sleeve.

“We're in public!” she warned, a laugh lacing her voice.

“Private room,” he amended.

Harry hovered between her legs, looming with intention. His hand threaded into her hair, claiming, tilting, reckless in resolve. His lips suspended just shy of hers—close enough to taste her breath, far enough to make her ache.

“What are you wearing down there?”

She bit her lip. “Something nice you’ll take off me very soon.”

God, his mouth, his arms, his eyes, his smell—she wanted it all. Since when did she become this girl? This girl who wanted and needed a man she couldn't stop thinking about? Regressing to her true self?

He dragged a restless hand through his hair. “We understand this is a felony, right?”

“Mm, then you better come punish me.” She cocked an amused brow, resting her calves over his shoulder now, her sharp heel knocking into his ear.

“With a nice, hot... tongue-lashing.”

His jaw turned to absolute granite. He was thinking about it. About how mad, how unhinged, how exquisitely stupid this was. Maybe he'd never done this before. And who was she kidding, neither had she.

She leaned back, letting the city glint behind her, legs parting wider, a smirk tugging at her mouth like an invitation with teeth.

Come on, she thought. Be reckless. I dare you.

Every woman, at least once in her life, deserves this: to lie back and simply exist atop Harry Castillo’s tongue.

Preferably with a view, a minor existential crisis, and definitely in public. Maybe it was the threat of someone walking in on her mid-orgasmic enlightenment, or the regret of having just demolished two Pierre Hermé matcha macarons—but this, right now, was close to legendary.

Harry was devastatingly good at eating pussy. That finger-tongue, suck-eat-repeat rhythm was textbook, no, better—footnoted. Something ancient women would whisper about in hammams, and modern ones would text in all caps.

The first thing she noticed was this oral warrior's patience.

Harry circled, mapped, as if he knew there was intricacy in her that would tense if he moved too fast. His hands, broad, long, sure, slid under her thighs and anchored her forward, his thumbs stroking the soft bend where hip met pelvis, coaxing her open.

“How pretty,” he sighed. “Goddamn, look at you. Can I call dibs?”

She traced her thumb down his temple and across his jaw, grinning. “Maybe.”

He fist-pumped the air, exactly like a reigning tennis open champion.

She exhaled, sharply—but the second breath melted her back into the table, nearly laughing at the absurdity of it. Why had she never done this before?

Or rather, why had she never let this happen?

Because in her world, oral sex wasn’t so simple. It was romance. Having a man go down on you meant worship, meant exposing the softest, rawest part of yourself, letting someone see the flicker of incredible pleasure cross your face before you could catch it. It was, annoyingly, an intimacy, and intimacy was... tricky.

Harry had bypassed the ceremony. He knelt between her legs, throwing them over his shoulders, like it was an old habit, and he was meant to be there whilst liveried waiters bustled about behind the door.

Her elbows dug into the table behind her, the skyline of Manhattan tilting into her peripheral vision. New York was her mattress, her safety net—always there to break her fall.

Harry, meanwhile, had rolled up his sleeves with a methodical flourish, unfastening a few buttons of his shirt like he needed more oxygen. His mouth never left her clit—shifted, adapted, all lips, teeth and tongue and barely veiled hunger. When his dark, devilish eyes flicked up at her, she felt the thud of her pulse between her ribs.

“I just figured it out,” he said mid-lick, as if solving a crossword. “You look like that girl in the show. With the sparkly black stuff in your eyes.”

Did this man call her kohl ‘sparkly black stuff’? She parted her lips to grumble. “Little...—wait. You mean Euphoria?”

He shrugged, undeterred, kissing the inside of her thigh. “Is that what it is?”

“Ex-girlfriend?” she panted, arching against him, hips bucking up back into his mouth. She wouldn't put it past him to have slept with A-list Hollywood stars.

He hummed. “No, her name—”

She reached down and gave him a light, scolding smack on the cheek. “Manners, honey. Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

He grinned and dove back in without hesitation. The bastard.

“Zanella,” he muttered into a mouthful of her.

Aw. No one had ever said she looked like Zanella before.

His mouth was hot and assured when it found her again, muting every other sound but him. He kissed her at her sideways smile, the glide of his devastating tongue up and down, up and down, slow, sinuous, almost cruel in how conscious it was—teasing more than tasting at first, drawing out her need.

God, this fucker knew what he was doing. She was so drunk, lust drunk, Harry drunk, to do anything but lie there for him.

She felt herself clench around nothing, chasing pressure that wasn’t quite there yet, and her hips lifted instinctively. He adjusted with her movement, inhaled like she was the only thing he wanted in his lungs, and then deepened.

“You smell divine, sweetheart,” he murmured.

She burst forth with a giggle. Divine? So old-fashioned. Big words, big dick, big money—the universe was giving back for all the shitty times.

The rhythm changed. Her old-fashioned man's tongue flattened and dragged up, deeper, sluggish, wide, and her spine arched in response. A sound slipped from her—too sharp, too revealing—and she bit down on it with her lip. He heard it anyway.

A smirk rolled through him, pressed deep between her thighs. She felt it in the curve of his mouth, in the cocky vibration against her clit.

So smug it was narcotic, “You like that?”

She could only nod, lip still tucked under her teeth, trying not to look as far gone as she felt.

“I’ve woken up the past week,” he breathed, “with the taste of you in my mouth. Every day. This doesn’t even compare to what I imagined.”

“Still just your mouth? Huh, I’m slipping.”

He hummed. “Oh, you are. Good thing I break people in properly.”

She fucking died. Right there, spreadeagled on a table in front of god and all of Manhattan, legs perched on his crazy strong shoulders, head tipping back into her own hair, fingernails carving unintelligible punctuation into his scalp.

Her breath came in erratic stutters now, hands gripping the edge of the table, and she could feel it—the sudden cold of the window at her back, the contrasting heat of his mouth below. He circled her clit in tight, maddening spirals—backing off when she got close, pushing harder when she thought she could take no more.

And then came his fingers—just one at first, then another, slick, stretching her open with a rhythm. His mouth stayed on her, tongue moving in tasteful laps that turned sinful when paired with the curl, twist, push of his fingers inside her. Her thighs snapped in, toes pointing, locking around his head in reflex, moaning a “god!” right from her belly. He made a low, thrilled sound at that.

You know that old myth about a man’s hands being a preview of what’s between his legs? In his case, it was less myth, more preview. The unrelenting, twisting fingers inside her could’ve been ghostwritten by the cock she’d spent the past week fantasising about. Same heft, confidence, and generosity.

She looked down—

And promptly died a second death.

Her eyes almost crossed at the sight, a sin in Calvin Klein between her hips, his eyes half-lidded, lips glistening, absolutely pussy drunk. Her fingers reached down on instinct, brushing his hair back for a better look, wanting to watch this, the soft, loving thrusts of his tongue, tasting, remembering, fingers gone in their own accord. He was just as wet, filthy and perfect as she was.

“Right there, baby.” She hoped he heard how soundly she was making love to his name for him. “Oh whuh—hoo....” Completely discombobulated syllables that never made sense after that.

His free hand slid up her chest, mapped the slope of her breast, glided along her neck—and then curled around it with a tender, controlled pressure. She let her head drop back, jaw slack, when he groaned into her once more.

And then, his fingers—those luxurious fingers—slipped up and into her mouth. Dirty, dirty man.

Impulsively, she caught his wrist there, her lips wrapped around him greedily, because yes, she wanted to be full, filled, fulfilled, and she wanted him everywhere. In her mouth, in her head, in every part of her that could still feel any ounce of pleasure. She sucked and moaned around him, fucking his fingers with her mouth like it was the only way to stay alive under him.

“You’re my dream, Eve,” she heard him growl—hot, thick, muffled in her clit. “So good...”

God, even the vanilla compliments hit like foreplay.

She glanced down again—because she was a glutton for spectacle—and saw the tight ripple of muscle in his shoulder flex beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his too-crisp shirt. Her ruined panties dangled from his back pocket as his souvenir, and that alone sent a fresh wave of idiotic arousal straight through her core.

The tension built fast now, molten, coiled. Her hips rocked, meeting him, chasing every merciless flick, every curl, every push of his tongue.

And somewhere in the back of her mind—a quiet, rational corner untouched by lust—arrived the clear thought: this is dangerous. How quickly he peeled her open without asking for anything but her pleasure in return, and how easily he slipped beneath the armour.

It undid rules, her guardrails, dismantled boundaries. It rewired her, and... she wanted to stay this way.

“Fuuuuuuck,” she gasped—a whisper barely formed before it broke apart entirely, fraying into a prayer as her fingers knotted tighter in his hair. “Harry, honey, I'm gonna—”

He pulled back just enough to look up at her, and she swore she saw the light a third time.

His eyes—black with lust and infuriating patience—found hers. His lips, slick and flushed, parted around a breath, a smirk, a threat of what was next. Then, with devastating quiet, he flattened his tongue one last time, dragging it up the length of her, a velvet guillotine, before sealing his mouth over her clit with that exact brand of masculine arrogance she hated to admit turned her to ash.

She shattered.

You wish it were pretty. It was a full-body detonation. Her back bowed, her thighs trembled around his ears, her breath caught mid-gasp and stayed there—trapped in the hollow of her chest until a thousand tiny floating suns decorated her vision. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out for a suspended second that felt like drowning and levitation, all at once.

Harry stayed exactly where he was—mouth locked, jaw twitching, fingers deep, riding out every tremor of her undoing, determined to wring out every last drop of her pleasure for himself. Well, he did say he was a needy man now.

When he finally recovered, easing her down from that high with lengthy, worshipful licks, her thighs were shaking, utterly useless. Her chest heaved like she’d just run through all five boroughs and back. She wanted to say something witty, flippant, and that didn’t sound like she’d just seen the face of god between a pair of sexy forearms.

But all she managed was a hoarse little, “Jesus Christ.”

To which Harry, without even looking up, naughty fingers were still brushing the indulgent wetness, making her clutch and lock the muscles there, muttered against another suck and eat rhythm:

“He wishes.”

A sharp knock at the door sliced through the haze of pleasure, a blade to fantasy.

Two knocks. Reality was calling... loudly. And with great timing.

“No,” she moaned, suddenly vertical, sort of.

Harry resounded a laugh. “No?”

She blinked out of her haze, functions faltering. It was one thing to bask in the post-orgasmic glow, smug, spoiled, maybe swat someone away with a lazy hand. It was another to be bare-assed from the waist down, legs previously slung over a disturbingly hot, disgustingly rich man’s shoulders, in a private suite of a Michelin-starred restaurant.

Two seconds from being caught, possibly blacklisted. Possibly handcuffed, and not in the fun way.

She turned to the warped reflection in the mirror walls, a woman who’d been politely disassembled—but still passably fuckable. A win.

Another knock—this one louder, more urgent. “Sir?” came the muffled voice. “We have your dessert course ready—”

Without glancing at each other, in perfect, exhausted unison, they both shouted:

“Not now!”

Silence, then footsteps retreating, brisk and embarrassed. She didn’t have it in her to feel bad. If anything, she was two seconds from tipping the waiter a hundred just for not walking in. That, or the head she’d just gotten. Which was maybe worth a thousand.

Harry glanced at her, his mouth twitching again. “Technically, I already had mine.”

Nope, priceless.

“I’m trying to salvage my dignity here.” She slumped back against the table, breath still uneven, bones jelly. “Oh my god. Harry, I can't feel my legs. What the hell did you do to me?”

“Lip lock on the love muscle. You’re very welcome, sweetheart.”

She snickered. “Okay, never say those words again. To anyone.”

Harry, finally rising to his whole six-feet-goodness, adjusted his cuffs with irritating elegance, as if he hadn’t just face-planted into her sex and made her see static.

She propped herself on an elbow, trembling through the aftershocks, and tried not to stare too openly at the impressive situation happening in his trousers. Emphasis on tried. Wow, the man had the nerve to look dignified with that incredible hard-on.

“Do you want me to take care of that for you, honey?” she asked, cooing almost.

He winked, unbothered. “I'll have to starve you this time. I’ve heard delayed gratification builds character.”

She caught herself in the reflection of the window this time—real glass, unforgiving. The aftermath was obvious: foundation breaking at the jaw, hair in full heat-stroke disarray. She looked like sex personified. Dishevelled, but not ashamed. Still got it.

“Hey.”

He leaned forward, chest crushing into hers, and embossed a kiss to the corner of her lips. “Hey, you.”

“Would Saks still be open?” she asked, brushing her fingers through his hair.

He laughed, buttoning up and tucking his shirt back into his pants, not a single wrinkle on his conscience. “Do you want it to be?”

“I need it to be,” she said, tossing him a wink that covered for the fact that she actually did feel stupidly hot all at once. “I deserve penance. Or—I don’t know—a small luxury tax for surviving you.”

“What are we in the mood for, your grace?” he asked, patting her thighs. “Birkins, Manolos, a shiny new ring?”

She gave him a sideways glance, smirking. “Yes.”

Do you remember that line from Epictetus?

‘Wealth consists not in having great possessions, but in having few wants.’ Now, respectfully, what the actual fuck did he know?

She wanted everything.

The penthouse, the platinum, the yacht, the invitation-only afterparty. She wanted her name on the deed to Switzerland. She wanted those diamond earrings and the ones in sapphire. She wanted the world in her palms—and gift-wrapped.

Except maybe that toga-wearing asshole knew exactly what this was. Because here’s the real secret nobody tells rich men like Harry: the more they have, the easier they are to rob. Not just of money—though that part was child’s play—but of sense. Of perspective and truth. Success, for men like him, was like altitude. The higher they got, the dizzier they became. These men start to lose sight of people, until eventually they see shadows, reflections of their own success. Props.

That’s what made her dangerous for him: she wasn’t here to be marvelled at. She was here to watch him.

And when she looked at him, she saw a craving. She saw a man who had everything… and still needed her—or ‘Eve’—to look at his every inch that said, I matter. Look how much I matter.

That was hunger. And his hunger was leverage.

So yes, Epictetus, that probably goat-scented philosophical bastard—he was right about this one. Wanting was the real poverty. And Harry Castillo was starving.

Which made him perfect.

His appetite for her was relentless. So relentless, in fact, that somewhere between two escalated phone calls, a ten-minute joyride down Fifth, and one absurdly hot makeout session that left her lipstick halfway to her ears and his hand halfway back up her skirt, she found herself in Saks.

The entire floor had been cleared for her pleasure. A private concierge. She didn’t even have a shopping bag.

‘Eve’ could go fuck herself.

Technically, she could’ve walked out with anything she wanted. Harry had said it plainly, more than once. The offer was stitched into the entire spectacle—the private showroom, the champagne, the bored attendant. A man like him didn’t have to say “pick what you want” outright; it was implied by the rack of pre-selected sizes, the locked doors, the lack of price tags.

A pesky old code of pride held her back. An honourable thief was her calling card, so her conscience (or stubborn refusal to be bought) rejected the transaction. A survival instinct, or she didn’t want to owe him a damn thing. Still, she wanted the Fendi heels, the Balmain mini, the silk halter that hugged the lune of her spine.

But, to take from Harry meant to owe.

Inside the changing room was different. That was all hers.

She indulged the fantasy, inhabited it. She’d twirled in and out of decadence. Every hemline, every silk caress, every zipper, every heel that made her calves look criminal. Mirror selfies that belonged on Vogue editorial, performance art spins, and couture that clung to her like a second skin. She shimmied, posed, pivoted, strutted—Vintage Chanel, modern Dior, silhouettes of Armani.

She could be rich like no one’s ever been rich—gorgeous, impossible to tax, defiant, self-destructive.

She opened the door mid-spin—laughing to herself, caught in the high—and there was Harry, seated on the leather bench just outside.

Watching. Elbow on his knee, hand at his mouth, between the white leather couch and flutes of champagne. He looked like he’d been sitting there for hours, even though it had been twenty minutes, tops. He’d rolled his shirtsleeves up, meaning business, and Christ, it fucking worked.

“How long’ve you been there, perv?” she asked, breathless from a particular pose.

“Long enough to know you’re not just trying things on,” he said. “You’re staging a heist.”

She grinned. “Caught me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of stopping you.”

Her eyes slid over him, one hand on her hip, wearing a wine-colored slip dress. “You enjoy the show? Simone Rocha looks like it was made for me.”

“I’d pay front row,” he said, then set his fists on his knees as he pushed to his feet. “But I’d also like to remind you that it’s not stealing if I’ve already bought it.”

Her smile flickered. It put heat behind her ribs when he did stuff like this, and she hated that about him. “I told you, I don’t take donations.”

“Good,” he said, stepping close to bend to her eye level. “Because I don’t donate. I invest.”

Her breath caught halfway between a laugh and a protest.

“And I’m investing,” he added, eyes on hers, “in the hottest, most expensive thing in this building.”

She looked down at herself, then back up at him. Her or the dress? Well, she never asked. Obviously her.

Now she sat in the back of his Maybach, coming down from all of it, overstimulated, smelling like perfume counters and Harry. Her building loomed outside, flickering like the grim reaper's unit. Her shoebox of an apartment waited upstairs in its sagging bricks.

Thank god, Harry wasn’t done.

His mouth traced soft, possessive kisses along her neck, one hand splayed on her thigh, pushing them apart, an absentminded privilege that should’ve annoyed her—but didn’t—the other exploring, touching, reminding. Good thing stone-faced Ben was outside the car, back turned, trying valiantly to pretend they weren’t neck-deep in more foreplay tension.

“Did tonight raise the stakes between us?” Harry murmured.

Us? Since when were they an us? It didn’t make her gag, which was surprising enough to be terrifying. So, she shook her head and lied through her teeth—

“Fat chance.”

He laughed, disbelieving. “You’re an impossible girl.”

“Lucky for you, I’m not your problem.”

“You keep meaning that, but I want it to be.” His fingers were mapping her skin like he was memorising it. “Tell me something I don't know about you, sweetheart. Biggest regret. Biggest turn-on. Biggest ambition.”

She scoffed. “I don’t do vulnerability at gunpoint.”

“It’s not an execution.”

“I still plead the fifth,” she said, eyes still fixed on her crumbling apartment. “On all counts.”

She felt him smile against her skin. Then he pulled back slightly, just enough to see her eyes. His expression had softened—his entire guard was down. Strange, delusional, utterly hers.

“You’re not even a little bit curious about me?” he asked, quieter this time.

And that gave her pause.

Harry didn’t hunger for attention; he collected it, maybe, only on his own terms. He genuinely sounded like a man who wanted her curiosity the way most men wanted her body. It was about wanting to be known, and maybe wanting it from someone who never gave it easily.

And for all he’d given her tonight—his time, his energy, his tongue—she figured maybe he was owed a question.

She shifted in her seat, tucking one leg beneath her as she turned to face him entirely. The Maybach was dim, velvet-dark except for the streetlights projecting over them. His silhouette was golden where it caught the glow—collar rumpled, stubble deepening into a shadow that had long since overstayed its welcome and become a lifestyle. His white shirt was creased, still half-tucked from when he’d unbuttoned it earlier, and the scent of his cologne—Oud Le Castillo—hadn’t faded one bit. It clung to him the way women definitely did. Just look at this perfect specimen of a male.

He took up too much space, literally and otherwise. Elbow to door, knee brushed against hers, owning the perimeter. A man who got used to things quickly—wealth, power, and, unfortunately, her.

“You want a question?” she asked.

His grin spread, wolfish. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Fine.” She let her voice drop, velvet over wire. “Mr Castillo, what’s your biggest goal in life?”

Not the slightest bit of flirtation, no. This was a landmine.

Because if he had even a shred of delusion that this was going anywhere, she needed to plant a flag, right now, in the crater between them. There was no long-term planning, no vision boards, and no matching toothbrushes. Her parents hadn’t managed to contain her—Harry and his made-to-measure life didn’t stand a goddamn chance.

She expected the usual: some Fortune 500 jargon wrapped in therapy-speak. Buy a struggling business, fire myself, and flip my personality for 3x EBITDA. Men like him loved to monetise their personal growth.

Instead, he said, “The big guns. My goals,” and hummed, which immediately made her suspicious.

“Mhm.”

He glanced at her, mischievous, delaying, tucking his tongue into his cheek. “You won’t write me off as developmentally challenged?”

Now that caught her. “Try me.”

“This is the part where I say ‘save the whales’ or ‘start a nonprofit,’ right?”

“Or ‘get pegged.’ You’ve got options.”

He let out a rumbling laugh. “Then I’m gonna ruin it.”

She cocked a brow.

“My real goal?” He leaned back, unabashed. “Fall in love with an incredible girl, get married, raise a soccer team of kids in a big house.”

Everything in her throttled.

No, not in the romantic, chick-flick way—stunned, like she’d been brained by a bow-wrapped brick of domesticity. Her brain flatlined, her gag reflex was ready, and her spine had already planned its exit through the sunroof. In any other circumstance, she would’ve screamed and somersaulted out of the car.

But in Harry’s case—her stomach dropped, that easy, curated grin slid off her face, and for a moment, she felt deeply, weirdly unreal. As if she didn’t exist in the same dimension as him anymore.

“And then save the whales,” he added dryly, eyes sparkling with self-mockery. “To keep it on-brand. I suppose now it sounds a little derivative.”

She blinked. Still no breath or comeback.

Harry squinted at her expression and snorted. “Alright, Jesus, a lot. Too much. Forget I said anything.”

When she finally found her voice—buried somewhere between disbelief and at least ten personal exit strategies—she managed, “No. It’s nice.”

He gave her a long, appraising look. “It is?”

She swallowed the thickness in her throat. “It is. Except the... um, whale bit. That part’s lame.”

A beat passed before he asked, “Still pleading the fifth?”

Her hand drifted to the hem of her dress, smoothing it down, hedging him. Her mind was already racing ahead—trying to outmanoeuvre whatever came next. The problem was that she didn’t have a move prepared for this.

But she was Eve. And Eve didn’t flinch. She glanced at him, eyes meeting his without blinking. His face was so close she could count the dark flecks in his irises. That trademark hunger of his—focused, insatiable—was trained on her like she was the only thing in the world that made sense. Or maybe the one thing that didn’t, and that’s what made her irresistible.

Her voice came in a murmur, but razor-sharp in its intent. “You invest in me.”

He only watched her like he was waiting for the trap to spring. She let it hang a second, then smiled—bitter, wry, a perfect curve.

“But I’m not an asset, Harry. I depreciate fast. No warranty, no insurance, not even a goddamn receipt. I’m a sunk cost at best.”

His jaw flexed once, but he didn’t look away.

She inclined back enough to reclaim a sliver of air. “So maybe do yourself a favour and write me off. Take the loss, and move on to a shinier girl with resale value.”

His hand didn’t waver, and neither did his gaze. And somehow, that made her pulse quicken. That goddamn silence. Most men would’ve rushed to reassure her—no, you’re worth it, baby, I see your value... or some TED Talk bullshit about loving broken things.

Even with all her walls up, every word sharpened into a warning label, Harry looked intrigued.

“Nothing?” she said, her smile tipping into a challenge. “Not even a snide remark about ROI? I served you that on a platter.”

Still nothing.

Her lips twitched, frustrated. “Jesus Christ,” she muttered. “I stole from you. Remember that part? What else am I supposed to do, Harry? Bite you?”

She rubbed at her mouth, irritated now—at herself. Her words were unravelling faster than she could catch them. What else was she supposed to do? What would finally make him back off?

“Fine. It’s the damn Hublot, isn’t it? You want your fancy watch back?” she snapped eventually. “I’ll go get your stupid shit that is so hideous—”

But as she moved for the door, his hand slid over her wrist. “Hey.”

She stopped. “What?” she yelped, but she didn’t mean for it to come out like that—brittle, defensive—but she was already halfway to the exit.

The fucker was looking at her like a man who'd just discovered her tell in the middle of a high-stakes game—smug, amused, disgustingly calm. Mouth raised, eyes glinting.

“You still have my watch?” he asked, voice all too fond.

Oh. My. God. Little shit!

Please, this wasn’t sentiment. Oh, hell no. It was... convenient. Practicality. The thing was worth more than her life. What kind of doofus sells something that nice when you can just... admire it? Quietly. From a distance. On your nightstand. Every morning. No big deal... coming from a part-time thief.

Also, it reminded her of him. Of Harry Castillo sitting beside her in that god-awful Michelin-star restaurant, of his wandering fingers, his fuck-all smile. Of the food she pretended to like. Of the penthouse suite with the silk sheets and the way he looked at her after their raging good sex. Of his incredible dick that never made an appearance this evening, his cologne, his hair—

Nope. Abort. Absolutely not.

Her eyes narrowed, voice flat with denial. “It’s a good watch. Nice weight.”

He lifted a brow. “You don’t wear watches.”

She folded her arms. “Well, I don’t wear men’s watches in public.”

“But you kept mine.”

“It’s resale-worthy.”

“You never sold it.”

“It... matches my nightstand?” Not her best justification, but with him, wit was left in shambles.

A flicker of something crossed his face. His smile deepened, a slow, lazy curl. “You keep it close.”

She glared, imagining him scorching under the duress. “You want it back or not?”

Quiet, silent satisfaction, and she hated that it rattled her. Because the truth was, she had meant to pawn it. She’d planned and thought about it a dozen times, but it stayed by her side, ticking smugly in the dark. Sometimes she'd forget it was there. Other times... not so much.

“I thought you didn’t take anything you couldn’t fence,” he quoted her from a while ago.

“Well, I lied.”

He smiled wider. “No. You were sentimental. About me.”

Full body recoil, shudder, shudder, tongue out. “Ugh.”

He laughed a throaty one, and there was a sudden impulse to kiss him breathless despite the growing rage. “Wow, you must really like me.”

She shot him a look. “The watch is Swiss-made. That’s... engineering appreciation.”

Harry lifted an eyebrow. “I thought you were a good liar.”

She exhaled. “Yeah. So did I.”

Before he could answer, there was a rap on the window—a sharp little interruption that made her jump. Ben, ever faithful, stood outside, muttering urgently into a comm on his sleeve. When Harry didn’t turn, Ben pointed directly at him and made the universal gesture for phone, tapping two fingers to his ear.

Harry defrosted, then finally reached for his thigh, patting around until he found the sleek phone still buzzing where he’d abandoned it. One missed call became four. Texts began blooming across the screen like weeds—short, frantic, increasingly unhinged.

A vestige of courtesy allowed her to ask—“Did someone die?”

“Not yet,” he muttered. “Give it a minute.” He swiped away the noise, his voice sour with amusement. “No rest for the wicked.”

“It’s three in the morning.”

“What can I say? Global capitalism never sleeps.” Then he bumped his shoulder lightly into hers. “Still want my hard-earned money?”

“Still want a kiss?”

He grinned—slow and infuriating—and leaned in without hesitation, curling his knuckles under her chin like she was some prize to be tilted forward and claimed.

“I want all of them,” he muttered.

She expected a peck. He had other plans.

Kissing Harry Castillo was a negotiation with no terms. He pulled, dragged, towed—first her lips, then her waist, then her thigh, one hand braced against her neck, his thumb conducting electricity at her pulse point.

And she was no better. Her hands found his hair because it always softened her, found the breadth of his back, the hard line of his jaw, the unspoken tension he carried even when he smiled. She laughed into the kiss, breathless, trying to save face before she lost her balance—literally, metaphorically, maybe historically.

She pushed gently at his chest. “That’s enough.”

“One more,” he muttered, already chasing her mouth again.

“Just one?” she teased, dazed.

His mouth skimmed over her cheek, her closed eyelids, the line of her forehead—as if he was memorising her by Braille. When he kissed her again, it was less greedy, with that bothersome sense of domesticity.

Then another sharp knock at the window. Neither of them moved away. Ben, again, increasingly unamused. The clock had officially struck too late.

Harry sighed her name like it hurt. “Eve.”

Funny, how he still called her that. He knew her real name, and yet... it was always Eve. As if he knew it wasn’t just a name, but a persona. A defence system. A knife in a silk sheath, and he liked that.

She swallowed what was left of the kiss, as if it were a pill—bittersweet, lingering—and offered him a half-smile. “Tonight was…”

“Insightful,” he offered, lazy and smug.

“Incomplete,” she corrected, the corner of her mouth tipping into a smirk.

“Insolent,” he drawled.

“Incurable,” she murmured, trailing her fingers down the placket of his shirt, tapping each button, a pianist finding notes. Her hand drifted lower, and then lower still—until it became provocation. She cupped him through his pants, too brazen to care.

His thighs parted without thought, and he grew beneath her touch, fit right into her palm like Cinderella's shoe, as if he’d been waiting for this all night. Maybe all week.

“In good time,” she said, eyes gleaming. She had heard somewhere that delayed gratification builds character.

Her other hand slipped behind her to crack open the door. A beat. Her pulse drummed in her throat, in her stomach, between her thighs—traitorous, unmistakable.

“Inside?” he asked, voice husky.

“Indeed.”

“Insufficient,” he replied, already mourning what he wasn’t going to get.

“Tragic.”

He pushed his lips to the side of his face. “Ruined it.”

She laughed and pressed a kiss to his cheek, a whisper of affection. “One of us had to.”

Then she stepped out onto the pavement, poised heels scuffing the cement. She was all polish, all posture—composed, untamed, unbothered—but inside, she was a big fucking mess, a tangle of nerves and echoes and want.

She should’ve felt triumphant—she usually did after nights like this. Clean getaway. Game well-played. But this wasn’t clean, she wasn’t holding anything except a fogged-up memory and a body that still throbbed in every place he’d touched.

God, what was she doing? What the hell was she thinking?

She turned, impulsively, to get one last look. She expected distance—detachment, maybe a wave—but there he was, two steps down from the stoop, standing close. Again.

She shooed her puppy-eyes off, nodding toward the street. “Go away. Don’t you have white collars to terrify?” she asked, trying not to sound like she cared.

He gave a one-shouldered shrug, the corner of his mouth hitching up. “My company’s a big boy. Stands just fine on its own two feet.” A beat. “But my girl…”

“Is about to plant her two feet into a spinning roundhouse if you don’t get the hell out of here.” And what was with all his possession vocabulary tonight?

He breathed out a huff. “Sexy.”

And it was there again—that impossible ache she refused to name. It unwound in her chest like red satin ribbons, sluggish, slick and frustrating. How the hell did he do that? How did he wrap himself around her pulse without even touching her?

She ignored it. Well, attempted. “Look, I get busy in two hours, so can we get a move on?”

“I’m coming over next week,” he arranged, tone final, like he was orchestrating a merger. “We’ve got incomplete business—” And then added, “—es.”

“Ah,” she drawled, popping her lips. “You want to fuck.”

He sighed, massaged the bridge of his nose. “Can you let me be romantic for one goddamn moment?”

“Harry,” she said, giggling, gesturing vaguely at herself, “with all due respect—you ate me out halfway to Jesus land. What romance are you on about?”

That earned her one of his real laughs. Distinct from the controlled boardroom chuckle or the indulgent smirk he usually gave her, this one was warmer, messier, and deliciously masculine. A little symphony she wanted to trap in her pocket and play back on bad days.

He stepped up—one foot on the stoop below hers, finally eye-level even with her heels. Warmth spread from his hand that came up, large against her cheek, sliding with terrible slowness along her neck, across her shoulder, down to her wrist. He gently held it there.

Then he reached into his pocket... and pulled out a sleek, old-world Parker.

The thoughts clicked into place. “What in the—is that from the restaurant? Oh god, you nicked it. Nice job. Did I rub off on you? Hey, I have a phone—”

“Shush.”

Why wasn't she surprised? Of course, this man, who quite explicitly had all of her kisses, was a gentleman of handwritten confessions and silk-lined lies.

Then, he took her hand, palm up. The ballpoint nib didn’t sting, but the singeing heat of his fingertips did. He scrawled a line quickly, intimately, dragging the moment out until she could feel her pulse in her goddamn spine.

He didn’t look at what he wrote. Only her. Tingles, feathers, hot flashes, everywhere, every fucking where.

“Don’t miss me too much until then,” he murmured. Then he closed her fingers around the words and kissed her knuckles for an achingly, coaxing heartbeat.

“Sweet dreams.”

Jesus Christ. He was a storybook villain playing reformed, half-smirking as he led the heroine into hell.

There was something about him—this unbelievable man, full of dichotomies and certainty that made smart girls do stupid things—that made it hard to look away. And she was smart, she'd clawed her way through men far more dangerous than him.

But not one of them had looked at her like that.

He was convinced of her, and that terrorised her more than any thief, con, or half-baked escape plan ever could. He’d already decided about her, and somewhere, beneath the mockery and heat, her bones responded like they’d been waiting for this war.

She took a breath and backed away. Balanced. Poised. Untouchable, if you didn’t count the inferno licking her bones or every cell in her body that was screaming yes, yes, yes.

The door closed behind her with a moan and a shudder. She stood there a moment, her with the ghost of him clinging to the handle.

The hallway welcomed her like it always did—with mildew, yellowing light, and that choking rot that riddled cheap ambitions and cheaper walls—but all she could feel was him: the roughness of his voice still hooked behind her ribs, the heat of his palm, the echo of his grin stamped between her thighs.

Her breath came out uneven, like her insides had been stirred. She looked down at her hand.

I CALL DIBS!

She stared at this, the perfect asshole’s signature. Crude, cocky, ridiculous—and it still hit like a ton of bricks. A breathless laugh escaped her before she could kill it.

This motherfucker.

She wanted to punch his teeth out. Or kick the stair rail. Or run back out, throw herself before his car, yank him out and kiss him until the streetlights blew out overhead.

Instead, she closed her fingers around it, letting the ink bleed warmth into her skin.

“Dibs, my ass,” she muttered, but her mouth was curled up in betrayal. A traitorous little smile.

The part of the myth people never talked about in the sanitised Sunday-school version—the first woman stole because someone told her she couldn’t have the thing she was told not to want. That was the original crime:

Desire. Same as hers.

At least the fall was fucking glorious—well, of course, it was. She’d like to see the angels clutch their pearls and try dealing with Harry Castillo in a Zegna suit and a raging hard-on. At least her fall came with wonderful orgasms and an ego boost.

Honestly, God had better lawyer up.

© damneddamsy

which pedro boy to see for part 4? I want Pero Tovar next SO BAD, there's so much potential🫦👀

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[damneddamsy]

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐎 | HARRY CASTILLO

A DECENT THIEF, A SMITTEN BILLIONAIRE, ONE EMERALD RING, A SIMPLE CON JOB, ONE VERY INCONVENIENT ATTRACTION. SEX, LIES, LARCENY—ALL BEFORE THE SUN COMES UP. EASY PEASY... RIGHT?

A.N. -> NO SPOILERS TO MATERIALISTS. This is a ROM-COM done right. Inspired by 'Desperado' by Rihanna. And also, a completely different take on Harry's character than the bullshit he had to deal with, he just has so much potential. I had so much fun writing this 🌻 (as in, 18 straight hours of staring at a word doc, burning my corneas and rubbing my hands like an evil fly. haha I'm actually dyingggg) W.C -> 13k+ C.W -> 18+ MDNI, third person POV, fem reader, thief reader and she's a bad bitch, harry is fucking rich with a big dick that's what, sexual themes, smuuuuuut baby but make it fun :), luxury brand and pop culture references, witty repartee, cat-and-mouse dynamics, romcom everything.

If you think all thieves lurk in shadows wearing black, bless your pedestrian heart—you’ve never seen her steal a thing. And besides, subtlety is overrated. Also, spoiler: she actually preferred furs. Fur, red-bottoms, a little harmless cleavage, and a crimson-lipped grin that says, ‘catch me if you can.’

Now, these businessmen, no matter how adorned from their broad shoulders to their straight cuffs, are exactly what they seem: easy pickings. That is—if you’re content with playing in the minor leagues.

Rookie mistake. You aim for the big leagues, reap the financial rewards, and set your sights on those wearing rings.

The ring is the tell. A man who wears his wealth and dignity on his finger is either married, vain, or a dumbass. Often enough, he’s all three. And a man who wears a ring worth more than your apartment building—and the one next to it? That’s not bait, that’s a goddamn challenge.

And this probably married, definitely vain dumbass made her want to stomp her heels through the marble.

She was supposed to be walking out the door right about now—a smoky, smirking, forgotten memory—with her latest spoils: Tateossian cufflinks, a Chopard Happy Sport, and two crisp hundreds tucked into a Balmain wallet.

She’d earned it. Eeny, meeny, miney, more than endured a full hour and a half of sucky—literally—sloppy neck-kissing and thigh-groping from a receding-hairline gentleman who fancied himself the face of a major hotel chain. Now that face was lying sideways on a lounge table, mouth open, snoring softly into a puddle of $600 Scotch. And she hadn’t even made it past the lobby. Cash on arrival, you could say. Astral forces or coincidence—either way, it had been a full year since Dame Fortune had dropped by her door.

A few touches here, a brush of her wrist there, a shoulder-check, a pat on the cheek—bada-bing-bada-boom—two months’ rent. A dent in the student loans. And a little extra, just for her trouble.

She should’ve called it a night. Then there was this fucking guy.

Mr. Premium-cocktail-without-a-care, lounging like temptation in a custom-cut Ralph Lauren and Zegna shoes. You want to know how much money follows a single glimpse of this man? You start punching in zeroes, and line those fuckers up.

She didn’t lose sight of him even for a second as she quieted her Louboutin soles on the carpet past the velvet curtains into the lobby bar. Here, the ice clinked softer, and the elite laughed quieter. No one poured their own champagne. It was all expensive colognes, curated modesty, and vintage timepieces ticking loud enough to remind her she’d never belong.

And tonight—him.

Seated alone (aw, poor little rich boy), fingers curved around a lowball glass dribbled with condensation. Judging by the burnt orange peel and the blood-toned glint: Negroni. Bold, bitter… how predictable. Almost medieval in its masculinity.

He looked like a statue someone forgot to rope off—half-lit under the frozen-firework chandelier, carved jaw tense, eyes cool and unreadable. His suit, charcoal black, cut so sharp it could split an atom. No tie, studded cufflinks, clean-shaven, but not enough to suggest he was expecting company.

And in a sea of glitz and fakeassery, where every other guest was a fresh Rolex or a hollow trust fund playing dress-up, this one? This man was none of that. There were minnows, jellyfish, the occasional shark... but this motherfucking blue whale was a silent, drifting monolith that out-riched half the Atlantic. And she was ready to cast a wide enough net, even if stitching it for days on end was all it took.

The bartender called him Mister Castillo, the name curling off his tongue, veritable old money dipped in Cuban honey.

She blinked once, then twice.

Castillo. Cast-ee-yo.

Huh. Exciting. Exotic. Never heard of him. And she was very good at knowing people she was supposed to know, which made him even more of a tricky mark.

But then that fucking ring had just made itself her next prize.

Thick, unapologetically gold, crowned with an obscene emerald—the colour of envy, of desire, of high-stakes possession. It whispered legacy, old money, old blood, an item a loving father might hand down to his son. Worn on his right hand, not left—because commitment to women was optional, but commitment to the image was unbreakable.

She hung fire at first, took the long way round the lounge, steps a punctuation for her thoughts, an extra lap through velvet shadows, watching him. Reading him.

Right off the bat, her target was a gorgeous, sun-kissed Grecian god. Late thirties, if she had to guess. Sexiest physique—broad-shouldered, lean in the hips, tall enough to make other men glance sideways. Sinful dark curls, waiting for a manicured hand to tug on them and mess up. A restless ankle tapping to some invisible metronome, presenting an internal tempo she’d kill to sync with. Not a sliver of a smile, just those full, distracted lips, tucked over a neat row of pearl-white teeth.

And what lay between his legs better be a stack of fresh greenbacks or his entire goddamn offshore account, because oy vey—she’d seen her share of oversized Hollywood ego and whispered big dick myths, but she never thought they existed. Jesus, they were real. Sometimes, they walked amongst us, anonymous, brooding solo in a gilded hotel bar.

The results were in: another tired, beautiful, well-endowed man. Bullseye. So what did this one deserve?

A moneyed ingénue? Pass. A spoiled heiress dripping charm? Overdone. A chic art dealer with one too many anecdotes about Venice? Closer, but no.

No, tonight she wanted to be... unmissable. Impenetrable. She would be the dazzling chess piece dropped mid-game, daunted into taking a closer look.

That hadn’t been the case for the last woman who’d approached him in the past three minutes—swiftly intercepted, spun around, and escorted back to her table with stunned, indignant scoffs by a bodyguard stationed less than a yard away, built like a marble column, an earpiece coiled into his collar.

So. Castillo was important. Hot damn.

Maybe a politician or maybe even a crimelord. Honestly, who cared when he looked like that? And for all that—how had she never heard of him? Either way she weighed it, those sons of bitches spilled out of headlines like loose pearls. If he were one of them, she’d have seen the profile, the scandal, the fourth wife in Chanel.

She realised, somewhere between her fifth glance at the back of his neck and the slow burn of hour-old-white-wine in her gut, that she was only dragging this out. For what? A better angle? A cleaner exit?

She wanted him to see her, and not in the metaphorical way poets meant—she wanted his eyes. She wanted the recognition.

And the truth was that the sight of him was turning her into smoke. Thick, ribboning, deliciously absurd smoke. So, she might as well put the fire out herself. Or at least throw more gasoline on it. Whichever worked.

She straightened, traipsing past low-lit booths and lower morals, the air around her reeking of rumoured secrets and the spice of Creed Aventus. Her fur coat dragged the dusk with her, the black silk slip beneath flirted with every bulb overhead, while the slit at her thigh played hide-and-seek with lace and sharp intentions. She was the whole damn production. Flash of leg. Flash of steel.

Upon reaching the bar, she slid into a seat one down from him—close enough to be noticed, distant enough to play disinterest. That sweet spot that begged curiosity without costing power.

The coat slipped off, one less layer between her and the moment, and it had been trained—trained to fall, trained to seduce. But then—

Everything moved in a single blink.

Two shadows, flanking, closing in from either side, en route to check. Earpieces. Fast, trained, and quiet, that always came before a very loud takedown. Her instincts tensed, reflexes flickering: eyes on the back exit, how she could make it there in four seconds flat—

But before she even had to brace, before her pulse spiked, the man—Castillo—lifted a hand. Just a flick. Barely even a gesture.

And the shadows fell back, evaporated, melting into the gold-trimmed corners like good little dogs trained to obey.

She let out a breath she hadn’t meant to hold. Phew, she thought. She really didn’t feel like ending up zip-tied in a body bag tonight.

The good news was, she’d just passed her first test, and he hadn’t even looked at her yet.

Her lips curled minutely. She set her elbows on the bar, angling her body in that curated way, just enough to show off the right curves, the lune of her spine, the shape of her ass—all half-bored, half-bored-with-a-purpose. Every molecule of her screaming, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, and isn’t that unfortunate for you.

Now here came the fun part. Playtime.

She flagged the bartender with two fingers and a smile that had gotten her out of far worse.

“Rusty Nail and two shots of tequila, please.” The freshly stolen hundred-dollar bill skimmed across the bar with the grace of a ballerina and the indifference of a bribe.

She smiled at him, lashes batting like the wings of an expensive butterfly. “Keep the change. Thanks, sweetie.”

The bartender blinked. People didn’t usually tip like that unless they were drunk or trying to impress. She was neither.

To her, life was about redistributing wealth—ideally while looking this hot doing it. It didn’t always have to be her wealth, not technically. From the rich, to the clever, to the ones who just seemed like they could use a little extra—she played the part, took the cut, passed it along. Redistribution with flair.

“Ma’am,” the bartender said, voice barely concealing his awe. “Coming right up.”

And then—finally—she turned to her enigma.

He had thawed because now, the gorgeous ice sculpture wore the suggestion of a smirk. A mouth made for terrible decisions curled at the edge as though he knew all her secrets and wasn’t judging. Yet.

Her first instinct? Run. Her second? Double the fuck down. This man, who’d probably grown an empire on poker faces, read hers in under thirty seconds.

“Feeling generous?” he asked.

His voice—good lord—it got under her skin like velvet poured over sandpaper. A silken drawl soaked in wet, hot caramel. The goosebumps on her skin were an obvious giveaway, and her legs crossed unintentionally.

She forced herself to play it casual, leaning her chin into her palm as if she were a woman who had nowhere better to be. “Especially tonight.”

Her drinks arrived, lined up like loyal foot soldiers, and the tequila hit the bar with a theatrical flourish and a pricey wink from the bartender. She dragged her cocktail glass toward her lips, not breaking eye contact, not giving him the pleasure of her full attention, ready to take the first sip when he hit her with—

“Or did old Billings not deserve the hundred as much as the bartender?”

She nearly inhaled the drink. Her brain split in two—half processing the drink’s cost, the other shouting what the actual fuck. But because her reflexes screamed to defend, she swallowed, industriously, the way one would swallow a really sharp insult. Well, she wasn't new to that.

She faced him, properly now, eyes narrowed in amused disbelief.

Oh, he was sharp. Old, but sharp.

Then, as if she weren’t even a threat worth standing for, he rose, unhurried, shoulders rolled beneath his jacket in one fluid ripple. He did the thing men do when they don’t button their coat—deliberately, arrogantly—and walked the three steps to the seat beside her. The shortening distance only crescendoed the goosebumps on her skin.

His knee grazed hers as he sat down beside her, and she felt the contact echo up her spine like a bassline.

He leaned back, turning to her fully, claiming space without apology. She was certain this man had been worshipped before. He obviously wanted to make no fuss with that when he gestured lazily to the nearest shot.

“That for me?”

Goddamn it, he caught her drift. All too familiar with it. Oh, this guy didn’t just play, he collected gilded fucking trophies.

She tilted her head, thoughtful, not giving him the win. “Two hundred.”

His hand paused, brows lifting. “For a shot? Pretty steep ask.”

“Billings didn’t deserve the two hundred bucks.”

His mouth twitched again. “Who are you to decide?”

“You know how it is,” she said airily, fingers brushing her cocktail. “He fumbled the bag. I picked it up. Capitalism, heard of it?”

That earned her a laugh. Deep. Rough. Stupidly attractive. A laugh she would accidentally rote-learn and dream about later when she was in bed with someone else.

He scratched his temple with one slow finger—enough to flash the ring again. That exquisite, infuriating ring. She was no kleptomaniac, but she was reading some signs tonight.

“So,” he said. “You won’t even deny it.”

She smiled with her teeth. Catlike. “What can I say? Sometimes the universe makes executive decisions—and I just follow orders.”

“And who’s pulling your strings?”

“I’m more of a free agent, though I have my own reasons for playing along,” she drawled, popping her lips.

His eyes searched hers for a long moment—more clinical than flirtatious. Then he leaned in, his voice dropping half an octave.

“Now, you’ve got me lined up—what’s your play? Charm me, crush me, or cut me loose?”

Oh. Well. Shit. But what irked her more was that he was expecting her to fold and kneel like some desperate fool. Not a chance in emerald heaven.

The smile slipped from her lips—but only to reassemble, sharper, colder, with twice the wickedness and indifference. She leaned in, just enough for their chests to brush, breathing in the scent that clung to him: bergamot, crisp, fresh like banknotes, tangled with heat and velvet. Maison Francis? Jean Paul Le Castillo?

She couldn't give two shits anymore. What mattered was the truth in his words—he was a mark. Just another mark. You know what would be funny? If his name was ‘Mark.’ Talk about aligned stars.

Rather, her sharp finger traced a soft line down the strong ridge of his nose.

“Oh, honey, all three,” she purred. “You’re my retirement plan.”

If that line rattled him, tipped his balance, he didn’t show it. He just tilted his head a fraction, chewing the inside of his cheek to fight a smirk like she’d just said something cute. Cute, for fuck's sake. That was new. And slightly offensive. If anything, he leaned in a breath closer—her red lips now a whisper from the tip of his nose.

Well. She did always have a thing for brave men with stupid impulses.

“In that case,” he murmured, low enough to be indecent, “you’ll want to give that watch back. I’m not exactly hurting for time.”

Her mental playbook skipped a beat. These moves? These flirtations, the very presence of her? They’d killed with a 99.9% success rate. And yet—

He was the 0.01%. In her life, and in the flesh.

His breath danced against her mouth—warm, spiced, all sin. His eyes, dark as midnight ink, watched her with that unreadable calm that meant he already had an answer to a question she hadn’t asked yet.

She offered her most innocent smile. “Which watch?”

Now that was bait, and she was proud of it. She knew how to pick a mark—but he was starting to feel like a match.

Before she could finish a sip, his hand lifted. First to her chin—just a touch, a direction, a swish of the stunning emerald—then lower, big, soft fingertips drifting along the curve of her neck like he had all the time in the world. It was intimate, yes, but worse—it was confident. A languor that predators used just before they pounced.

And then the other hand moved to her waist. Ah, so that was the game. No sudden grabs or cheap tells. Just proximity, pressure—and gravity pulling her into a choice.

To anyone watching, they probably looked like lovers. Or worse: like a husband and mistress on a regular date night. Which, in this city, was practically tradition.

While her pulse tried to find its way back to a normal rhythm, the smug bastard reached deeper in. Her lips parted, his brows sloped in amusement. He slipped his hand into the folds of her... faux mink—and surfaced with a familiar glint of gold, his knuckles grazing her waist like he’d paid for the privilege.

“This watch,” he murmured, all victorious and amused, lifting the Chopard into view like a magician pulling a rabbit from her cleavage.

Okay, that was a mindless attempt on his part. She didn't show it—she was too experienced for that.

She stuck out her bottom lip, a perfect little faux-pout. “Oh.”

“Didn’t deserve that either?”

She gave a light shrug, eyes flicking to his working jaw. Probably with the restraint of not dragging her to a more private conversation.

“Old Billings spent most of our evening convincing me his Cadillac had reclining seats, that he had a penthouse if I preferred vertical real estate, and—my personal favourite—that his artificial hip could rotate 180 degrees. Figured I need added compensation.”

He wrinkled his nose.

“Yeah,” she said. “I thought so, too.”

There was a beat of loaded silence between them, just long enough for her to decide to play a little dirtier.

“I really, really need you to understand that I…”

And with that, she slipped her ankle up the inside of his pant leg—delicate, methodical, just suggestive enough to distract without giving anything away. She watched it register in his body, the stillness, the knowledge she was still in control. The way his breath faltered for a fraction of a second. The tiniest tension in his thigh.

Then—while he was preoccupied with the very important inches of him she wasn’t touching—she gently pried his hand off her neck and placed a second watch into his palm.

“I thought you meant this watch,” she finished.

He blinked, eyes flicking down to his hand—and then to the beloved watch nestled there. Audemars Piguet. He hiked his sleeve up to reveal his bare wrist. No Audemars Piguet.

His expression flashed. For a heartbeat, genuine surprise cracked the perfect glass mask he wore. And oh, how delicious that was.

Zero fucking clue when she’d taken it. But she had, and it had been laughably too easy.

She turned away before he could collect his scattered little wits, spun back on her stool with feline grace, and plucked up her cocktail. The sip-stirrer spun between her teeth as she smiled into the clinking glass like she hadn’t just pickpocketed a man worth enough to fund a coup.

He exhaled behind her. A low, almost breathless laugh. “Jesus, you keep me on my toes.”

And she kept her eyes on her drink, swirling her glass, smugness curled into her spine. Her heart, however, was thudding. A pleasure so sharp she hadn't felt in months.

He fastened his watch back on with effortless precision, as if the stolen moment hadn’t unnerved him at all. But she’d seen it in his pupils, dilated for just a flicker too long, and in the slight drag of his liquor breath.

“That won’t be the last time tonight, will it?” he asked.

And now, finally, she turned—the game levelling up—letting the full consequence of her grin land like a challenge.

“Depends on whether you plan to undress me. Or just negotiate a better security team.”

A single brow arched. “You really think I’d sleep with a thief?”

She spoke into her straw, “And here I thought you were desperate.”

He angled his head, eyeing her as if she were a puzzle that might explode if solved too quickly. “Hm. Charming.”

“Oh, please,” she said, shaking her head, eyes glittering with mischief. “I’m persuasive. Charming is for people who wear pearls and apologise for orgasming first.”

That startled a laugh out of him, just a soft breath—barely there. But she caught it.

He leaned forward slightly. “So this is your play. You cosy up to men in designer, sweet-talk your way into their wallets, leave them with crushed egos and significantly lighter pockets?”

She traced the rim of her glass with a manicured nail, her gaze not leaving his. “If you’re lucky, that’s all I leave you with.”

He studied her. “And if I’m unlucky?”

She smirked. “You’ll never forget me.”

His tongue pressed into his cheek again. “You’re so certain I won’t turn you in.”

She rolled her eyes. “If you were going to do that, you wouldn’t be sitting this close. You’d be signing forms, talking to Officer Hardass Number Forty-Two, and making a statement about your poor, ravaged emotional trauma.”

He smiled. It was dangerous on him—sharp at the corners. “Oh, I am emotionally traumatised. That watch you nicked off me was one out of the three ever made.”

Be still, my traitorous, beating vagina, she thought. And that magically enhanced third leg of his—was it a limited edition, too? If so, she needed to bring out the big guns.

She tilted her head, slow and feline. “Well, I’d have to console you. Probably by sitting on your face.”

He blinked once. Visibly.

She stirred her drink once, then leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper like it was just between them and the velvet dark. “Let’s be honest. If you really wanted Billings’ watch back, you would’ve demanded it the second I sat down. Instead, you tested me and played.”

She let that hang.

“Which tells me,” she added, “you’re not here for justice.”

“Definitely not,” he murmured, his voice suddenly hoarser than before.

“Mhm. You’re bored. You want me for the kicks.”

The way she said it, he knew he was already too deep. Her words moved like smoke: evocative, listless, curling around the edges of his constraint. His eyes dipped to her collarbone, her shoulder, her motionless thigh as it crossed over the other, the little peekaboo of the lace stocking catching the amber lights.

“Are we going upstairs,” she asked simply, “or are we having this entire conversation without your hands on my tits?”

Silence. A beat. Then two. She only grinned at him, teeth set on her straw suggestively.

He hung his head for just a moment—as though he needed a second to recalibrate. Or maybe to hide the smirk whittling its way across his mouth. When he looked up again, his dark eyes flashed, a little less amused.

Wordless, he slid one of the shot glasses toward her with two fingers, then reached for the other himself. Deciphering his inclination, they knocked the rims together in a soft clink.

“To boredom,” she cheered.

“And not-so-cheap thrills,” he triumphed.

They tipped them back in sync, the tequila burning down her throat, fast and sharp. She swallowed, licked her lip slowly, watching the way his throat bobbed, the way he adjusted his cufflinks with the grace of someone preparing for battle—not sex.

Then he stood, straightened his already-perfect jacket, tugged once at the hem, and offered his kingly hand to her.

She stood of her own accord, shoulder brushing his as she leaned in to murmur near his ear, breath tracing the line of his jaw. “You better have a penthouse suite waiting,” she murmured. “It’s the least I deserve if I promise not to do anything stupid tonight.”

He gave the barest tilt of his head, eyes burning. “You’re just the prettiest little liar, aren’t you?” A pause. A half-smile. A yearned release. “I was hoping for a more insightful breakfast later.”

Her lip caught between her teeth—just briefly, reflexively. Delightful. Penthouse suite. Hotel breakfast. Her weekend was off to a great start.

His suave grin or lethal gaze didn't break even as he flicked his wrist to gesture to someone behind her.

From the shadows, security materialised once more—clinical gazes, efficient, precise. Two of them, lean and suited, eyes scanning her from habit rather than hostility.

He rifled through the inner pocket of his jacket and snagged a sleek black card—no numbers, just the embedded insignia of something far more exclusive than a Visa. He handed it to the taller guard with a calm, “Her pick. Thanks.”

“Sir,” the guard nodded and spoke into a mic clipped inside his lapel.

The moment flew into surreality—muted commands, invisible systems moving around her. She watched the transaction unfold, the way reality seemed to bend to his will. There was no front desk, no credit hold, and no keycard handed over. Ching, ching, ching—the dollar signs rolled up within the imaginary slot machines in her head.

A final nod from his lackey crew, and it was done. Her eyes twinkled with the beginnings of a grin.

Well, then. That was too damn easy.

Only now did she take his hand, the one with the inordinate emerald ring, feeling the curve of the metal, folding her fingers in, as though it had been her idea all along.

“You always carry that much power on you?” she asked, stepping in beside him as they turned toward the elevators.

“Only when I plan to be stripped of it later,” and he shot her a wink.

Her laugh came, unexpected and soft. And this time, she didn't hide her grin.

As they entered the elevator, the doors whispered shut, and for a brief moment, she knew—this was a checkmate.

Here’s what you really needed to know about first-name-still-unknown Castillo: boy, can he kiss.

The man could kiss as if he were meant to wreck religion. It wasn’t sweet, or even aggressive—it was hunger, six-foot-all-male arched and soldered to her lips with intention, with certainty that he was going to fuck hard tonight. One hand fastened in her hair, the other fumbling behind him for the bedroom door handle as if the whole city were plotting to interrupt them. She barely registered the luxuriant flash of the penthouse behind his broad shoulders: the wet bar gleaming like something out of a Bond set, the marble floors glowing under dimmed designer lighting, the magnanimous kitchen, the terrace doors flung open to reveal Manhattan glittering like an unfurled circuit board.

All of it—opulence, skyline, good sense—blurred at the edges as her resolve melted beneath his wicked mouth. She’d come for a ring and a job, and somehow ended up consumed. And probably... coming, too. Let's see how it goes.

She vaguely recalled thinking, Well, at least security’s off tonight, before he kicked the door shut behind him, and she surged up into him like she’d been waiting all year, tearing that blazer off his shoulders.

At some point—maybe while his hand mapped the grooves of her spine, maybe while his mouth drifted lower in slow worship—he broke the rhythm long enough to mumble against her skin.

“You gotta... tell me... something first.”

“Clean bill of health. IUD’s locked and loaded,” she hummed knowingly, arching into his mouth as it brushed her clavicle.

He spoke through a mouthful of a kiss. “Appreciate the intel, but I meant to ask if you’re past eighteen.”

She tossed her head back to giggle as his lips moved over her collarbone. “That’s your cutoff? I should be the one calling the cops.”

“It’s called chivalry, sweetheart. A gentleman doesn’t ask a lady her age.”

“Checking ID is where you draw the line, not bringing a potential criminal into your bed.”

“Your words, not mine.”

“And names?” she shot back, lips brushing his jaw.

He smirked against her throat, voice molten. “I like not knowing anything.”

And it struck her—unexpectedly—of course he did. It was great for her, too. Not knowing her made this cleaner. She was all curves, sex, and invitation, faceless by design. No backstory or entanglement. No real name to trace or recall in the morning—just a woman who walked out of a fur coat and into his bed like a loaded question.

She didn’t move as he kissed lower, slower, charting his route down her sternum. Her eyes drifted to the gold trim of the ceiling above them, but her mind was sprinting elsewhere. Letting sex overrule a job? Not her usual MO. It was too messy, came bearing vulnerability. Intimacy, or really world-shattering sex, in her experience, shattered deceit like glassware, and she needed the lie to keep him seeing her as the sleek, unbothered woman who stole his watch and then made him laugh about it.

She didn’t need his guard down. She needed hers up.

And still, she arched into his mouth as though he were the one writing her name in cursive across her skin, still let herself ache for this brief, hot moment she earned with cleverness.

“For the record,” she whispered, breath catching as his hand skimmed beneath the hem of her thigh-high, “I’m well past twenty-one.”

He lifted his head just enough to glance at her, shadows tucked beneath his lashes, and gave a dry, approving smile. “For the record, I believe that.”

There was a joke in there about experience and knowing better, but her throat closed around it. She did know better, and she was still about to make this mistake with goddamn choreography.

Then, without another word, he ducked low, scooped her up in a single agile motion, and threw her over his shoulder like a victorious hunter returning home with his spoils. She shrieked only to be defeated by a laugh in half-lust.

“Down, boy!”

His big hand came down on her ass for a sound slap. “Behave.”

“Oh, hey, kinda loving my view right now,” she called out, swaying upside-down, giving his admittedly perfect ass a firm squeeze.

He didn’t miss a beat. “More than the skyline?”

“More than the view from the Ritz bathtub, baby.”

“High praise. I like that.”

She landed on the bed with a soft, lavish oof, her hair splayed like a halo, silk dress skating up her thighs. Before she could even prop herself on her elbows, he was over her again—mouth returning to hers, fingertips under her hem, tracing the garter, teasing the edge of her panties with that kind of reverence that made her almost forget her exit strategy.

Then, just as he lowered his head between her thighs, her Louboutin heel planted right between his pecs. A gentle nudge of a reminder.

He paused, blinked, looked up from her foot to her suspecting face—brows raised like a schoolboy caught halfway through a particularly delicious crime.

“What’re you doing?”

“I’m...” he tilted his head with exaggerated innocence, “going to make you come on my tongue?”

She pressed her pointed heel in deeper, just to make a point. “Yeah, let’s not skip to the part where I forget your name and my standards.”

His grin spread wider, unfazed, overjoyed even. Smug fucker.

She leaned up on her elbows, her voice syruped with challenge. “I’d rather have you come inside me. With me.”

He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Jesus. What is this, male-finagling 101?”

“Call it negotiation. You want a headliner? Play by house rules.”

He crawled forward with a surrendered sigh, mouth brushing her knee on the way up. Rather, he took her ankle—gently—and began to guide it upward, eyes never leaving hers. The slide of her calf along his shoulder was idle, confident, and territorial.

“Something tells me you are the house.”

“Damn right I am,” she muttered, yanking him in by the collar. “And you’re already losing chips.”

By the time her heel rested behind his neck, he was already smiling again. “Trust me, sweetheart, I can afford it.”

His words sent a short-circuit of dysfunctions sparking through her system. Lust, amusement, danger, maybe a little bit of deranged curiosity. Her body felt like a pressure cooker wrapped in silk. She watched him lean in again, kiss slow and deft, like he was tasting victory already.

She curled her fingers in his hair—his freaking curls—and angled him deeper into the lazy kiss. The way it gave under her touch, thick and dark and sinfully plush, felt like the luxury version of every shitty knockoff she’d tolerated before. This was a rich man’s hair. This was what money bought, not the thinning, brittle kind that came with executives and artificial virility—those were all coconut-head kisses: stiff, unyielding, mildly tragic. This was investment-grade.

Her hands flew to his shirt buttons with greedy precision, undoing, untucking, peeling away the crisp cotton. He shrugged the shirt off and let it fall somewhere past the horizon of the room. She couldn’t look anywhere but at him.

This goddamn man was all ridged muscle and splendid heat, a living sculpture carved by a person deeply horny and well-compensated. Her eyes wandered without apology, drinking him in. Shoulders broad enough to make furniture obsolete, that weathered tan etched into skin like he’d been born in a Marlboro ad, and that V-cut—the infamous, fabled V muscle that you would only acquire with months on a BowFlex—was practically rude. It announced, with a golden arrow from Olympus saying, ‘Please direct your gaze below,’ and that was until he reached down, opened his fly and—

“Holy fuck.”

His face dropped to honest concern, searching her from head to toe. “Something wrong?”

She looked back at his eyes and tried, sincerely, to find shame and failed. “Sorry. No, really. Wow, congrats.”

His brow rose, faintly amused. “Thanks.”

She squinted back at the enormity between his legs. That was no big dick. For every twig, there was a trunk. For every soft peach, there was a firm cucumber. And finally, for every tight space that she had in her body, that was the perfect fit.

“Hang on, I’m just... recalibrating my entire worldview,” she breathed.

“Take your time. He is a shower.” He curved his arms around her thighs and dragged her closer, amused. “Now, should I be flattered or concerned?”

She pointed, unabashed. “You’re breaking zoning laws. That should be registered as a private landmark.”

He couldn’t hold back the smirk. “My penis is a landmark?”

She shook her head solemnly. “Seriously, dude, if you try shoving that in my mouth, I’m gonna need a neck brace and dental insurance. It’s not that subtle.”

He huffed, mock-exasperated, dipping back toward her as she bit her lip to contain a laugh. “Well, neither are you. Seriously, dude, why don’t you just walk beside me with a bullhorn tomorrow?”

She grinned. “Touché.”

And she wanted it all.

She wanted him to wreck her perpetually laid-out life in the shape of whorish moans. She wanted the kind of orgasm that felt like a cathedral collapsing, that made her forget what city she was in, what she was wearing, even what she’d meant to acquire tonight—because who gave a shit about emerald rings when your thighs were trembling like this?

He sank to his knees at the edge of the bed, his rough hands oh-so-warm as he found her ankles, coasting upward, willful. Her heels came off one by one with a reverent slide and dropped somewhere with two clicks. He raised a brow at the stockings—black, sheer, goddamn expensive—and made a face like, ‘those stay.’ Smart man.

While his mouth claimed hers again—wide, possessive, coaxing more of her soul out with each pass of tongue—his fingers found the zipper at the base of her spine. He worked it off her like he’d earned the right; he wasn’t just removing fabric, but unveiling a scripture.

The dress fell away, the only flimsy fabric separating them now. Bared, exposed before him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, and then tilted his head skyward, like the ceiling might offer some divine explanation. “Where’ve you been hiding this?”

The smile that bloomed on her lips was ridiculous. “Right where no one bothered to look.”

He was just… devotion, that made her forget every well-earned cynicism she’d armed herself with. That look he gave her—it was like someone seeing the night sky for the first time.

Every woman deserved this at least once, to be gazed at like a divine revelation. Especially by this man.

And when he came down between her breasts and buried his face there—kissing, biting, mouthing, trailing warmth over the softness—and she catalogued.

Every graze of his mouth on the swell of her breast became a snapshot, every drag of his stubble a burn she’d wear like jewellery. His lips ghosted along her skin in an obedience, and that made it worse—better. She kept her eyes on the ceiling, needing somewhere to focus on before she melted into goo.

It was becoming harder to separate pleasure from power, and harder still to remember which one she usually wielded.

Her fingers found his cheekbones, traced the topography of him like a blind woman trying to remember a face she wasn’t supposed to fall for. His thin stubble, coarse, dark, scratched and scalded her in the best way.

She’d despised facial hair on men. Always. Until she decided that his goddamn moustache deserved its own novella. Every time it flicked across her nipple, her body jolted like a live wire. It was filthy what that thing's pornographic implications were. Filthy, what she wanted from it.

She stroked the curve of his upper lip with a fingertip, and he caught her hand in his, kissed the pad of her finger, drew it slowly into his mouth. His tongue curled around it, wet and obscene, eyes on hers the entire time. Then he let it go with a pop so lewd, she had to bite her lip to stop a moan.

“You gotta let me taste you, baby,” he rasped. “If your tits taste this good...” His breath ghosted over her skin. “I can’t imagine your sweet pussy.”

She burst into laughter, spirited, ruined. “I did say I’d sit on your face,” she replied, lifting a brow.

He grinned. “Look at me, I’m a man grieving.”

“Hm. Not in the mood anymore.”

His groan was practically theatrical—but his fingers didn’t wait for applause. They slipped between her thighs, bypassing preamble entirely, right past silk and into soaked, desperate heat.

Conversation stopped.

All her clever little barbs, her glib charm, her velvet one-liners lay dead. Obliterated by the first stroke of his fingers inside her. Her brain went static. White-noise pleasure. A hiss of disbelief.

All the sharpness and swagger she’d carried into the suite dimmed under the slow, deliberate pressure of his hand. Precision. Intention. Like he already knew exactly how she’d fall apart.

She tried to say something, anything. Tried to land one last jab. But all she could do was breathe around his long, fantastic fingers—wide-eyed, hands fisted into the pillow behind her, lips parted, staring up at the gold-leaf ceiling like it might explain her undoing. In, out, in, out... then came the thumb.

And then—the fucking ring.

She felt the metal graze her inner thigh, the cool edge of the gold where it pressed to her skin. Sharp contrast to his heat. And then—Jesus fucking Christ—it dragged. Subtle, sluggish, just enough to remind her her prize was there.

That gorgeous, thick emerald, gold band, tasteful, heavy and fuck, so out of place between her legs.

Or maybe not.

Because when he curled his fingers just right and his thumb pressed in deeper—when he let the gold nudge her, roll slightly against her wetness—her whole body arched like a drawn bow.

He felt her react. Any dumbass would've known, he wasn't that special.

His thumb stayed at the ready, steady pressure circling her clit—but the gem, that fucking gem, shifted again. Cool gold and the sharp cut of emerald dragged leisurely through the slick between her folds, catching where she was wettest, where she throbbed for friction. It was intentional. Calculated. A little cruel, to be honest.

Her body jerked, hips twitching, a powerless gasp yanked straight from the base of her spine—high-pitched, fractured. That ring shouldn’t have turned her on or feel owned. But could a material girl help it?

He looked down at her, mouth curved just enough to betray pleasure, but not enough to give her satisfaction.

“Oh, you like that?” he murmured—just wicked enough to feel intimate. “Huh, you like the way my ring feels on you?”

She wanted to say no. Wanted to sneer, to roll her eyes, to make a joke about being allergic to sentiment or emeralds or anything that felt vaguely like trust. Instead, she bit her bottom lip like it might keep her dignity in place, but it really did not, and—

She nodded. Tiny. Shaking. Needy.

So he rewarded her.

He slowed his strokes, so infuriating, so obscene, and let the ring do the work. Rolled the emerald flat against her clit, then angled it up, letting one of the faceted edges skim across her slit, grazing nerves that had no business being teased like that. Precise. Punishing.

And it lit her the fuck up.

She should’ve hated what it meant—that she wanted something so material, so glittering and male. That this thing—a token of wealth, probably from a wife or a mistress long since discarded—was turning her slick and pliant and desperate beneath him.

God, she craved it.

That ring was everything she didn’t get to have. Status. Opulence. Being touched like treasure.

It was proof of power. And right now, she clearly wanted to be fucked by it.

She wanted it pressed deeper. She wanted it shoved into her mouth next, to taste the gold and the salt of her own arousal and watch his eyes go dark with the knowledge that she liked it. That it wasn’t just sex—it was starvation. It was his want and hers.

Tension spiralled hard and fast, gathering in her abdomen. One wrong stroke, one more whisper, and she'd shatter with her slick clinging to it like a goddamn offering.

And still, he was watching her—all darkly pleased. Reading her confession in real time. Every moan, a comma. Every shiver, a pause in the syntax of her unravelling.

This wasn’t a play for the upper hand or a con. It was relinquishing. And maybe, the part that terrified her most—being known.

That, in itself, was a wake-up call.

So she cudgeled the horny out, pushed him off her with her purpose, let him fall back into the pillows, trousers still hanging indecently low on his hips, cock straining upward like it had its own agenda. For a second, he just looked at her—half-dazed, wholly starstruck.

She climbed on top with a panther's grace and rolled her hips. Just once. Just to feel the obscene friction of silk against her bare, wet slit. The contact made her gasp—all unmasked—and his answering groan was deep, surprised, like she’d just given him the ultimate divulgence.

Then, like the devil himself, he brought his fingers—her slick still coating them—to his mouth. Sucked them in with a hum, as if tasting a rare libation, expensive and exclusively his.

“Christ,” he murmured. “You taste like a dream.”

She didn't have it in her to rejoinder. He was distractingly hard beneath her, so hard it was criminal. Big, big, big man. The feel of him even contained through the barrier of his boxers had her knees nearly give out.

“Gonna kill me,” he muttered, voice hoarse, stunned.

Funny, that was her line.

“Good,” she whispered, leaning in until her mouth brushed his. “Then I won’t need to fake my name.”

He laughed, dazed, ravenous, eyes drinking her in. “Ah, what the hell,” he breathed. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

For half a second, her mind blanked. What was her name? What was any name? She had to have a name ready for him. How was she so unprepared?

Then, she made up her mind: “Eve,” she said, because one, it was cool, two, sweet biblical references, and three, what a fun little palindrome.

He tested the word on that naughty tongue. “Eve. The first woman.”

She tilted her head, gave him a wicked little smile. “Gotta start somewhere,” she murmured—still perched above him, all wit and velvet, more dangerous than that: ease.

She reached between them. Even after staring for three more moments, the sheer size of him—thick, heavy, curved just enough to ruin. Her mouth opened slightly, involuntarily, but she didn’t make a sound. She absorbed it.

She gripped him, slowly, trifling—more an assessment than a stroke. His cock kicked in her palm, already leaking, and his jaw went slack.

“You got a license for this thing, sir?” she purred in a tease, still staring down like she was reading a classified document.

“I was grandfathered in,” he said through gritted teeth. “Now be a good girl and fuck me.”

And for a breath, a single heartbeat, she let herself feel it. Just once.

His hands, strong and solid at her hips, slid up the line of her torso as if to memorise the arch there. He waited for her, no rushing, no seizing the moment to flip her over and take control.

She leaned forward, kissed him at her leisure. And again, just to be sure it wasn’t a fluke. That made her forget where her body ended and his began. Her fingers curled against his chest, dragging over the soft smattering of dark hair there, nails teasing. His breath hitched.

It was ridiculous how good this felt. Big dick or not, he was fucking fantastic.

And that was the thing. She’d never trusted fantastic feelings; they were distractions. Weak spots. She’d spent ages compartmentalizing pleasure like it came with a damn invoice. Oh, this wasn't that. There were no transactions left (except, er, maybe one) or power plays she had to look out for.

This was two people choosing to fuck like they’d never see each other again. And for once, that felt like a relief, not a regret.

She lined him up with a maddening delay, hips angling just right, and when she sank down—Jesus, it was a stretch. Her breath faltered, lips parted. Head tilted back. Hands braced on his chest as she took him—the world churning to liquid around her.

She took him inch by gentle, conscious inch, and the fullness knocked the wind out of her. She paused halfway, chest heaving, stretched to her capacity.

“You okay, beautiful?” he asked, hands steadying her thigh.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Just… Christ.”

He gave a strained laugh. “I’ve been called worse.”

She braced herself, inhaled, levelled her knees on either side of his hips, and took the rest of him.

All the way down.

The shock of it punched through her, and the moan that followed was nothing like the others—it was scraping, involuntary, from the deepest part of her.

“Omigodomigodomigod,” she chanted, barely.

“Shit,” he growled, “you’re gonna make me come just watching you do that.”

“Baby, you have got to last longer than that,” she managed.

It can't have been a concurrency. It was vulgar, how flawless he fit inside her. How her body opened for him, swallowed him like it had been waiting for this.

The nasty fucking sounds he made—soft curses, a low-throated groan, the broken “Jesus fucking Christ” against her neck—they conducted volts of electricity down her spine.

She rolled her hips once, testing the weight of him, the stretch, the slick pressure as he filled up that fragment of space so deep within her she didn't know needed to be freed.

Their eyes held for a glorious moment, engraved an intrigue between the lines, as their breaths fused in the intensifying silence. 

Finally, she moved again—tentatively at first, recalibrating, learning the shape of this body, its responsiveness, its heat. Then purposeful. Hips circling in uneven figure-eights, savouring every drag of him along her walls. The friction, the angle—it was unmistakable. Her clit brushed the hard plane of his pubic bone with each motion, and the sensation throbbed through her with the symphony of the dirtiest choir of angels.

Her hair clung to her skin, damp with sweat. Her thighs trembled. She adjusted again, finely tuned the roll of her hips as though she were a safecracker aligning the final dial. Listening, calculating, cracking open something far more intimate than a vault.

And in those strokes, she realized: man, this fucking was nice.

Disarming enough to take her off guard. Not flowers-and-pillow-talk nice—but it was strange how his eyes never left hers. In the way he breathed through his teeth when she clenched around him.

Nice, for someone like her, felt impossible. She didn’t get this. She got fancy hotel rooms with poor lighting and overpriced minibars. She got transactional glances, pickpocketed her forgettable flings, and sex that didn’t leave bruises but didn’t leave memories either. She got mornings when she slipped out before the sheets cooled, before they could question what her name was.

This gorgeous man under her, with his big wallet and his even bigger cock, sweat-slicked and broad-chested, dark curls matted against the pillow, hands reverent on her hips—this was selfish memory-making. A reward, maybe. A cosmic oversight in her favour. A divine fuck-up.

And god, what a man. She loathed giving him that vestige of power, but really—wow.

She slowed just to look.

There was heat in his gaze, sure—but also awe. He looked at her like she was the miracle, not the other way around. Chest heaving, abs taut, thighs twitching. There was a line of sweat down his temple that she wanted to lick. Insane, disgusting, but wild.

She leaned forward to do just that, and he kissed her sternum like it was instinct, then moved up—mouthing her breast, sucking just hard enough to draw a gasp from her. She ground down in response, shivering as her clit caught again, the rhythm quickening. She was so wet now, slick, soaked, that it felt inevitable, elemental.

His hands tensed. Thighs twitched. His cock gave a small, telling pulse inside her. He was close, no rush, no push, ticking within her, feeling everything.

And still, he watched her. If he blinked, he’d miss it. This version of her—sweating, gasping, taking him deep—was the most honest one yet.

She’d never been seen like this. Not without masks. Not mid-lie. Not mid-fuck. Not without shame, licking at her spine. She liked it, just a little.

“You feel so good,” he groaned. “Fuck, Eve…”

She almost laughed aloud.

Even now, even as her orgasm climbed her spine like a fuse about to spark, she wanted to correct him. Not my name. Yet, there was a naked poetry in it.

Eve. The first woman. The original sin. Fitting, wasn’t it? Sometimes, she couldn't comprehend her own genius.

She leaned in, dragged his lip between her teeth, bit gently, then rolled her hips harder, faster. She could feel herself starting to fall apart—release coiling tight in her belly like a loaded spring, every thrust building the tension sharper, sharper. It was happening—her body catching fire from the inside, everything spiralling, tightening.

Then—snap. She went splintering apart.

She came with a sound that drained all the colour from her world. A broken gasp, mouth frozen in a silent scream, stifled into his throat as she folded over him. Her body trembled, thighs clamped in, and she clung so tightly around him like she refused to let go. Riding out her waves.

He wasn’t far behind. As if the very sight of her had nudged him forward. A growl—deep, ragged—tore from his chest, face rigid, power intense, eyes hazed over, and with one sharp, helpless thrust, he came too. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he panted, buried deep, twitching inside her as his nails digging into her waist like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

And then—quietude in the afterglow.

No lies, no scams, no exit plan. Two strangers wrapped around each other in the thick fog of sex, sweat, and softening breath.

Eventually, she lifted her head, curls clinging to her cheek. She looked down at him, and despite everything—the ache in her thighs and the sharp echo of release still ringing in her—she smiled a real one.

He reached up, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and gave her a smile so goddamn comforting it shouldn’t have existed in this room.

She huffed a little laugh, diverting her weight to graze his softening cock still buried inside her, she leaned in closer—lips ghosting his ear.

“Nice to meet you, Castillo.”

He let out a sound—half laugh, half groan—as his hand slid down to squeeze her ass.

“Pleasure’s mine, Eve.”

‘Eve’ was luxuriating.

There was no better word for it. Luxuriation at its finest. Stretching every nerve and bone in the wake of that mind-blowing orgasm at three in the goddamn morning, she lay draped in hotel linen like it had been tailored for her personally.

She was starving, of course. Ravenous. But not just for food.

She slid out of bed while the stranger—Mr. Big Wallet, Mr. Bigger Cock, Mr. Goddamn Castillo—was still draped across the mattress like a Renaissance nude. Sprawled and golden under the lamplight, limbs askew, a lean hand tucked under his head, a man who knew no one would ever dare disturb him. The picture of leisure. Post-coital smugness facsimiled into art.

Yeah, she would definitely overlook every stinging pain in her demolished muscles to ride him again, why do you ask?

Eventually, she found the lacquered room service menu on the desk and squinted at it, blinking through the haze of sex and triumph. Her instinct was to scan for the cheapest option—buttered toast, maybe, or the $25 fruit bowl. Years of living in the margins didn’t go away with one good fuck.

A wolfish grin crept onto her face. Or maybe it did.

Soon after, she ordered everything she ever denied herself, engaging in a little harmless flirting to get her way. Pancakes with clotted cream. French-style omelettes, salmon on brioche, truffle hash browns, a mimosa and champagne, because why the fuck not? She threw in a side of bacon and a whole carafe of coffee for good measure. Let her fake name live a little.

While she waited, she made herself at home—because that’s what you do when you’ve stolen a beautiful artefact, and no one’s caught you yet. She slipped into the plush hotel robe (absurdly soft, felt like being hugged by a cloud of money), then padded into the marbled bathroom where Bulgari-branded amenities waited like her personal butler’s blessing.

She washed her hair. Twice. Slathered herself in conditioner that smelled like a yacht moored in Monaco, under a majestic shower that almost aerosol-misted water right into her eyes. Then she filled the bottomless, claw-foot porcelain tub to the brim, lemon scented bubbles spilling over. She slipped in with a sigh that reached down to her childhood.

This was the end of the line. This was the life.

The ease of wealth. The promise of solitary comfort. The luxury of not having to think about consequences for once. People who came from nothing—real nothing—didn’t dream in moderation. They didn’t require stability or modest success.

They wanted everything.

Every millionth thread count, every miniature jam jar, every long-legged man with a wallet fat enough to make the world shut up.

And as she soaked in her expensive bath for the night, legs stretched wide and one arm hung lazily over the tub’s edge, breakfast arrived. She insisted on it being wheeled straight into the bathroom in the other guest room, champagne flutes and silver trays and all, so as to not wake Big Dick Castillo slumbering in the master.

Breakfast in the bath. Her version of communion.

She took one bite of pancake, one sip of mimosa, then paused.

Hang on. She didn’t even know his first name. Who was the rich stranger footing the bill?

The thought struck with the odd gravity of a joke that turns into a riddle. She reached for her phone—miraculously still charged—and typed with wet fingers:

🔎 Castillo New York

Top suggestion: Harry Castillo New York

She chewed her pancake thoughtfully. “Harry Cast-ee-yo.” Then pushed her lips up into a prideful smirk. “Found you.”

As easy as that. A few vague words and his whole history spilled out of the phone. She clicked the first, most recent result:

WMAG Exclusive: The Silent Rise of Harry Castillo, Manhattan’s Phantom Power Player

The layout was glossy and over-designed—grayscale cityscapes, oversized type, the whole corporate-chic fantasy. His photo sat dead center, sat in his corner office, hand templed: tall, broad-shouldered, dark eyes infinite, hair tousled, and that fucking smirk. He looked good enough to eat, sure—but there was something off about the Savile Row suit clinging to that lean, lethal frame. The armour didn’t quite fit the man.

And in the profile, no bold title crowned him. No CEO and/or founder. Nothing that screamed self-made grit or startup savant.

Just: Private Equities. Flat. Unapologetic. Take it or leave it.

She snorted into her mimosa. Finance guy. Not what she had in mind.

Private equity—the burgeoning art of buying dying things and gutting them for sport. She was certain he wasn’t a shark. You see, sharks had a purpose. This man was a collector of leverage. He bought struggling companies, debt, political favours, and maybe the occasional dumb woman who lied and pilfered for a living.

Still, she kept reading. Because curiosity, like appetite, always demanded payment.

“I’m not interested in visibility,” Castillo had told WMAG. “The people who talk loudest are usually the least important. Influence is quieter. And I am always thinking about the long game.”

She rolled her eyes. “Prick.”

Yet, the article hilariously went on and this interviewer did not back down:

“And what is the best thing about being this wealthy?”

She half-expected some PR-friendly answer. Time with his big, affluent family in Antibes. Philanthropy. The freedom to pursue passions, blah blah yacht. But Harry, naturally, said this:

“I now own WMAG.” “Seriously?” He grinned. “I could.”

A full-bodied, white-collar mic drop. She giggled into a layer of bubbles. Smug bastard.

That was Harry Castillo's real currency—believability. He didn’t have to lie; the proposition would suffice. He let people fill in the blanks, and by the time they realised they’d handed him everything, their signatures were already on the dotted line.

Hard to ignore how he sounded like every other wealthy nihilist out there on Wall Street. That tone he took—unshakable, a little too polished—dripped with discretion. She could hear it in her head now, could imagine him saying it between sips of twelve-year-old scotch at a table only lit by a Baccarat lamp.

“I don’t believe in risk for risk’s sake,” he had continued. “Every move should be precise. You don’t bet on fire. You buy the match factory.”

Wow, bravo. She almost clapped. Amusing poetry, Harvard grad, big dick. The man was god's favourite creation in triplicate. She could hardly wait for the leather-bound memoir.

The more she read, the more outlandish it became. Nothing she was new to. He had holdings in everything—media conglomerates, boutique aerospace startups, a vineyard in France that sold wine exclusively to Michelin-starred chefs. Oh, and a minority stake in a European football club, which was probably just code for laundering money through ticket sales.

She scrolled further down and hit a quote from someone unnamed but very impressed:

“Castillo’s power is that you don’t see him coming. He is the storm with no centre. By the time you realise he’s at the table, he already owns the room.”

She tapped her glass against the tub, grinning. “No shit.”

The man outside, Harry Castillo, resupine on his bed like a Greco-Roman mural, the one she’d just ridden to death into the mattress, wasn’t just a rich man.

He was a whole mechanism. A muted weapon clothed in desire. And suddenly she wasn’t sure if she’d seduced him or if she’d walked directly into a carefully placed snare.

Which, of course, was all the more arousing, interesting, tempting, than alarming.

She set the phone by the ledge, reached for a slice of brioche, and thought idly about what her fake, biblical name had said the night before. Eve. The first woman. The fall of Man.

Well, was that not just perfect, she thought and dunked her bread in hollandaise.

At least she picked the right apple.

Later, she watched the sun rise over Manhattan like it was hers.

Legs curled beneath the robe she hadn’t paid for, mimosa in one hand, toast crumbs on the other. Coi Leray murmured through one AirPod, girl-code gospel about how players wear heels now. She bobbed her head to the beat, eyes closed, face tilted toward the morning light. The breeze off the terrace kissed her bare collarbone. Below, the city stirred, unaware that one of its daughters had momentarily won.

“What you know ‛bout livin’ on the top?” her favourite singer chirped. Damn right, people had no damn clue.

The sky was daubed with watercolour—soft roses and scintillating golds bleeding into the steel blue silhouette of the city. She was soaking in every second of it like heat through her bones, feeling a little more than fortunate that she’d stolen this morning. Or maybe rented it by the hour. Either way, it felt like trespassing in heaven.

It was going to be very, very hard to leave.

She heard the thud-thud-thud of his footsteps before she saw him. Padding out from the bedroom, across the polished floors, through the quiet hush of money well-spent. She didn’t open her eyes.

“Did you pig out on the whole menu without me?”

Not a trace of annoyance in that freshly-fucked voice. Not even mockery. It was a soft exhale of disappointment, as if he’d actually been looking forward to an insightful breakfast of champagne and eggs with her.

She grinned, head turned toward the sun. “Oops.”

A soft, amused chuckle. “Are there leftovers at least?”

“Might be toast,” she hummed, “or a fruit bowl.”

You know, the stuff you could score from a lobby continental if you smiled just right.

Then came the shadow, a dawdling eclipse, as he blocked the sun with his body. She sighed out her blunt nuisance, popped one earbud free, and opened her eyes—

Oh, my fuck.

How exactly was a girl supposed to leave when the man she was meant to swindle was standing there like some water-dappled fantasy come to life?

Shower-warm water trickled from his curls like holy beads, trailing down his throat, over that sickeningly perfect chest. The towel around his hips hung low and loose—threatening virtue, daring gravity. In daylight, he looked even more expensive. Someone had carved him out of dark gold and complacency. Was the sun doing that on purpose, playing him out in slow motion and amber hues of a porn film?

Her eyes dragged over him like fingers. Simply put on this Earth to be appreciated, wasn't he?

The worst part was that he knew exactly what he looked like.

He leaned in, bracing one hand by her head, the other hooking a finger into the delicate strap of her black slip. “Leaving without a kiss?”

She tilted her chin. “I gave you plenty last night.”

“Too bad I’m insatiable,” he murmured—and claimed her.

This special kiss was slower, curled around her throat like silk. Luxurious. Marvis toothpaste and vices. He had nothing left to prove now, just him to taste again. His hand cradled her jaw, thumb brushing just under her lip as if establishing her identity. Ha, good luck with that. While she let herself melt into it, one last time, and her fingers found his damp curls, twining. Tugging. Greedy.

When he finally let go, it was with a kiss to her nose—infuriatingly domestic. Tucking affection between stolen moments.

She patted his chest—twice, lightly, how one might close a book—and moved to slip her stilettos back on from where they waited obediently by the lounger.

“I better hoof it before the cops show up,” she muttered, bending to fasten them back on with still-shaky fingers.

He placed his hands on his hips, the towel still miraculously hitched there with Popeye's knot. “Inexpedient. You know I have security, right?”

“That needs replacing, yes.”

His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed trained on her. Calculating. Curious. “You don’t do this often.”

She arched a brow, slipping on a heel. “Sex? Or talking to billionaires in towels?”

“You don’t get caught. But you’re not greedy either, you take just enough.”

She gave him her best grin—sharp, blameless. “I’m light-fingered with taste.”

“I know your play now.”

She paused mid-buckle, scoffing. “From a single fuck? Please, you do not.”

He said it, simple and unambiguous—“You’re acting out of necessity.”

The words dropped like a pin in a vault.

And her stomach did that thing again—flipped traitorously, like it forgot what team she was playing for. Even if it showed on her face, she masked it by standing too quickly, balancing all that tension in her calves and those goddamn heels. One foot out the door was always her secret weapon.

“A pretty big tangent, don’t you think?” he said casually. “From lifting watches to swiping shampoo bottles from the bathroom.”

But her hand, buried in the folds of her coat, curled tighter around the little Bulgari amenity kit she’d palmed like a lifeline. Conditioner, soap, even the shower cap—luxuries she didn’t demand, but had taken anyway. A permission to remember.

She kept her eyes forward, chin tilted, expression carved from cool marble. Still, her fingers gripped that miniature bottle like it might explain her—or what she refused to say out loud.

The guilt was feather-light. The habit was heavier.

Behind her, he shifted. She could feel the heat of him before she turned—wet curls, water beading off his collarbones, barefoot and beautiful, and still half a head taller.

She pivoted smoothly, letting the smile break across her lips. Blinding, forged in the alleyways of survival.

With a theatrical grace, she reached into her coat and produced the bag, and set it down on the nearest lounger like an offering at a goddamn altar.

“I’m sentimental,” she said airily, flipping her hair over the coat. “Didn’t want to take anything I couldn’t fence.”

He raised a brow. “I would’ve bought you a crate full if you said it.”

She snorted. “Then you’d expect a thank-you note. Maybe a handwritten apology for bruising your ego.”

“You think this is about ego?”

She was already walking, all legs and larceny, her heels clicking a decisive farewell toward the suite’s door. “It’s always about ego, honey. Yours, mine, New York’s.”

He let her go, for only a beat before: “So that’s it? You’re leaving me here?”

She didn’t answer.

“Empty-handed?” he added, trying for levity. But there was an edge in it. Uncertain, almost hurt.

That stopped her.

She turned slowly, heel catching the light. Her gaze roamed down his body—shoulders to smirk at the towel and his hands. She let her lips curl with the final review of her appraisal. A pause, then:

“No, Harry. You are.”

He blinked, stunned. Then laughed that deep, throaty laugh—quick, surprised, maybe even impressed.

“Wait... you stalked me?”

She was already halfway through the door, but her voice reached him in a whiff of perfume—soft, sweet, a last kiss goodbye. “I did. I'm largely underwhelmed.”

“Offence largely taken—!”

But the door snapped shut with the crisp punctuation of a woman who’d just stolen back her power.

The hallway waited, quiet and cooled by central air and generational wealth. The marble underfoot gleamed. Her heels made the kind of sound that said: I finally belong here. Or at least—I dare you to say I don’t.

She walked with no urgency, each step a slow, delicious exhale. No alarms or shouting, chock-full with expensive silence that forgave indulgence.

At the elevator, she pressed the button. Waited. Tucked her hands into the silk-lined pockets of the fur coat, not out of cold, but because she liked the feel of the significance of it in her palm. That familiar shape—warm now against her skin.

The fucking emerald ring.

It was there. A flicker of green fire between her fingers. She wasn’t even sure when she'd slipped it off him. Maybe when he trusted her enough to fall asleep or when he was deep inside her, and her mind had gone static. Maybe it had just… found her. It was fate.

The elevator dinged.

Without missing a beat, she stepped inside. Her reflection caught in the gold-trimmed mirror: hair wild and haloed, eyes glowing with triumph from an utterly bare face. The hotel robe had vanished; now it was the satin slip, the coat, the heels. Chaos in elegance.

And there it was—on her finger.

A perfect, vulgar gleam. Standing there like a question mark that didn’t need answering.

The doors started to close.

But a hand blocked them. Big, firm, wet. A horny reminder of last night.

They hurtled open again—and there her once target was.

Still in the goddamn towel. Dripping. Curls unruly. A single drop of water slid down his chest like it was tracing a signature. Harry’s hand braced the elevator door open, wide and planted, and his breath came just a little too fast for a man who pretended he never chased.

They just stared at each other.

She raised a brow. “Forgot your goodbye monologue?”

His lips curled lazily. “Forgot to ask if you’re free tonight.”

That stopped her. Not the inquiry—he asked as if this were a boardroom, and she was a merger he didn’t want to lose.

Her grin betrayed itself gloriously—and she had to bite her lip to contain the whole thing. The emerald was warm between her fingers now, hidden in the fur lining of her coat. Poor little rich boy didn’t know she’d swiped the emerald off his finger while he was too busy trying to memorise the shape of her name on his tongue. It was already cooling against her skin like a private joke.

“I don’t do second showings,” she said, tilting her head. “I believe in leaving them wanting.”

“No sex,” he replied smoothly. “Just dinner. A civilised meal. Wine optional. Clothes preferred.”

She took a step forward. Her heels whispered across the carpet like a signature. Her palm landed gently on his cheek, thumb trailing down the line of his jaw like she was testing for flaws in the marble.

“Dinner,” she repeated. “While you stare at the cutlery to see what I pocket?”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. Those wondrous gears in his head turned where she could see them. “If it makes you feel better, sweetheart, I’ll buy the whole restaurant for one night. Want the chef? You can have them. Kitchen, too.”

She gave a soft snort. “Are you always this desperate to feed your dates?”

He smiled, unapologetic. “I like investing in volatile assets.”

Her eyes narrowed—amused. “And I like playing with over-leveraged men.”

He leaned in slightly, water glinting off his collarbone like jewellery. “Then this should be fun.”

She let her hand drop like a curtain call, but there was a hum beneath the restraint. “I’m not a return on investment.”

“Didn’t say I expected one.”

The elevator pinged—doors trying to slide shut again. He caught it reflexively, fingers splayed, blocking the sensors. He tilted his head knowingly, waiting for her.

She let a soft, exhilarated breath leave her. “Jesus, you’re persistent.”

“I’m intrigued.”

“Dangerous word.”

“Only if you’re worth the damage.” He thinned his eyes. “C'mon, try your luck a little more.”

That made her laugh—head tipped back, shoulders relaxed.

As the impatient elevator doors began to close again, she tapped the emerald glinting between her fingers against the rail once, a sharp clink, like a period at the end of a sentence. She let the metal sing.

A signature. A thief’s version of a calling card.

There was a fascination about them that felt depraved. Poetical. He knew the danger, and that she wasn’t just sharp around the edges—she was serrated. Unreliable. She was halfway to detonation, and still he lingered—like a man who’d light her twice, just to watch the world go up with her.

That was the thing about men like Harry Castillo. Chaos was their muse, especially when it walked like sin and smirked like it knew them.

The doors finally began to slide again with no interference.

“I'll find you, Eve,” Harry promised.

She blew him a kiss with two fingers, let her tongue click in pity. “Poor guy,” she whispered, turning her head the second before the elevator doors kissed closed.

© damneddamsy

part 2, anyone? 👀

taglist 🫶 { @oolongreads @divine-timings @jodiswiftle @bensonispunk @brittmb115 } - for the few interested sweethearts and babes, thank you!

[damneddamsy]

A few excerpts from 'HOW DID IT END?', a super angsty-ass Javier Peña oneshot I'm writing because I live in a broken-hearted society

And sometimes—those rare, stunning sometimes—she’d say things so strange and beautiful it made him feel like a fraud just standing in the same room.

“Did you know, baby?”

He’d be buttoning his shirt, holster laid out on the chair. “Mhm.”

“Your memories are always changing. Isn’t that fascinating?” she said, coming up behind him. Her hands slid around his waist to fix his belt—she always did that, a sacred gesture reserved for mornings. “Every time you recall one, your brain edits it just a little. Your past isn’t fixed. It’s more like… a story your present self is constantly rewriting.”

She smiled when he hummed again.

“One day, you might change,” she added softly. “Or I will. And we’ll just think it hasn’t. You know?”

“See you later, my love,” he said, brushing a dutiful kiss to her cheek before grabbing his badge and disappearing into the day.

He never knew what to do with those moments. He’d grunt noncommittal nothings, shoulder on his holster, and vanish into the city, into the job. Into the concrete certainty of it all. Somewhere, he didn’t have to translate the meaning from metaphors or dreams. And every day he came back with less to say.

X

Jesus, the not noticing. The forgetting. That was the real betrayal in the end. The invisible treason. It crept in like mould behind the drywall—silent, patient, deadly—until it was time for removal.

And now, years later, her words return to him uninvited, half-formed but lingering: Your past is a story your present self is constantly rewriting.

And maybe that’s what he was doing now. Rewriting. Remembering her in better colours, sharper lines, trying to recast himself as a man who almost got it right. Almost, but not quite.

X

He remembered watching her from the corner of his eye, barely lifting his head above the mess of open files—faces of cartel men smeared with blood, printed reports soaked with violence. Wondering, absently, if she’d bring up the man who drove her home. The one with the glasses and the too-long stare, who lingered by the wine table at the last showing and said flowery bullshit like “this piece of yours evokes weightlessness.” Just call it pretty, chickenshit, why do you have to go around your head to touch your fucking nose?

She didn’t mention the man. And he didn’t ask.

But it stayed there. A slow throb behind his temples. The image of that man—too polished, too interested, too fucking close—touching her elbow as he leaned in to say something only she could hear. Some high society nonsense, he presumed.

The first time, he imagined his fist squashing the fucker's nose to his brain.

The second, he didn't spare another thought. Easier to not care.

X

[damneddamsy]

PRISON FOR LIFE (1) | joel miller x fem!reader

“Rest assured, he’s anything but sweet if someone comes for me.”

CASE-> It's simple, really. Joel Miller takes a girl. Girl hates him. Girl is wanted for murder. Now everyone’s looking for said girl—and he’s the fool hiding her in his bed. A.N.-> you've spoiled yourselves fawning over daddy Jackson!Joel for long enough. after all that softness and sensitivity in falling, I really wanted something dark as shit. god forbid, a girl fantasises over shady, two-edged anti-heroes with weathered hands and a cowboy accent. so, here comes the real big daddy - QZ Joel. W.C.-> 15,500+ C.W.-> 18+ MDNI, QZ!Joel, BIPOC fem, rejoice all my multilingual girlies, Joel's POV, dark-ish and morally ambiguous Joel, suggested age gap, Joel's got a saviour complex, dark themes and imagery, high stakes, kidnapping, smut (is grinding still smut? whatever), voyeurism, domestic violence, grey thoughts, blood, gore, guns.

Home hits different for Joel nowadays—oftentimes like a shard of glass trying to open his throat.

He figured it’s only fair. You didn’t burn bridges and expect to roll out a welcome wagon on the other side. Still, there was a certain charm in knowing his girl cared enough to aim.

Joel ducked, just in time. The edge nicked the collar of his coat, scored at his chin, and whistled past his throat, burying itself in the wall behind him with a sharp thunk. A lesser man would’ve flinched, or even panicked.

But Joel only hung his head, unable to believe his luck, and bared a game-on smile over his shoulder.

That was the thing about this new world order—comfort came wrapped in divine chaos. You couldn’t trust the eye of the storm, even if you managed to navigate there. Not anymore, not in the Boston QZ, not after everything. But when things got loud—bullets ablaze, fists swinging for fuck all, someone trying like hell to take you out—he didn’t really mind. Something was vaguely soothing about invariant hostility. At least it was honest.

Joel turned back toward her, wiping a smear of blood off his chin with the back of his hand. “Had your fill t’night, darlin’? Or should we go for round two?”

She didn’t answer, just stood there breathing hard, dark eyes blown wide and wild. The shard she’d thrown had come from a broken bottle she must’ve found tucked under the sink. Clever girl. He hadn’t searched the bathroom as well as last time. That was on him.

He yanked out the glass shard she’d missed him with and dropped it in the trash. No anger in the motion. Just habit. “Almost got me this time. Gotta work on that swing.”

She was bleeding from the heel of her palm again, hair knotted, shoulders tense like she was ready to spring again. Spry little panther, this one. He felt a flicker of admiration, and not that he’d tell her that. She hated him too much already. She hadn’t spoken in two days, not since he brought her here.

No. Not brought.

That wasn’t the word the world would’ve used. They would have called it what it was—taken.

But Joel didn’t see it that way.

Four days ago, he’d watched from the alley across the street while her husband slammed a fist across her jaw in the stairwell of that rotting apartment block. She went down hard, shoulder hitting concrete, cheekbone bouncing off the rail. Not one neighbour stepped in. Nobody pulled that dickhead off her. Nobody yelled. Nobody even looked twice. And sure as hell, no FEDRA soldier gave a shit.

The way the ball bounced around here—your pain was private. Intimacy, even worse. FEDRA didn’t blink for domestic calls. A scream behind a wall might as well have been the radio static. People stayed in their lanes.

Boston QZ didn’t have heroes. It had hardass survivors. You stayed, you lasted. And Joel Miller—he wasn’t in the business of pretending.

He was a goddamn realist.

And look, he’d been watching her long before that hit. He cannot be called a stalker or—what was that they said? A voyeur? None of that shit. No labels.

He wasn’t good, but he was right.

It took weeks of watching. Not in a way he was proud of—maybe, maybe not—but he’d never lied to himself about the things he was. He had to be sure sometimes, that’s all. Had to know what kind of a rut she was stuck in. Whether she was worth the risk or the cost.

She’d never once smiled at him out of the couple of hundred times they crossed each other, with Tess or without. She darted about like a doe, head ducked, like she was trying to disappear into the spaces between atoms, just like everyone else. He’d watch from the shadows—corners, rooftops, alley mouths—counting bruises. That sick fuck—her husband—he had a temper like a livewire. Doors would rattle off their hinges when he was home. Joel could feel the walls shake through concrete and brick.

Another time, he’d been up on the roof two blocks down, late, borderline curfew, trying to get a look at FEDRA’s rotation before his next run. Nothing strategic about it, not that night. He’d wandered—more toward her apartment than away. Just wanted to make sure she was still alive. Maybe catch a glimpse of her silhouette in the window, trudging slowly like she always did after a beating.

But the window was open. And the man’s voice carried across the street. Slurred. Spitting.

“—you hear me? You’re nothing. Just a mouth to feed.”

From that rooftop, he could see her—thankfully behind the bedroom door, hunched on the floor, not even sitting on the goddamn bed. Knees tucked under her chin, hands cupped around her ears, face scrunched tight. She didn’t move to make an escape.

The piece of shit bashed the door with his foot. Pacing, unhinged, bottle in hand. Yelling like she was vermin, like she was lucky to breathe air in the same room as him.

The door knob jiggled this time. “Say something. Right now. Open the door.”

No answer.

He slammed his fist once more. “Fucking open it! I will break this door down if you don’t fucking say something!”

Still, nothing.

She kept silent, and that’s what stuck with Joel more than anything. No fear left to show. A human being stripped down to instinct: don’t provoke. Don’t cry. Don’t speak. Survive.

Joel hadn’t realised his hands were clenched around the brick ledge until they started to shake. He’d left shortly afterwards and couldn’t watch anymore.

And yet... he couldn’t not watch either.

There had been that one night when he came back, begrudging, ready for another shitshow. Oh, he got a show, alright. One that stuck like a splinter in his brain.

The upstairs window had been cracked open again—luck paid off—heatwave in the QZ, no fans, no power. Joel lay prone on the tarpaper roof, waiting, not expecting much, eyes locked on the half-parted curtain like it was a wound bleeding light. She had to be alive. Or had he beaten her bloody again?

But then—she’d ridden him.

Yes. Straight up fucked the life out of the guy. Not two days ago, they were at each other’s throats.

Her husband, that piece of shit. She was on top—straddling him like she meant to crush the light in his eyes. Hips working in sharp, punishing strokes, springing up and down, speeding back and forth. Her knees dug into the mattress like she needed leverage, and every thrust came from someplace deeper than lust. Her body moving with a kind of vicious rhythm, as if fucking was the only language she had left to speak her hate.

Her shirt was gone; he could see the rolls of muscle undulating, ripples on a lake. Her skin glistened with sweat, flawless and deformed all at once—brown, golden under the city’s dead glow, with sick, purple blooming bruises charted like constellations across her ribs and down her thighs. Fingerprints. Knuckle-blows. The map of a warzone. A beautiful spectrum of misery.

Her hair swung loose, wild, sticking to her shoulders and breasts. Tangled, half-fisted in that bastard’s hand. He tugged hard, dragging her head back, baring her throat like an animal’s. She didn’t flinch, simply arched when he sank his teeth where he could, grabbing aggressive fistfuls of her skin, skating a palm from her collar all the way down, past her pulsing breasts, the lines of her stomach, to where she trickled around him, sliding into him, sore, swollen and wet. She ground down harder, took him deeper. Lips parted—not gasping or crying—just open. Like she couldn’t breathe, though it could have been pain.

Joel didn’t know or care one bit, if he was being honest.

Because he’d watched all of it.

He could see her teeth flash in the dark, and for a second, he thought she was smiling. No, this little showstopper wasn’t into that. A desperate snarl shaped into what he imagined was pure, wicked sex.

And Jesus fuck, she was beautiful.

Exactly in the way women were in these times. Fierce, volatile. She was sweat-slick and bruised, biting down pain with every roll of her hips. A creature made of muscle and rage, bound in skin that held captive every blade of light and became glorified.

Joel’s hand slid into his jeans almost without thinking. A reflex. A need.

Callused fingers met himself with anticipated pressure. He kept his eyes peeled on her—on the lune of her spine, the puckers in her thighs, the dimples, the way her blunt nails clawed at the wall behind the mattress. She was somewhere else entirely, not even in the same fucking planet. She was ascending out of her body, piece by piece.

And he wanted to go there with her, pinned there to her. In that moment. Forever.

He stroked to the soundless cadence of her body, mouth watering, jaw clenched, eyes drinking her in like an oasis in a desert. His breath hitched, edging right there, wrist twisting faster, when her back bowed, hips grinding down in one final, furious thrust. Her jaw tightened, head thrown back, bruises on full display. He could hear her faint, helpless whines all the way across the street.

She looked powerful. She looked wrecked. She looked sexy.

He came hard to that exact image, replaying—spilling into his hand, the bite of it scraping a grunt from his depths. His stomach clenched. Thighs twitched. Eyes still locked on her, starving even as he exhaled, emptied. He came, not for her, not even for him.

Just for the sheer idea of her.

And for a few seconds, he lay there with his jeans open and his heart hammering like he’d run six flights. Slick coated his fingers. Pulse echoing in his ears. What the fuck had he just done?

Except he didn’t feel guilt or anything, only a cold, electric satisfaction, the heat and want.

He hadn’t even touched her, but seeing her like that—writhing over a man she loathed, fucking him with a vengeance—it made Joel feel like he understood her in a way no one else ever had.

He’d wanted her long before he’d saved her, and that was the truth of it.

So yes, maybe that was why he snapped. Without an ounce of impulse or rage.

He’d watched her go down the stairwell like some phantom, dragged by her hair, toes slipping on concrete, no fight left in her, not even to scream. Just her pretty hands blindly gripping the railing. Her face went slack, cat-like eyes gone somewhere far away where she wasn't hurting.

And Joel was the cold wind of motion. Had to teach some lessons around here.

One bullet from behind a silencer. Neat and efficient. One to the leg—calculated, not fatal. The bastard collapsed with a yell that echoed off concrete, half rage, half disbelief.

Joel holstered the pistol with a calm he hadn’t felt in years. Simply stepped over his body without so much as a glance and looked at her.

She freed her hands from her ears, turned her face and saw her poor husband groaning, writhing, blood pooling under his thigh. Her eyes went wide.

A little bit of gratitude would have had Joel feeling like a goddamn superhero. No, this girl—this stupid girl loved dead ends.

She charged ahead—not for Joel, not for the gun, but toward the sick fuck. Crumpled to the floor beside him and grabbed at his shirt like she meant to hold him together. Hands fluttering, powerless. Muttering soft and fast.

“No. No, no, no.”

Joel didn’t say it outright, but it bloomed like a blaze in his chest. The fuck is this? This part didn’t sit right with him or make sense. He didn’t understand it at all—how she could grieve a man who treated her like trash? Who left her bleeding like that? Humiliated her?

But, what the hell. Grief was complicated, and neither was it for Joel to understand or judge. He had his fair share of heartache and despair.

Frankly, he should’ve put the second bullet in the bastard’s skull. It would’ve been cleaner. Over and done. But he was held back by the brunt of the situation—the noise, the witnesses, the need to move fast. Or maybe—he’d wanted her to see it, to know that someone could hurt him back.

But here she was, sobbing over the bitch. That had got to stop.

Joel’s hand went to his pistol again. He didn’t draw. Just stood there for two beats, staring at them—her pressed to the blood-slick floor, the man gurgling through a broken scream, her voice fraying to nothing.

It was wrong. Everything was so wrong.

He wasn’t supposed to feel jealous. He wasn’t supposed to feel betrayed. But that’s what it was, right?

She didn’t know better. She thought that was love. Unless, maybe, she deserved better—and didn’t know it yet. He would make her realise.

He’d approached slowly, called her name twice—not that she told it to him, but he’d learned it. Heard it shouted down alleys and whispered through walls. And she’d looked up, eyes wild, mouth about to scream.

“He ain’t gonna die, but he ain’t gettin’ up either. Go on home,” he declared before she could.

Despite that, her bloodcurdling scream lasted a fraction of a second before Joel’s hand clamped down on her mouth.

So he did what he had to.

A tap. Just a little one, back of the neck, knuckles precise, like shutting off a light.

“My way then, sweetheart,” he murmured to her, releasing her mouth.

She folded into him, slumped against his chest, soft bones and unconscious, quiet breath still moving beneath his palm. He’d caught her before she hit the ground, held as if he had done a righteous act, even if it wasn't to everyone else. A precious stolen emerald, maybe—but fuck it.

He threw her over his shoulder and got the hell out before the blood could even dry.

No one stopped him. No one even saw him. Boston QZ didn’t care if women went missing, didn’t blink if a man dropped dead in an alley with bullet wounds. She’d disappear just like all the rest.

Now, she was here.

Now she had him. Warm blankets. Hot food. Heat that didn’t come from her own body being used up. Bandages and clean water. Soft clothes folded in drawers. No more limping down mold-rotted staircases, no more bruises she couldn’t hide, no more sobbing through the walls while that fucker slammed doors and broke plates.

Just Joel.

Just his hands—rough, sure, measured, safe.

He hadn’t laid a finger on her since. Not like that. Not even when she spat at him, when she kicked and clawed and tried to break his nose with the heel of her palm. She still didn’t understand him. Didn’t see past her rage, just like him.

He knew she would eventually. He would give her time. Because Joel wasn’t like that asshole. Joel hadn’t beat her up when she couldn’t say no. He hadn’t used her.

He fed her. Let her sleep. Gave her time. Gave her space. Gave her safety.

And yes, he kept her tied at first—hands bound at the front, ankles too, just enough to slow her down if she tried something stupid. He wasn’t proud of it, but he told himself it was just a precaution, just until she calmed the hell down and realised that she wasn’t chained anymore, not like she had been.

Sometimes he sat at the far end of the room, back to the wall, watching her pick at the blanket he’d given her. Quiet, distant, but not broken. It would take more than him to break this girl.

He didn’t sleep the first night. Just lying quietly by the mattress, watching the shape of her silhouette in the dark, listening to her breathe. And wondering—what the hell have I done? And worse—why doesn’t it feel wrong anymore?

She’d stopped crying, mostly. Now she just looked at him like she didn’t know whether to hate him or beg him to kill her, too. Sometimes he caught her watching him back, tracking his movement—eyes sharp, still fighting, still full of heat.

And he really liked that. In some sickening way, it meant she wasn’t broken yet. Not like she’d been in that stairwell, limp as a rag in a man’s fist.

Now she stood. Now she struck.

And God, when she came at him these few nights, with that shard of glass or broken plastic pipes or kitchen knife (that one insane time), blood in her fists, and fury in her breath—Joel had smiled. For the first time in weeks, he’d fucking smiled.

Wasn’t that proof? Wasn’t that exactly why she was better off?

He hadn’t made her weak. He’d given her her fire back. Her will to live. And no matter how many times she screamed at him, cursed him, tried to claw her way out—he wouldn’t raise a hand.

He would chalk that up to the better part of his upbringing. He could still hear his mama’s stern voice still, thick with that East Texas heat, unperturbed: “Don’t you ever lay a hand on a woman, Joel Miller. Not in anger, not even if she lays you flat first. You don’t break what you’re meant to protect.”

He was ten the first time she said it to him. Fifteen, when she smacked him across the back of the head for yelling at a girl in a parking lot for stealing their spot. Twenty when she looked him in the eyes, right after Sarah was born, and said: “Now you teach her better than most men’ll ever know.”

And he tried. Even now, here—in this nightmare world where right and wrong had bled into each other so long ago they were damn near the same color—some part of that stuck. He wouldn’t hurt her, not even to stop her from hurting him.

“Y’oughta be careful with that face,” Joel said, nodding to the pieces of broken glass, all her missed marks, still jutting out from the drywall like jagged teeth. “Ain’t no one else gonna look out for you but me now.”

She flinched—barely, but he saw it—and his jaw worked tight.

He hated that. Hated when she looked at him like that. Like he and him were the same. Like he was just another man trying to take something from her.

He wasn’t. Fucking rude to be compared to that horrible piece of shit.

He could’ve left her there. Could’ve walked right past, like everyone else did, but he hadn’t. He’d done something. That had to count for good.

“You’re safe here,” he said to her every night. Almost a whisper, almost to himself. “Doesn’t matter if you believe it yet.”

There was a time Joel might’ve felt ashamed. A time he might’ve questioned whether the line he’d crossed even existed anymore. But that was before Sarah. Before all the years of carrying cargo and trading lives like currency. Now, he measured the colours of right and wrong by one metric only: Did they survive?

That was it. And right now, she was alive and well, in the right colours. He’d made sure of it.

The apartment was dark now, save for the two lanterns bordering each other. Old FEMA housing, third floor, corner unit. Nobody came up here anymore. The neighbours on either side were either dead or too doped up to care what sounds came through the walls. The city was half-abandoned, the QZ barely held, but Joel did his utmost best to keep the place clean, warm.

He’d changed things for her, just so she could feel at home.

He put up curtains. Gauzy ones with lacework, soft enough to block the glare she always blinked against. Got an armchair from a military drop, even stitched a patch on the cushion so the stuffing wouldn’t poke her legs. Found a stack of magazines in the back of Bill and Frank’s garage—National Geographic, Life, TV Guide. She liked the pictures; sometimes, she traced them with her finger like they were maps.

He even set up a stereo—one of those heavy things with real knobs and a tape deck. Brought over mixtapes he'd burned a few years ago, the music soft and strange—Bill’s taste mostly. Blues and folk and old standards with warbled voices that made the place feel… less empty.

And well... she spoke when he did. Not much. That wasn’t so much a setback as it was a hassle.

Broken English, like shattered glass—delicate, sharp if you weren’t careful. No wonder she never talked to that fucker. Mostly she stuck to her own tongue, something way out East, he guessed. Joel didn’t know the name of it, even now. Maybe Russian or Polish, or Hindi. Her language was rhythmic, syllabic, full of retroflex sounds, and more winding. When she muttered to herself, it sounded like poetry, like wind threading through tall grass.

He listened sometimes, closed his eyes and let it wash over him. Pretended she was talking to him. Attempted to learn some inflexions, the words she repeated, and made sense of it.

She also said his name the way no one else did. Almost like it hurt.

“Joel,” she whispered now, one hand pressed to the windowsill, the other curled at her chest like she was holding back a scream. “You… wrong. This—” she gestured wide, the apartment, the door, him— “is not… good. Not good.”

The same fucking thing, over and over again. But no, he would not get tired of it. He would be patient, he still had it in him to listen to her.

He scrubbed a hand over his beard and tried to collect his bearings. He hadn’t come in here to argue. He’d come in gentle tonight—wanting to ask about her day, trying to make this feel normal. Livable. Maybe even good, eventually.

“Yeah, okay,” he sighed.

She didn’t smile or soften for him. Just kept watching him, eyes sharp, cautious, studying him like she was still trying to decide what he was.

Joel knew that look. The one people get when they’re planning something—a lie, a sprint, a knife pulled too fast.

He crossed the room to her like a shadow. He wasn’t a threat, nor was he trying to be.

But she moved quicker—like a deer catching scent—backing away from the window, slipping along the far edge of the table like it was some kind of shield. Her eyes locked on him, glassy and rimmed with red, red that didn’t come from tears but from days of not crying. Like she’d forced it all inward.

“No,” she sneered.

“Look, I ain’t—” He started, voice catching. He didn’t even know what the fuck he was trying to say.

So, he had a quick rundown of what he was dealing with.

Barefoot again. Always barefoot. Her skin dry, cracked at the knees. Wearing one of his shirts—worn-soft flannel, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hem falling just past her ass. Her hair was still damp from the bucket bath she’d taken earlier. He could smell the soap on her skin. Simple. Clean.

But then he stepped again—just one more step closer—and she snapped. No warning or sound. Her hand closed around a mug, and she flung it across the room. It shattered against the wall inches from his head.

Joel ducked out of reflex again, porcelain shards cracking behind him on the wall. His head turned, eyes tracking the splinters on the floor, jaw ticking tight.

Always a fight with her. But he was not complaining.

Not because he liked it or that it didn’t make his blood boil, but because this—her—he could handle.

Anger, he could read. Rage made sense. A thrown object was easier to steer through than silence, or sobbing, or the pain that came from the depths, quiet and unnavigable.

He also knew that you don't add to anger, you learn to absorb it. And that’s what this was now: Joel was absorbing it.

So he only watched her—like he was waiting for the second volley, there was another mug right within reach—and when it didn’t come, he made a choice.

He straightened up, willful. Then lowered himself into the armchair with the ease of someone untouched. As if what had just passed between them hadn’t brushed the fragile border of restraint.

He hunched forward, pinching up his jeans like he meant to stay a while, elbows digging into his thighs. His hands met in a quiet knot.

Two fingers rose—an unspoken signal: come here.

She didn’t budge a foot. “Fuck you,” she hissed through her teeth.

His mouth twitched. Almost a smile, but not kind. “Goddamn,” he murmured, a little proud, as he jostled off his boots and kicked them aside. “Look at that. Russian shit got too mouthy, huh?”

Her glare sharpened. He could see the hate in her eyes, but it wasn’t pure. There was confusion in it, too. The kind that made her angry with herself. That look of hers, it drove him up the fucking wall.

Joel leaned back, head cocked, and gave a slow nod toward the floor between his knees like he had all the time in the world.

“Well, you keep lookin’ at me like that, and we’re sure as hell not fuckin’ anytime soon,” he drawled.

Then, with the kind of lazy motion that still felt like a threat, he reached behind his back and pulled the pistol from his waistband. It landed on the coffee table with a faint click.

“There. Civil enough for you?”

She stared at the gun. Didn’t speak.

“I said, get over here,” he summoned.

He felt like a wire drawn too taut when she came forward like she was walking a plank, inch by inch, expecting the drop. Her bare feet silent against the floor. That long, slow drift toward him. Arms crossed like she thought they’d protect her, like they were armour and not just skin and bone.

His arm curled along the back of the chair, a posture that read relaxed, but wasn’t. It was calculated—intentional. Let her see he wasn’t chasing. Let her decide. Let her choose.

Because that was the point of this, wasn’t it? After everything, Joel knew control was the only goddamn thing she still had left. He’d stripped her of everything else—and he’d done it with unfeeling hands and the goddamn certainty that he was right.

But he wasn’t blind.

He could see it in the way she looked at him—as if she was waiting for him to snap, or touch her without asking, or leash her to the radiator. She didn’t understand the rules. Not his language, not the game. But she was learning quick.

Now Joel was testing the waters. Testing himself.

He wanted her to let him touch her, and that was the ugly truth of it. Not even in the way men usually did, not in the way she clearly expected. He just wanted something real. Soft. Her. To break the fog of this prison they were both locked in.

It’d been so fucking long since he’d held something that didn’t die.

When she was finally near him, it didn’t feel close enough. So Joel flicked his chin, a small, silent gesture—closer. Right between his knees.

She didn’t move at first, because of course not. Just stood there with her hands curled into tight little fists, quivering like a live wire, her mouth twisted in that stubborn sneer he got used to. Then, reluctantly, she stepped forward. One inch. Maybe two.

He rubbed a thumb into his eye socket, stifling a dry laugh. Christ, she was maddening.

“You gonna just stand there, all noble?” he muttered, more to himself than her.

She gave him that look again—that furrowed, confused one, like she’d been handed a riddle with missing parts. It hit him then: he was a few gestures behind, trying to communicate with someone whose English was chopped to hell.

So he sighed and patted his thigh. “Sit down.”

Her gaze slid sideways to the gun on the table. Joel didn’t even need to pick it up, and it wasn't like he was going to use it. She’d already done the math—had done it every day since he brought her here. The gun stayed where it was. Useless now, unless he handed it to her. Which he wouldn’t just yet, she was fun even without it.

Jaw clenched, she flopped down on his thigh exactly like an indignant kid forced to take a school photo. Perched on one side, stiff as a corpse, arms crossed, chin up, eyes glaring at anything but him, lips moving miles per minute in her native tongue. When she turned her back and gave him the crown of her head, he had to bite the inside of his cheek not to laugh. Theatrics. Little fucking actress.

“Now,” he drawled, voice low. “Talk to me. What’d you do today?”

“Fuck you,” she mumbled again, barely audible.

He cocked a brow. “Be nice.”

She turned her face just enough for him to catch the shine of her teeth. “Fuck you.”

Joel let out a soft hum and reached for her, taking a strand of her hair between two fingers. It felt dry at the ends, slightly tangled. She didn’t flinch, not right away. Still getting used to the small gestures. Or maybe she was just waiting to see what he’d do next.

“Hmm. What a shiny set of pearlies you got in that screwed-up head,” he muttered, brushing her hair back to get a better look at her cheek.

The damage from that fucker was still there, crusted with blood, swollen a little. A mottled wound carved into the soft skin just beneath her eye, stretching back into her hairline. He’d stitched it the night he found her—rough and ugly, but functional. She’d ripped half of it open a day later, as if punishing her own face for ending up here.

He traced along the edge of it, gentle. Less like a man handling a woman, more like someone touching the edge of a broken mirror.

He didn’t get far before her hand swatted his wrist. “No touch,” she hissed.

He raised his palms in mock surrender, letting the humour flicker briefly across his face. “Fine,” he said. “At least answer the damn question.”

She sat rigid, breathing with sharp puffs, like even that had cost her. Her eyes flicked to him, suspicious, as if trying to locate if she was being beguiled.

Joel just waited. No anger, no push. The silence was better than force.

Finally—finally—she spoke. A pause. A breath.

“Uh.” Her fingers grazed her chest, hesitant. “I... wash clothes.” She mimed the motion, wringing invisible fabric between her hands, then pointed toward the dented metal bucket by the bathroom door. “With—there.”

Joel nodded slowly, letting it register. Normal things. Domestic things. Something to anchor her before he was sure she was in her right mind.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her doing laundry. Bare knees on cold tile. Hands submerged in grey suds, scrubbing cloth raw, like she was trying to erase a memory. She didn’t know it, but that image burned itself into his chest. She still wanted to feel useful, he thought. Or maybe, she just didn’t want to feel powerless.

His voice dropped a little, softened without his permission. “That’s real good, baby,” he said, and the word—baby—hung there between them like smoke.

She blinked, brow furrowing. Like the tone had startled her more than the word itself.

Then—almost fast, like she needed to fill the space—“I listen to music.” Her hand fluttered toward the stereo, then mimed the brim of a hat. “The… boy. He sings nice.”

Joel let out a short breath of a smile. “Elton John,” he said. “Yeah. He’s somethin’, alright.”

She didn’t respond to the name—didn’t recognise it. Her eyes remained sharp, cautious, still trying to decide what Joel was.

And Joel continued his deductions of her, with the silent calculation of a man trying to figure out if the thing sitting on his leg was more fragile than it looked—or more dangerous.

She tapped her chest suddenly, breaking his thoughts, and lifted the delicate gold chain around her neck. A copper pendant in the shape of a penny swung there, like a baited hook. Her thumb pressed it tight.

“My... husband. Where?”

Ah, that again. Another complication, as if things weren’t tangled enough.

His expression didn’t flicker, but inwardly, that ignorance unwound, since the truth was—

He did put a bullet clean through that bastard’s skull. No ceremony. No explanation. Just another piece of rot carved out of a dying city. The moment the fucker recognized him—barely a second of smug bravado crossing his face, preparing to tell him he was fucked or some shit—Joel fired.

One shot, no mess. An infection cauterised at the root.

Of course, she didn’t know any of that. She’d been fast asleep, curled like a bleeding, kicked dog beneath his jacket in the corner outside of that miserable tenement.

He hadn’t done it for her, exactly. It was neater this way. Loose ends got people killed. Especially when those loose ends wore a FEDRA uniform.

And it wasn’t like lowlife sons of bitches like her husband had long lifespans anyway. Their luck always ran out eventually. Joel had seen the kind before, seen what they did with power when no one was watching and everyone was too scared to interfere. Yet still, the bigger portion of the truth weighed over him like a dangling knife. Although, it would have been better—more comfortable—if her husband was just some street-level scum.

Except he was ranked.

A captain. A goddamn fixture in the QZ.

That was the part he had rightly lost his shit over—the part Joel hadn’t considered beforehand. The part that made all of this more than personal. Because when a FEDRA officer vanished without a trace, people noticed. Whispers started. Accusations flew.

The Fireflies, naturally, were first to catch blame. And in fairness, it did look like them—clean execution, no witnesses, no mess, right before the freshly spray-painted Firefly logo. Talk about a streak of luck. Later that day, Tess had even joked that Marlene and Tommy’s people finally found their balls and did something worthwhile than just blowing shit up.

But Joel knew the truth.

And here was the collateral damage, sitting on his lap with her fists clenched and that little penny catching the light, looking at him like he was the thief.

Her fingers reached up again, this time tugging his chin toward her with surprising strength. She forced his eyes to the necklace.

“Where?” she growled, a threat in her throat.

Joel didn’t answer right away. His tongue felt thick. His jaw locked like a trap.

“Gone,” he finally muttered.

Her brow creased, struggling with the phrasing. “Gone?”

“He moved on. Left the city a while ago.”

It was a bad lie. A lazy one. But it was all he had. The truth would only gut her, and he didn’t want to watch that.

“Left city.” Her voice cracked around the word, tasting the lie on her tongue.

She blinked hard, eyes flooding, words tumbling beneath her breath in her language, frantic and mournful. Then, suddenly, trembling, desperate: “No. He say to me—promise. Promise. He…”

Joel’s jaw tensed. “Promised what?” His voice rose without warning. “The fuck could that piece of shit promise you? That he’d stop? That he’d be better? That he’d treat you like a person instead of a fuckin’—”

“You don’t know,” she snapped, eyes flashing.

“I know enough.”

He looked away, unable to bear the weight of her gaze. The way she wanted to believe in a ghost.

And then—her hand snapped forward. Fingers like claws, she grabbed his chin, jerking his face toward her. The necklace swung wildly between them, clinking against his collarbone.

“Where?” she demanded, her voice breaking apart in a choke mid-word. “Tell me.”

Joel’s pulse jumped. His grip twitched.

“You don’t gotta worry about him anymore,” he muttered. “He’s gone. It’s done.”

“Done what...” she echoed, disbelieving. Her lips curled. “No. You lie.”

She gave him a look then. Cold. Knowing.

One beat. Two beats. He aptly readied himself.

She lunged—her hand shooting for the pistol holstered at his side.

Instinct overtook thought. He caught her wrist, slammed it down hard enough to shake the lamp. She shrieked—more rage than pain—and swung her other arm, clipped him right at the jaw until he felt his teeth clack before he grabbed that one too, twisted both behind her, and pressed her chest against his. His arms locked around her, an iron hand manacled both her wrists to the small of her back, knees snapping shut around her thighs, and ankles coiling immovably around hers.

She thrashed in his grip, screamed in that serrated language of hers, every syllable like shrapnel, spine arched, her breath wild and furious in his ear. It took everything in him not to flinch at the force of her rage.

He felt every breath she fought to take.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he muttered, his lips grazing her temple, “always a game with you.”

“You take him,” she spat, accent slicing each word with venom. “Bastard!”

Joel tightened his hold with a jerk, his breath warm at the base of her neck. “You’re fed,” he ground out. “You’re warm. Got music. A goddamn life. Nobody’s touchin’ you but me—and I ain’t hurt you.”

She bucked against him again, wrists straining. “You steal me.”

“I saved you.”

“You steal.” Her voice cracked. “From me.”

She was burning hot now, every inch of her coiled muscle and stubborn fire. She cursed him, snarling in that sharp, beautiful tongue he didn’t understand, but felt. Wrists wresting. Nails digging. Teeth clenched like she wanted to bite him, bleed him, break him.

She was fire and fury, and grief all in one. Every inch of her was a rebellion, and yet he held her tighter.

There were no restraints here, and Jesus—he fucking loved it.

“I’m not yours,” she said again, this time quieter.

The words landed like a gut punch, the sweetness dying on his tongue. She was everything he wanted to protect and couldn’t control. Everything fragile that wouldn’t stay still, trust, or at least thank him.

She turned her face and spat the only words she loved to say to him. “Fuck you.”

Joel shut his eyes.

He didn’t know if it was rage or shame—but it scorched through him like wildfire.

He wanted to kiss her—to silence her, yes, but more than that. He wanted her to stop looking at him like he was no better than the man he killed. He wanted her to see him. Understand that what he did—what he was doing—wasn’t cruelty. It was care... wasn’t it?

Her chest was pressed tight against him, trembling from the inside out, her breath hot on his throat, heart hammering beneath her ribs. He felt it through his own bones, like their pulses were trying to match. Trying to find the same rhythm and failing.

Every part of her said don’t you dare. Every tense muscle, every flicker of her eyes, the tip of her nose brushing his, every shallow inhale and yet—

He did. He bit the bullet hard.

His mouth crashed into hers—desperate, unthinking, a blind man throwing himself at a fire just to feel it singe. He braced for the impact: fists, teeth, knees, the crack of her skull against his nose. He was ready for pain. Expected it.

But instead—she went slack.

Her body gave in—there was no surrender or peace, but like a wire pulled too tight, finally snapping under strain. Her lips parted under his, not receiving but yielding, opening right into his, letting him have a taste. A gasp caught in her throat, soft, raw, like it surprised even her.

The fire didn’t leave her. It changed.

From rage to need. From no to not like this.

He loosened his grip on her wrists. Eased it, slowly—one finger at a time—like peeling himself away from something sacred. His breath stuttered. His hands trailed down her arms, callused fingertips brushing skin like it might burn him alive.

Her hands moved, crawled up his chest, and curled into his hair, and then—Christ—her nails raked into his scalp, dragging fire down the back of his neck, and he choked on the sound that left him—low, guttural, pained.

She clung to him like she wanted to break him open and see what he looked like inside.

Hurting him. Kissing him. Both.

She bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, and he didn’t flinch. Just groaned, bleeding, panting between kisses, dragging her closer like gravity wasn’t enough. He needed every nerve ending of hers soldered to his, to take his pain as hers.

“Fuck,” his voice cracked, sucking on the bruise she left before soothing it with another aching kiss. “C’mere, c’mere—oh, shit, baby—”

He didn’t even remember what he said. He only knew the pull—desperate, breathless. He needed her near, like his air. Like absolution through suffering. Maybe this was the only way she could reach him. Maybe this was the only form of love he’d ever understand, when it came with pain.

Her hands were all over him, mirrored to his own—yanking at his shirt, tearing it up over his ribs just to pierce into the skin beneath. Her thighs cinched tight around him, hips grinding down with zero grace, zero rhythm, just need. Raw, ugly, wicked, intimate need.

He gripped her hips like he could disappear into her. She wrapped her arms around him to suffocate him.

Her hand slid around the side of his neck, palm to his throat, and she squeezed, just enough to say I could end you. Enough to make him let her.

His eyes slammed shut, and he swallowed against her hand. His heart kicked against his ribs, and every breath turned to steam between their mouths.

Because this was exactly what he wanted her for. This was what love looked like when it had no softness left, when it was all scar tissue and flesh.

He let her hold him there, half-strangled in her grip, her breath crashing against his cheek, teeth dragging over his jaw. Let her kiss him as much as she hated him, as much as she needed to feel the shape of his bones just to be sure they’d break.

His hands slid down, under her thighs, lifting, adjusting, anchoring.

She arched into him, spine convexed, mouth breaking from his only to return harder—tongue and teeth and breathless, brutal want.

One hand dragged under her shirt—skin to skin now—and Jesus, she was hot to the touch, sweat-slick and tense. He could feel how her breast swelled into his palm, nipple straining as he rolled them between his fingertips, peaked for a bite. His free hand slid up, knotted in her hair, tugging just enough to bare her throat to him.

Her hips rocked for him. Once. Twice. He just about blew a load right there.

It wasn’t smooth—wasn’t the standard, wasn’t some slow-burn bullshit. It was frantic. Distraught. Messy. Clothing still clung between them—her shirt rucked up to bare the trembling line of her stomach, his pants shoved just far enough to feel her pressed against him, denim grinding over cotton, the hot friction of her soaked through the fabric and painting flames along the length of him. His belt bit into her inner thigh with every swell of her hips, a cruel, grounding pressure that made her chase the ache instead of shying from it.

They were still half-dressed—still pretending this wasn’t whatever the hell it was—but it didn’t matter. Not with the way she moved, not with how she found that rhythm and used it against them both. Her hips rolled, slow at first, then faster, dragging the drag of wet cotton and rough seams in a torturous loop, over and over. He could feel every goddamn thing. Every inch she refused to give him.

His hands slid up the backs of her thighs, greedy, possessive, slipping under fabric, needing to feel skin. He traced the perfect curve of her ass, held her there, guided her against him, helpless to do anything but meet her. Match her. Let her ride this out, grinding him to the edge without mercy.

The heat between them was unbearable. Soaked. Slick. Sex, somehow. Radiating through every barrier they hadn’t yet torn away. And the worse part—the most fucked up part—was that he didn’t want those barriers gone, not if this was what he got in return.

The denial was part of it. The pressure. The ruin of not-quite.

The way her breath caught every time she pressed down just right, her lashes fluttering, her hands gripping at his shoulders—

“Jesus,” Joel panted against her collarbone, dragging his mouth along her skin. “Just like that, baby—fuck—you feel that?”

She didn’t answer with words; this was the only way he'd ever get her.

She just moved—grinding down faster, harder, with enough force to punch the breath from his lungs, sinking her teeth into his shoulder through his shirt. Her hands were under his jacket now, nails digging into his back like she meant to peel him apart.

And when her hand came back to his throat, thumb digging into his pulse—tightening, commanding—he didn’t stop her.

They weren’t making love. They weren’t even fucking, that would have been so much easier.

They were taking each other. The moment. Whatever scraps of comfort their broken bodies could offer. They devoured each other—gasping, grasping. Not lovers. Not strangers. Just two wrecks trying to crash harder, as though destruction might finally give them peace.

He didn’t know if this was hate or need or some venomous middle ground—but fuck, it didn’t matter.

Then, just as he felt that familiar pleasure start to crest—

Cold. Pressed between his ribs.

A click—sharp, surgical—cut through the static of heat between them.

His breath caught mid-thrust of motion, eyes dragging open in slow disbelief.

His pistol, safety off.

She’d drawn it from his side, the sneaky little minx, sometime between the very distracting kiss and the clawing and the way her hips had started to ride him.

Now it sat between them, lodged like a truth or a secret neither of them wanted to name.

Her hand didn’t shake. Patient, deadly.

“Easy,” he managed to grunt.

Her eyes—bloodshot, tear-lined, feral—didn’t look at him so much as through him. Glassy. Hollowed out. The barest tremble of breath hitched in her throat.

Joel’s chest rose and fell against the muzzle, his own heartbeat ticking into the cold barrel like it was trying to knock the gun loose. Like it could plead its case in pulses.

Goddamn it.

He was so close. So fucking close to—whatever this was. This twisted, ruined wanting that burned hotter than anything he'd ever known. Her bruising lips parted. Her thighs still clamped around his hips, soaked cotton on show. She looked like sin and war and sex, all kiss-bitten and shaking—still, she held him at gunpoint.

He’d fucking forgotten, in all that hunger, in all that heat—in the way he let her take from him like he owed her the goddamn marrow in his bones—he’d forgotten who she was.

She was a woman caged, and he was the man with the keys.

And yet—even with the barrel of his own damn gun pressed to his chest, even with hers heaving like she might scream or sob or shoot—he broke out into a smile.

Slow, crooked, that old, lopsided kind that had nothing to do with joy or any apology in it. Not for what he’d done, and sure as hell not for what he was about to do.

His head tipped back, rough stubble dragging against the cushion, and a low breath escaped him—a laugh, real, gravelly, full of grit. Girl kept him on his fucking toes.

“I take you now,” she insisted.

Joel didn’t even blink, just let his voice slide out like it had all the time in the world. “Oh, honey,” he drawled, voice syrup-slow, “you took me, alright. Great job.”

He meant it. Christ, she’d taken him—like some vixen. Stripped him raw and left him feeling like a man again for half a heartbeat. Right before jamming a pistol into his ribs.

She scowled and smacked his hands off her waist with the gun. He let them drop, palms up in mock surrender, wrists limp.

She peeled herself off him with all the grace of a fight ending mid-swing. Her shirt plunged back down over her hips, and that—it almost made him groan. What a goddamn shame. He’d liked her like that. Wild. Wet. Half-dressed. Towering over him like she had all lthe damn power in the world, a flame that might eat him whole if he let her.

She stepped backwards, gun never wavering in aim.

“I… leave,” she stated.

Joel exhaled like she’d just suggested skipping across a minefield.

“Sure,” he said. “Knock yourself out. But what the hell you gonna say to the FEDRA grunts when they stop you?”

She narrowed her eyes, not getting it yet. “Why?”

“For shootin’ your husband.”

Her brow creased. Still breathing hard. Still trying to win a war with herself.

“No,” she said, almost defiantly. “You—you shoot. I—”

He cut her off, voice flint-hard.

“Darlin’,” he said, and it wasn’t sweet. It was a warning. “A FEDRA captain who beats his wife ends up dead in a ditch. Wife goes missing. Who d’you think they’re gonna pin it on?”

There. He saw it. Her brows knitting, reeling in the hurt, the comprehension sinking its claws in. Her hand left the doorknob, and Joel could almost see the fight leak out of her bones.

It was absolutely cruel, watching it land. But it wasn’t personal; it was survival. His, even hers, if she listened.

Now, she wasn’t stupid. Hurt, cornered, running on instinct—but not dumb.

He groaned and leaned forward, cracking his neck with a roll of his shoulders as he moved, every joint complaining. His body was still thrumming—wired from her touch, from the taste of her anger, from the bullet of adrenaline still lodged somewhere under his ribs.

And from the loss. The goddamn loss of what nearly happened.

“Go ahead,” he said, nodding at the door like it didn’t matter. “Run. Get caught. Get shot. Or let ’em drag you to that concrete hole under the barracks. You won’t last an hour in there. Not without someone ownin’ you.”

She sagged back against the door, one hand to her head, knuckles pressed into the skull like she could stop the spin of her thoughts by force.

She looked broken again. Not weeping—no, she never gave him that. But cracked. And tired. And haunted all over again.

And Joel felt something in his chest stir. Maybe guilt, or just the memory of who he used to be. The man who might’ve been better. But that man didn’t survive the QZ.

Look, he didn’t lie for sport. He lied to keep breathing. Lied to keep her breathing, too, whether she knew it or not. Close enough to scare her, and close enough to the truth to make her stay. That was all that mattered.

He watched her jaw tighten, and her fingers curled again around the grip.

She raised the gun. Took aim. Closed a finger on the lever.

Her mouth didn’t move. Her glassy eyes didn’t blink. And without a word—

She pulled the trigger.

X

Maybe Joel had underestimated the hell out of this little vixen.

Now how the fuck am I gonna explain this to Tess, was the only coherent thought Joel had as he stood before the mirror, biting down on the inside of his cheek, needle in hand, tugging thread through the scorched skin just beneath his jawline, watching the wound pucker and twitch. The graze from her bullet had missed killing him by about an inch—give or take—and now it burned like hell every time he pulled the knot tight.

He’d stitched himself up before. Dozens of times. But this one—this one wasn’t just some random scrape from patrol.

This was hers. Her mark on him. Her signature.

Through the mirror, he caught her reflection—sat stiff-backed at the dining table, cables wrapped tight around her wrists and ankles on the chair. Her hair was mussed from the struggle, chest still heaving a little like she hadn't come down yet.

And those vexatious eyes, watching him like he was a feral lion. Like she wanted to peel him open and crawl inside just to claw his heart out.

She glared, and glared, and glared. He almost preferred the fighting.

Joel didn’t look away either. He met her eyes as he tied the knot off. His hands moved with muscle memory, practised, controlled, even as his pulse thumped in his ears.

He flashed her a smirk. Nothing soft about it. Just teeth and the ghost of a man who used to know how to laugh.

He tried, uselessly, to chase the tension out of the air. “Love bites already, darlin’?”

Her jaw ticked. Didn’t so much as blink.

He chuckled low, voice rough with disuse. “No sense of humour. Damn near tore my shootin’ arm off—figure that’s your version of foreplay.”

Bad timing. But it was either that or remember how close he'd come to dying. Or how close he'd come to letting her go.

The cables were back—the same black extension cords he’d ripped from the wall—tied to the chair legs like some backwoods crucifixion. He’d ditched them two days ago, figuring maybe she didn’t need restraining anymore.

He’d been wrong.

It had taken him a full three minutes to get her under control when she made a break for the door. Or the fallen gun. Maybe both. It was hard to say when he saw her bolt. Either way, she’d fought like a damn rabid wolf. Screamed, scratched, bit, clawed. He hadn’t even been mad—hell, he'd been impressed. He took the hit like a man, even when her knee slammed up between his legs and turned his world white.

Now he was the proud owner of a busted lip, a sprained elbow, and an insanely sore dick.

And still—still—he couldn’t stop looking at her.

To fuck with her, and maybe to test the hideous part in himself, he dropped the pistol on the table just out of her reach. Right in front of her bound hands. Watched her eyes flicker toward it, a tiny twitch of her knee and wrists, just for a second, before she clenched her jaw and looked away like it wasn’t worth the effort.

Joel rose, blood sliding lazily down his neck. He took a pull from the bottle, the whiskey biting down his throat, and wandered to the wall where the bullet had hit, thankfully gone wide. Scarred plaster, smoke still curling out, a smudge of his blood, just above the armchair where she’d pinned him.

One inch to the left, and she’d have blown his goddamn skull open.

He tilted his head, studying the dark crimson spray pattern.

Goddamn. What a woman.

Mad as hell. Mouth like poison. Fire in every limb. And Joel—twisted, tired Joel—was drunk on it. On her rage, on her defiance, on the fucking danger of her.

She made him feel everything, and it wasn’t clean or noble or even sane—but it was real. In this half-rotted purgatory of a world, she was the only thing that made him feel alive and not just... moving.

He turned and headed to the tiny galley kitchen where he had left her. The whole apartment was a shithole like every other in the QZ, a patchwork of tradeoffs—walls cracked from old artillery shockwaves, rusted pipes, a hot plate that shorted out if he looked at it wrong, dented cookware, rust-stained sink. But he’d managed to keep it clean, more or less. Old habits die hard.

Dinner would usually be a ration can—protein sludge fortified with sawdust, probably—dumped into a pan with water and a stingy pinch from a seasoning packet. But for her, especially, in the very back, it sat vacuum-sealed, smuggled from a soldier who owed him: two tiny pouches of canned chicken. Probably expired. Definitely tasted like shit. But she liked it.

But tonight, thanks to her, he was too roughed up to bother about putting anything in his system.

Joel held up the bottle and shook it in her direction. “Want some?”

She glanced at her wrists, tied tight. Her lips pulled back in a snarl.

Joel grinned around the lip of the bottle. “You hate me that much, huh?”

Her eyes flared.

“Hate you,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “You—you—you—”

Then she spat a curse at him. One of too many. Sharp and syllabic in that language, he still didn’t know but understood just fine by tone.

He leaned back against the counter, savouring the burn of the whiskey as it settled in his gut.

“Didn’t see you runnin’,” he said, quiet now. Watching her over the rim. “You came back. Fought me. Didn’t have to.”

“You catch me. I try,” she spat, spittle gathering at the corner of her mouth. Either he was going mad, or he truly imagined running his tongue along it.

“To kill you. I kill you—fucker—”

Then more words he couldn’t parse followed. Foreign, sharp-edged. The cadence was all fury. A hymn of loathing, and he listened to every word like it was meant for him alone.

Fury. Grief. Close to mourning, maybe. For herself, for what he’d done, for the way the world had split her open and let a man like him crawl inside.

Joel drank her in like the whiskey. Let her hatred settle over him like a second skin.

Believe it or not, she hated him harder than he hated himself, and that was the closest thing to affection he’d known in years. And Joel would take attention like a dying man takes morphine.

He went over to sit on the edge of the table, right in front of her, merely them and the slow collapse of what was left of their sanity.

“Next time, darlin’,” he said, tipping the bottle toward her like a toast, “don’t miss.”

He picked up the gun behind him and let her watch as he slid it back into his waistband, slow and deliberate. Made sure she saw it vanish beneath the hem of his shirt, snug against his spine.

She tracked the motion with narrowed eyes. Sharp, silent. Like a hawk sizing up a coyote.

He dragged a chair forward and set it beside her, dropping into it with a sigh that scraped the bottom of his ribs. Body still running hot from the fight, the sex that wasn’t, the goddamn shot to the neck.

He reached into the crumpled paper bag he’d left on the table earlier and pulled out a sandwich wrapped in wax paper—dry as hell, probably two days old. Could’ve been crow meat for all he knew. Tasted like it.

He bit into it anyway, jaw grinding against the toughness. All this fighting, all this blood—it drained a man. Emptied out from the inside. But food was fuel. He chewed slowly, eyeing her where she sat bound, still breathing like she wanted to kill him with every exhale.

Then, because he wasn’t all an asshole—because somewhere in that tar-black heart of his, the muscle still twitched now and then with human impulse—he angled the sandwich toward her mouth. Held it out, edge-first.

“Here,” he muttered, around his own chew of stale bread and mystery meat. “Bite.”

She jerked her head like he’d tried to slap her. “No.”

He pushed the bread's tip closer to her lips. “Open your goddamn mouth.”

She stared. Defiant. Chin lifted, eyes sharp.

He met her stare, held it a beat, then shrugged. “Fine. Starve.”

Silence crawled in after that. He made it halfway through the sandwich—chewed, swallowed, wiped a smear of grease from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand—when it hit him:

He didn’t know a damn thing about this woman other than her name, her routine, the bare bones of misery.

Not her age. Not where she came from. Not what she believed in. Only that she hated him hard enough to nearly kill him—a hate, truthfully, turned him on. Not just the heat of it, but the clarity.

She looked at him like he was exactly what he was: dangerous. Unforgivable. A man to fear. A man to fuck. A man to fight.

Joel leaned back in the chair, studying her through the haze of cheap overhead light.

“So, what'd you do,” he asked finally, tearing another bite, like he was asking the wall instead of her. “Before all the world went to shit?”

He expected another string of curses in that slanted tongue. Or a lie. A don’t-ask-don’t-tell kind of glare. She was good at those. What he didn’t expect was her eyes flicking over to him—assessing, calculating, head to toe—and then:

“Vegas,” she said.

He paused mid-chew. “Vegas?”

One word. Simple. It caught him off guard. Not just how she said it. Way-gas, she said. A confession. Like she was daring him to judge her for it.

He blinked, sat up a little straighter, suddenly seeing things he hadn’t let himself see before.

The legs. The defiant sway in her hips. The sharp tilt of her jaw, the lashes that curled without effort, the skin that still shimmered faintly with sweat. The way she moved her ass around like she owned the goddamn air. How she held herself—not like a soldier or prey, but like a woman used to being watched.

Son of a bitch. How the hell had he missed it?

He let out a low whistle.

“No stripper,” she added quickly, eyes narrowing, shoulders squaring as his gaze lingered a little too long. “Burlesque. I danced.”

She rolled her Rs in that accent again, proud, like she was used to people misunderstanding the difference and correcting them always. Her knees drifted closer together, trying to reclaim whatever dignity the cable ties had stolen.

He nodded slowly, mouth twitching. “Fancy strippin’. Classy.”

She glared. “Is art.”

“Sure.”

But Joel didn’t laugh to mock her. Not really. It was more… wonder. It was absurd. This woman—this firecracker with those eyes like war—used to wear sequins, sashay and peel layers off her body for a crowd.

He sat back, eyes roaming, letting himself picture it. Couldn’t help it. He imagined her beneath coloured lights, smoke curling in the dark, descending slowly from a velvet swing in some nightclub, dusky legs gleaming, hips swathed in a flaming red corset, tits pushed up high. Hair pinned up in glossy waves, a fake beauty mark by her cheekbone, lips blood-red, just to drive the crowd wild. Fur slung around her shoulders for the tease, heels clicking across a stage, strutting to jazz tunes, prancing, undressing like it was a game she’d already won.

And she’d be grinning. That feline grin he envisioned on her when she was about to kill him or kiss him—he wasn’t sure which.

Jesus.

He unseeingly looked down at his sandwich, then at her again.

“Bet you had the whole goddamn place in your pocket,” he said. Not as a joke this time. Dead serious. “Men tossin’ out their last paycheck just to get one look at you.”

Shit, if Vegas were his backyard and he were thirty and thriving in the old world, he would've been one of those horny idiots.

The corner of her mouth poked up.

Then, there it was. A crack in the armour. The faintest smile—small, sly, quick. And it hit him harder than any punch she'd thrown. He could've sworn a goddamn dandelion sprouted from the mildew beneath the floorboards. Didn’t belong there, or last. Made it all the more striking.

“Were you famous?” he asked, voice dipping quieter.

She nodded softly, eyes far away, remembering it or mourning it. “They loved me.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, almost under his breath. “I’m sure they did.”

Because how the hell could they not? She had that thing—that magnetism. Something about the way she said it—like she knew she’d owned it. The stage. The room. The people. All of them orbiting her while she stood dead center, burning like a damn flare in the dark.

Due to his envious tendencies, he had to ask, “Met your husband there?”

Just like that, the moment shattered. Her face dimmed. The glimmer was gone.

She shook her head. “He help me.”

“Help what?”

She tried to lift her wrists to gesture, but remembered the cords. Let out an irritated breath, rolled her eyes. “Nothing.”

Bullshit.

He stared at her, waiting. She didn’t meet his eyes. So he hazarded a small-minded guess. “He helped you stay in America?”

Another shake of the head. “No, no. In QZ. Gave me ID. I don’t have a visa then.”

Joel leaned back in the chair. The old thing groaned under his weight. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, sighed. “Jesus.”

“I married him,” she said simply. “I have to… um…” Her shoulders rolled in an inward shrug. “Protect. My mama and me.”

She said it like it was a plain transaction. Like she’d bought safety in the shape of a ring and a man she didn’t love. That hit him sideways. He didn’t know why.

“But my mama,” she continued in a breath, “she… breathing, uh... spores? Breathe in the spores.” Then clucked her tongue. “Then, they took her to the camp. She die. No more.”

That part, she delivered with the softness of a knife. No tremble, no grief. Just a cold, hard period at the end of the sentence. She’d buried her mother a long time ago—maybe in the ground, maybe just in her heart. Joel knew that tone, and what it meant to put someone in the ground then never look back.

He looked at her again—at the tension in her spine, the way her eyes stayed forward, never down, never soft. This wasn’t just some girl he’d taken an interest in and dragged off the street.

She’d survived, just like him. Done things she didn’t want to do, so she and her mother could keep breathing. She’d worn feathers for strangers and married a man to disappear into a system that never gave a shit about her. And now here she was, in a dingy little room, half-starved and still staring him down like he was the one who should be afraid.

He reached for the sandwich again, held it up to her mouth without a word.

This time, she opened. No more fucking fighting. Just her eyes locked on his, and then her teeth sank in.

He watched her chew. Watched her throat bob when she swallowed. It felt ceremonial, as if she’d finally accepted a truce. Or at least his presence. Something like respect crept up the back of his neck.

He didn’t even realise how intently he was staring until she raised a brow at him, like, what? He looked away, clearing his throat.

She finished the bite, then licked her lips and looked at him with almost approaching curiosity.

“You,” she said, tilting her head. “What you did… before?”

Joel’s body tensed, air thickening around him. It wasn’t a question he liked answering—a life he liked remembering. Too many memories. Too many ghosts.

Still. Fair was fair. He had it in him to be honest.

“Contractor,” he said gruffly.

Her nose scrunched up, confused. “What?”

“Built things,” he explained, rubbing at his beard like the word itself might scratch off some rust. “Houses. Apartments. Plumbing. Sheetrock. Whatever needed fixing, I did it.”

There was a pause before—“Ah,” she said, like it had finally clicked. Then, hit him with a plain ridiculous: “Tinkerbell.”

Joel’s head jerked up. “'Scuse me?”

“You know,” she said, nodding solemnly, deadpan. “Little fairy. With um... tools.”

He exhaled through his nose, trying not to grin. Scrubbed a hand over his face like that might hide it. Goddamn wildfire.

“You call me that again,” he muttered, “and I’ll tie your mouth too.”

She shrugged, eyes half-lidded. “Still Tinkerbell.”

He looked over at her again, her bite marks on his collarbone still smarting, the scratch on his neck bleeding a little. And yet, somehow, she managed to call him a fairy with a toolbelt while being fed scraps from a washed-up relic. A tease between... not quite friends, but not quite enemies anymore either.

He didn’t say anything for a long minute. Just handed her another bite of the sandwich and watched the flicker of light in her eyes as she took it.

Her bite and her kiss—those two things, the same intensity, the same hunger—the difference between them was so thin, it probably lived in a hairline fracture.

X

“So you walked into a fence...” Tess drawled, arms crossed, one brow arched as she leaned against the rusted support beam. Her eyes flicked toward the gauze taped along Joel’s neck.

“...and it nicked you.”

Joel grunted. “Yeah.”

He didn’t elaborate. Just kept his focus on the ration manifest spread out on the crate in front of him, one finger tracing along the rows. Half this list was bullshit—spoiled inventory marked as fresh, numbers fudged. Someone was skimming.

Tess didn’t move, and honestly, didn't need to. Her stare was enough to pull answers out of most men.

But Joel wasn’t most men. And besides, the lie had already lodged too deep in his throat.

The truth was, he hated mornings like this—when the buzz of violence hadn’t quite worn off and his nerves still prickled like static under his skin.

Especially this morning. After waking up to her.

Sprawled across his mattress, all sweet, unconscious temptation, wrists still twisted in cord to the radiator just in case she didn't try to push a pillow into his face and asphyxiate him while he snored. Shirt rucked up to her ribs, plump, round ass on show, one leg bent, the other kicked out, mouth parted, skin soft and warm with sleep. Fucking irresistible enough to make him forget what the hell he was even doing anymore.

He’d left without waking her, not trusting himself to look too long. He'd be back in a few hours anyway.

“It was dark, lights were out,” Joel muttered now. “Let’s move on.”

“Next time,” she said, “try walking into a better lie.”

She came around the crate, hands on her hips. They’d met up to review a shipment—some busted battery packs smuggled in from Zone 3—but she hadn’t even looked at the gear yet. She could always tell when something was off. Joel being quiet? That was normal. But Joel being twitchy—Joel dodging her eyes, fiddling with his collar, rubbing at a nonexistent itch beneath his jaw—that set off alarms.

“You’re jumpy,” she said finally.

“Tired.”

“You don’t get tired.”

Joel shot her a look. “I ain’t immortal.”

She always knew when to push and when to let him breathe. That was Tess. Sharp as a damn blade, dry humour like a whetstone, all clipped words and hard lines—but she'd been by his side through years of blood and ash. They’d run jobs together. Smuggled, bartered, fought like hell to carve a solid life out of the wreckage. There was history between them. Not romance. Not love. Not in the way people used to have it.

But there was something.

He knew she had... feelings. She never said a word, never asked for more, for these ghosts of tenderness. But they’d flickered through—in the way she always drifted to his right side when patrols got rough, like she knew he favoured that side to draw. The time she held his arm longer than necessary after a knife caught his ribs. The little things people noticed when the world burned down and there wasn’t much left to hold onto.

Joel never encouraged it. Never used it, either. He wasn't built that way. He didn’t have it in him to lie to someone like Tess—not when she deserved better. And he didn’t have anything left to give. Not love, softness, not even a glimmer of promise.

Not to her. Not to anyone, really.

Or so he thought—until a girl with a broken accent and showgirl hips ended up on his shitlist. Until she clawed at the quiet places in him he thought were long dead.

“So what’s this about?” Joel asked, shifting the subject as he stood, wiping his palms on his jeans. “Why’d you drag me out?”

Tess leaned against the frame of a busted pallet jack, arms crossed tight, a cigarette burning slowly between her fingers. Her eyes scanned the space like she was building the words in her head.

“Word is Marlene’s been sniffin’ around.”

He paused. Just a beat. Not enough to give him away. But Tess had known him too long—she clocked it, like a tick in his jaw.

“Tommy mentioned something last night,” she went on, like she wasn’t watching him unravel. “Marlene’s looking for the captain’s wife. The one who went missing after someone shot the asshole in the head. Ring a bell?”

Joel didn’t answer. Just grunted, shoved the crate harder than he needed to. Bones grinding under the weight.

Tess kept going.

She flicked ash to the concrete. “Guess she thinks the woman might’ve seen something. Or knows something. Or maybe Marlene just wants another pretty fuckin’ face to make a martyr out of. Put her on a flyer. Stir sympathy. You know how she works.”

He grunted—noncommittal—but even to his own ears, it sounded hollow.

“They’re saying she ran,” he finally muttered. “That she’s long gone.”

“Sure,” Tess said. Her voice was quiet. Measured. “Except Marlene’s not the type to chase ghosts.”

He didn't answer.

He turned, meaning to brush past her—to walk it off, let it cool—but her hand came out quick, firm on his arm. She cocked her head, gesturing over his shoulder.

“Speak of the devil.”

Joel turned. His blood ran cold.

There it was.

The wanted posters, freshly lined up among the other rotting ones. Stapled all crooked on the rusted bulletin board outside the warehouse window, weathered but clear. The ink was smudged, wind-bleached, but still legible. Still her.

It wasn’t even a good sketch, rushed, blurred shading, like someone drew her from memory after seeing her once. But it was her. The slope of her nose, the shadows under her eyes. The curve of her mouth, parted just enough to make him remember how much it hurt to kiss her. She looked startled in the drawing. Like she’d just turned around and found someone aiming a gun at her back.

His throat closed.

The poster flapped in the wind, mocking him with every ripple.

Liar, liar, liar.

He’d lied to her. Told her there was nothing out there. Said the streets were crawling with patrols looking for her husband's murderer. That she’d be shot on sight. That it was better—safer—to stay.

And now here was the proof he was right... just not in the way he’d claimed.

Yes, they were looking for her. Not to kill.

To use. To catch and cage. Trade and twist. Make it into something she didn’t understand and couldn’t fight against.

A prize. A pawn.

Joel’s fists clenched at his sides. The ache started in his knuckles and climbed up his arms, settled in his chest like a dull hammer strike. Rage stirred low in his gut—hot, seething—not at Tess, not at Marlene. At himself. For how fast he’d gotten tangled, how deep he’d let her burrow in. For thinking, even for a second, that he could bring someone like her into his world and keep her safe.

He should’ve let her go that first night. Should’ve turned around and walked away from the sound of her crying behind that locked door. Should’ve shut it all out—like he always did.

But no. He felt like the goddamn wolf in the story, telling Little Red to rest a while. That he’d take care of everything.

Now here she was—on paper. A bounty. A target. A story someone else would write if he didn’t do something fast.

Tess came up beside him, quiet, cigarette nearly burnt out to the filter between her fingers. She didn’t speak right away, just stood with him, her shoulder brushing his.

“You ever see her?” she asked finally, voice low.

Joel didn’t move. “No.”

A beat passed. The silence crept in, discomfiting.

“Would you tell me if you had?”

He turned his head to meet her gaze. Her eyes weren’t sharp—just tired. Guarded. Asking more than the question itself.

“You think I’d be stupid enough to hide someone FEDRA wants that bad?”

Tess didn’t blink. “You’ve done dumber. We all have.”

Joel let out a humourless breath. Scoffed, looked away. “I got enough shit to worry about.”

And that was the truth. Except it wasn’t the whole of it.

Because this wasn’t just some woman anymore. Not some frightened girl stashed behind his door. Not the reluctant wife of a dead tyrant. She was wanted. Valuable. Tied into something bigger—that neither of them had any damn control over.

And he—reckless, half-broken bastard that he was—had gone and tied her up, brought her into his home like she was a stray he could tame. Thought if he fed her, clothed her, gave her a warm corner of his bed, that’d be enough. That she’d stay. That he could keep her safe.

Look, that should’ve been the end of that conversation. But Tess took one last drag and said, all casual—

“Three hundred ration cards.”

Joel pinched his lips. Jesus, she could not be serious.

“Not bad, right? We find her first,” she added, tossing the cigarette to the ground, “we could hand her over. Say we picked her up wandering. Could use the trade.”

She said it with that dry smile of hers, that half-joking tone that wasn’t really joking at all.

Joel’s jaw worked. Don’t take the bait.

She was watching him sideways, like a trap. As though she already knew the answer and was just waiting to see if he’d lie.

And he almost did. Almost nodded and said, “Yeah, maybe,” to play along.

When the silence came too fast, Tess noticed.

She just tilted her head, studying him out of the corner of her eye, obviously weighing odds, smelling blood in the water. Joel could feel it—the shift in the air between them, subtle but sharp.

He kept his expression flat, unreadable. But inside, gears were grinding.

Tess wasn’t stupid. She’d been too close for too long. Knew how he moved, how he lied—more importantly, how he didn’t lie. She could read him in a way that made his skin itch.

He could practically hear what she was thinking: You hesitated. You froze. Why? What do you know? Why won't you tell me?

Joel clenched his jaw, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. She was sniffing at the edges of something she hadn’t seen yet. But the shape of it was there. The silence was too precise, his calm too controlled.

He’d misstepped.

Tess didn’t press. She just gave a quiet little “hm,” then looked away, like she was cataloguing the moment for later.

Joel didn’t breathe until she took a step toward the warehouse doors, already half done with the conversation. But she paused long enough to glance back over her shoulder.

“You let me know if you hear anything,” she said.

Joel gave her a nod. One of those short, practiced ones that didn’t mean a damn thing.

Then he stood there, still as stone, while she walked away.

And all he could think about was her—barefoot, soft-voiced, wild-eyed—waiting in his apartment.

But those walls were closing in now, the chessboard moving. He could feel it—the cold edge of the blade behind his back, his own lie pressing down like a boot to the throat.

Because Marlene wanted a pawn.

And FEDRA wanted blood.

And him?

Joel Miller—realist, killer, smuggler, protector, proficient kidnapper, whatever the fuck he was now—didn’t know what the hell to do next. He didn’t even know what he wanted from her. Not in a way that made sense anymore.

Only that the thought of someone else getting to her—this fucking poster itself—made him want to raze the whole shithole QZ to the ground.

© damneddamsy

Reblog and comment, I'd love to hear what you thought! open to critique! How might it go? What's Joel going to do? Do we want a part 2 soon? I don't think it will go on that long 🤔, maybe just 3 or 4 chapters?

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part xiii)

HEURISTIC BLOOM—Intuition blossoms where logic fails.

summary: What is a chore chart but structure in the Miller family that was falling out of line?

a/n: this turned into such a Daddy Joel chapter, so much fluff and angst, I think I just miss my dad so much these days, and this new episode was so difficult to watch. also, this is the daddiest that Joel has dad-ied in this entire series. I love every second of it; Maya and Joel just wreck my sanity. I hope you love it, too :)

word count: 13,000+

Time was the one thing Joel always hoped he’d have more of.

Not in the poetic sense, or to chase silly dreams or put things right. Back then, it was time he’d wanted only so he could spend it hating himself a little longer—then die. Quick, quiet, out of the way, forgotten. That was all he figured he deserved. One more day to survive. One more step closer to nothing.

Only now did time reveal its discretions. Each ageing moment handed to him like a sovereign of gold—finite, dear, and impossible to reclaim once lost.

Mornings came with the sweet dread of culminating, that soon waned by the closure of evenings, and so the circuit went. When everything felt too still, too good to be real. It was as if he’d wandered into someone else’s dream by mistake—some softer version of the world where the coffee stayed warm and the silence wasn’t empty. And he'd be jolted awake to cold floors and open doors any second now.

But the days kept coming. They folded into months, and somehow, a whole year had passed.

A year of birthdays, of sprinting forward, and arguments and mended fences. Of holidays cobbled together with whatever they could find—new twinkling lights held up by fishing wire, cakes made from rationed sugar and fruits born in their backyard. A year of reasons to celebrate. A year of dinners that rarely started on time because Maya needed to show everyone around the table her crayon-covered invention.

A whole year of learning what a family can be—awkward, noisy, unfinished—even when it was messy.

It was a lopsided tapestry that you stitched together with mismatched thread and too-thin patience, patched over with stubborn love and quiet apologies that never quite reached the lips. But it held, even when it creaked under the grief, betrayal, or someone slamming the door too hard.

One thread on that tapestry spiralled forward.

His baby girl, Maya, had turned two over the winter, all curls and wild energy, her tiny voice echoing through the house like birdsong—bright, persistent, impossible to overlook. She ran now—fucking bolted, really—zigzagging through the halls with the chaos of a wind-up toy, often with a sock missing, making him exhausted in ways he never wanted to recover from.

Leela cycled little chores for her on that chore chart that was pinned on the refrigerator, with pretty butterflies and yellow-red-green boxes, all of which were mostly ceremonial, but Maya took to them with solemn, almost comical seriousness. Joel had rolled his eyes then at how excessive it seemed, but these days? He saw what it did and meant.

Structure. Ownership. A sense that Maya belonged here and that this home worked because she helped it.

Setting the table for dinner became a ritual: “One for Daddy, one for me,” she’d whisper in account, carefully placing each plate and all the cutlery with two hands, and god help you if you moved one out of place. She watered a particular rosemary bush in the garden more than the rest, peering into its green leaves like it might talk back. She’d pluck weeds with exaggerated grunts of “Gotcha,” and announced with great urgency to him when the firewood pile looked “low-ish. You gotta make more.”

He’d smile and roll up his sleeves. “Yes, ma’am.”

And when he'd come down right after his shower—steam still curling in the upstairs hallway, wood floors cool under his bare feet, shirt sticking to his back as he came down the stairs, fingers combing through hair that was still wet at the nape—and there she’d be, every damn time.

On the little step-stool in front of the fridge, staring solemnly at her chore chart like it might change if she concentrated hard enough. Her brows were furrowed, sleep-crushed and intent. One hand clutching her stuffed horse, the other hovering near the velcro stars like she was solving a military strategy.

She tapped a box with her finger. “Gaw-den day.”

“Gaw-den. Close enough,” Joel murmured, halfway to the counter.

Maya whipped her head around.

He turned just in time to catch the full force of her grin. Just joy in its rawest, brightest form.

Still in that too-small pyjama set with the little stitched deer on the knees, one sleeve riding up her forearm and the other twisted under her arm where she’d probably slept on it. Her hair hung wild and crooked around her face, half-out of the two ponytails he’d wrestled in the night before, looking like she’d fought a windstorm in her dreams and won.

“Mornin’, daddy,” she chirped, teeth flashing, brown eyes scrunching into perfect little half-moons.

Joel quirked up a smile, like he always did. Like her voice stunned something in him still—every single morning.

Still not rolling her Rs properly, and goddamn if that Texas drawl didn’t hit him straight in the heart every time. That was him in there, bleeding out in the twang of her vowels. She was picking it all up—his dumb phrases, his slow way of leaning against a wall when he got tired, his dry little “hmm”s when he didn’t feel like answering a question. She was mirroring it all, not on purpose—just by being around him too often.

Joel was rubbing off on her. And it was cute as hell. Terrifying, too, in the way love always was when you had something to lose.

“Hi, darlin’,” he triumphed. “Workin’ hard or hardly working’?”

She focused back on her chart again. “Mhm.”

“Hey, where's your mama?”

“Mmmm-downstairs.”

He sighed. “As usual.”

She nodded seriously. “Okay. I gotta count firepile, too. 'Cause I didn’t yestah-day. Was busy.”

“Oh yeah?” He leaned on the counter beside her, letting one hand drop down to rub her back. “Real busy yestah-day, huh?”

Maya nodded again. “Uh-huh. I was eatin’ jam-toast. I coloured.”

Joel chuckled low in his throat. “Well. That’s mighty important.”

“Hmph. I know,” she whispered, already hopping down from the stool. “Shoes, shoes, shoes...”

“Alright, busybee, you come right back and wash your stinky tush,” Joel informed, watching her leave with her horse bouncing under one arm and determination in every stomp of her feet.

Her giggles faded out the door. “Ee, daddy, not my toosh!”

And it was the same way when she fought with Tommy. Even now.

Not the kicking, screaming kind anymore—those had been toddler tantrums. These were verbal scraps now. Loud as hell, sure, but laced with theatricality and the kind of absurd logic that only a two-year-old could weaponise. Always over something stupid, too. A missing biscuit. A cheating accusation in Go Fish. Once, Tommy bragged he’d launched a rock clean over the river, claiming it had “cleared the bend, swear to God.” Maya narrowed her eyes, tiny fists balled on her hips.

“Uncle, you liar,” she declared at the table.

Tommy, ever the instigator, leaned into it with the earnest of a man falsely accused. “Now hold up. Who you callin’ a liar?”

“’S too far... throw.”

“Maybe you just got short arms, squirt.”

Her eyes went wide, affronted. “Not squirt!” she yelped. “Ma-ya. Maa-yaa.”

“Whatever, squirt.”

Then came the stomp—always the stomp—little boot heels pounding off to file a formal complaint with Maria, who didn’t intervene unless something got broken, or someone cried.

Joel just watched it all unfold with quiet amusement, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. That was his kid, through and through. Fire in her chest, loyalty to a fault, bullshit radar honed to lethal precision. He couldn’t decide if he was proud or worried. Probably both.

Maria handled it better than he did. She had a knack for plucking Maya up mid-meltdown, nestling her against a hip, and talking her down with soft logic and firm affection. No nonsense. No coddling.

Maya, all indignant, fists balled at her sides, came up to her. “He did it again! You gotta beat him, auntie—just pow, pow. Go.”

“Strong-armed by a munchkin,” Tommy mumbled to Joel.

Maria crouched, scooping Maya into her arms with a practised sigh. “Even wild things gotta learn when to walk away, baby.”

There was this maternal gravity there that Maya orbited around without quite realising it. Joel watched the way Maya always crept to Maria’s side when they walked together, or how she listened to her in that unusually still, owl-eyed way she reserved for her mother.

Ellie, on the other hand, was chaos incarnate.

Despite all her grumbling—I’m not babysitting, Joel, I got shit to do—she’d somehow slipped into the role of older sister with barely a stutter. Maya idolised her. Trailed after her like a shadow. Happily took to her when she gave her piggybacks every other evening. Ellie taught her how to whistle through her fingers, and how to spit (which Joel outlawed immediately), and how to sneak treats from the back of the pantry without anyone knowing, especially as Joel, the sucker he was, always fell for those delighting Bambi-eyes routine of hers.

“You distract Joel,” Ellie would whisper, squatted low like they were plotting a heist. “I’ll go for the loot.”

Sometimes Maya clung to her like ivy, curling up beside her on the porch while Ellie fiddled with her switchblade, asking questions about patrol, or hummed tunelessly on her guitar. Other times, she’d give Ellie the boot with all the ceremony of a royal dismissal.

“You go home now,” she’d say, small hand making a shooing gesture toward the door. “You go. Go back.”

Ellie never took it personally. Just smirked and ruffled her curls. “Fine, little shit. I’ll tell Dina you said no to those crayons you wanted so bad.”

Maya would hesitate. Glare. Cross her arms. “Fine.”

It was all ridiculous. It was all perfect. She was perfect.

And Joel couldn’t help but marvel at how she navigated them all—Tommy’s loudmouth energy, Maria’s constant warmth, Ellie’s storm-bright orbit. She was learning how to hold her own. How to give and take. How to love.

And through it all, Joel was utterly wrapped around her finger, watching his little girl fold herself into the arms of a world he used to think was too broken to offer her anything good. She could get away with just about anything if she smiled at him just right, even now.

He pretended to be stern, sure—“Put that back, trouble,” he’d grumble, trying not to grin his face off as she paraded around the house in his muddy boots, dragging his big-ass guitar behind her by the tuning pegs, impersonating him—“That ain’t a toy.”

“My guitar!” she’d giggle, shooting off.

And that would be that. Even Maya knew the truth: she had him beat.

Nowadays, he never really played that damn guitar for himself anymore. Not in the way he once had, back when music was the only place he could put his grief without it looking him in the face. These days, the strings still held sorrow, sure, but it wasn’t a wound he was nursing in secret. It was a tether.

These days, the strings answered to her. To Maya.

And most evenings, without fail, she’d find him out on the porch. Joel would settle there with a quiet grunt, sinking into the porch swing, guitar propped across his knee.

And she’d come, right on schedule—like a moth to the low twang of a G chord.

He’d barely get through tuning when he’d hear the soft little thump-thump-thump of bare feet coming up behind him.

And there she’d be. All two-foot-nothing of her. Wearing that flannel dress that was cut from his old shirts, a nappy that probably needed changing, curls stuck to her forehead, big, brown eyes shining, and she’d let out a huffy sigh, like she was bone-tired from a long day of being two years old.

“Play f’me,” she’d demand simply, climbing onto the swing with zero grace and a lot of conviction.

Joel would glance down at her. One of the shoulder-bows to the dress undone, one sock rolled halfway off, fingers idly picking at a tear on his jeans.

“Am I your jukebox now?” he’d ask, squinting at her with mock suspicion.

She’d giggle a 'hee-hee' sound, not even looking at him. She tapped her chest twice with a little closed fist. “Daddy, my song. Sing Maya song.”

“You ain’t got no song,” he said—always said, every time, even though he already knew what was coming.

“Comma comma song,” she insisted, nodding so hard her curls bounced. “My song.”

The same fucking Handyman song.

He'd lost count of how many times he’d played it—possibly near a thousand by now, judging by the muscle memory in his fingers. But it never got old, not once, not even when he was tired. Not even when his hands ached. Not even on days when he’d spent the morning scrubbing infected blood from under his nails or patching up a busted wall in the town’s greenhouse.

He exhaled, long-suffering, and booped her nose. “Fine. Only ‘cause you’re so damn cute.”

“Cute,” she echoed with a proud little nod, like it was her idea.

Sometimes, on good days—on golden ones like this—he’d plop her into his lap, seating the big, old guitar across both of them. She’d giggle every time like it was a surprise that it was so heavy, the guitar’s body practically swallowed her, tiny legs kicking out with the effort of balancing it. Joel would guide her tiny hand to the strings, his own fingers still holding the chords steady on the frets.

“Easy, baby girl,” he’d murmur, soft at her ear. “Right there. Ready?”

She bounced a little on his leg. “Th-wee-too-one,” she whispered.

And then she’d strum with those baby fingertips, turning red. A phantom pain radiated from his own at the sight.

The tune was always offbeat, too hard or too soft, a mess of squeaky rhythm and muddled chords—but she sang. Loud and proud. Off-key. Adorable. It didn’t matter if she got the words wrong; if she forgot them halfway through, then she made up new ones.

He'd sing with her, a smile in his voice. “Here is the main thing that I wanna say, I'm busy 24 hours a day—”

“Come-a, come-a, come-a, come-a, come, come!” she squealed, kicking her heels.

“Goin’ way too fast,” Joel laughed under his breath, trying not to lose rhythm. “You’re worse than your uncle.”

“I good,” she insisted, pushing her little hands against the strings with all the wrong pressure.

“You loud.”

“Comma, me-hee-ee!” she shouted.

Joel looked down at her—at that messy head, those little shoulders leaning back against the chest she’d lived all her life—this was the same girl who, not that long ago, couldn’t even sit up on her own. The wobbly little thing who used to clap wildly just because he’d hit a clean chord, laughing like it was magic. Now she wanted to sing with him. Be part of his music, even if her sweet songbird voice cracked mid-line because she got distracted by the callouses on his knuckles or the breeze.

His baby was growing up. Too soon for his liking, but so beautifully, too.

Although Joel thought he knew her. He knew everything about his little girl. Knew how she liked her toast slathered with jam, which socks were the “slide-y” ones, the exact pitch her voice hit when she was about to cry, or lie. He knew her world like a worn trail—knew how to keep her on her feet, fed, clean, and loved.

But some things she did still knocked the wind out of him.

It was late one evening, the fire burning low on the hearth, dinner cleaned up, when Joel had settled into the armchair with Maya curled up in his lap, the way she always did, back pressed to his chest, her fingers idly tracing that old scar on his forearm. He picked up the same book they’d been reading for weeks—The Three Pigs—half asleep himself, his voice a gravelly drone more than anything else.

But Maya pushed it aside.

“No,” she declared, already sliding off his lap. She padded across the rug, tugged at the bookshelf with both hands, and wrestled out a hardcover that had seen better days—corners frayed, spine puffed out from water damage.

She carried it over like it weighed five pounds and dropped it with a proud thud in his lap.

“This one,” she huffed.

Joel managed a quiet laugh. “Feelin’ turtles tonight, huh?” he muttered, shifting as she climbed back up his lap, settling in between like a cat.

He reached for the book—One Tiny Turtle—but she didn’t hand it over.

Instead, she squinted at the cover, nose scrunching in that comically serious toddler way. Then she looked up at him, one hand on the book, the other already halfway to his face.

“Daddy, glasses,” she said, tapping his neck like she was reminding him of something important. “I need ‘em. Gimme.”

Joel blinked, caught off guard—and then smiled. It wasn’t the first time she’d asked. Ever since he’d started needing the damn things—fixing small screws had turned into a guessing match more than a skill—Ellie and Dina had teased him mercilessly. Maya, on the other hand, had become fascinated. She treated the glasses like mystical antiques, often pulling them from his shirt pocket with the solemnity of a librarian.

“You wanna wear ‘em?” he asked, playing along. “Ain’t gonna help you. Your pretty eyes are fine.”

“Gimme ‘em,” she insisted, already snatching them up and jamming them on her tiny face, where they slipped halfway down her nose, looking exactly like an overworked professor three grades deep into bedtime.

“Wow,” she gasped. “I see you. I see turtles now!”

Joel bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Goddamn if she wasn’t the most adorable thing he’d ever seen. “Alright, careful with those,” he warned, settling his hands around her middle again to keep her from toppling off his leg.

She cracked the book open herself. Thumbed through a few pages with the consideration of someone handling sacred text. Then stopped. Planted a tiny finger on the first line.

And she started reading. Not guessing. Not parroting back his voice.

Maya was reading out loud.

“The moon was hi-guh... and the... wa-wa-ter was cold. But the ly-tuh-lee... little... tur-tuh-le... turtle... swam fah-st. Fast... lick-ee the ti-dee.”

Her voice was light, soft and lilting—like the story was a secret she was sharing with herself first, him second.

Joel stared at her, heart thudding like someone had snuck up on him.

Maya turned the page, tracing the next words carefully. Eyes squinting. “...pa-st the fish. And fa-w, fa-w aw-ay.”

Then she looked up, glasses sliding down, all earnest pride, like she expected to be graded. “I read’d it, Daddy.”

And for a second, Joel couldn’t find his breath because all he could think was: what in the everloving fuck?

He’d thought she was just memorizing the damn thing—he’d read it enough times to her, he’d been the one to guide Maya’s little finger across sentences these past months after all. But this wasn’t that. She was making sense of letters. Decoding. Connecting shapes to sound, sound to story. Stringing together syllables. Her lips moved just slightly before each word, like she was solving a fucking puzzle on the fly.

She wasn’t even three. And somehow—she was reading.

He didn’t show it. His face didn’t know how to do that kind of surprise anymore, not without breaking something open. Instead, he cleared his throat and gave her a quiet nod.

“You sure as hell did, sweetheart,” he said, low, a little hoarse. “You’re my little miracle, aren’t you?”

Maya lit up, her whole body beaming, and turned back to the book with purpose, flipping the page with the flourish of a person on a mission.

“Yeah. I read more for you. See. I named this turtle Marco, Marco Turtle...”

He only watched her, one arm wrapped loosely around her, the other hand resting at the edge of the paper, not quite knowing what to do with it. Her teeny heartbeat raced against his ribs.

And his mind was rushing ahead.

He should’ve been overjoyed. And in some ways, he was. But beneath the pride—deep in the gut, where old instincts still lived—a darker, ancient feeling bloomed. Fear. The same kind that gripped him when Leela stayed up too late with equations in the margins of tear-stained notebooks.

Because Maya was clever. Leela-clever. That quiet, effortless sort of brilliance that didn’t ask permission to exist.

And he knew what being brilliant cost. He’d seen it grind Leela down, chewed through her sleep, her peace, her joy. Seen how the world didn’t know what the hell to do with someone like her. How it tried to shrink her, dull her, use her up.

His Maya... she was still so little. She was supposed to have more time. She was supposed to play in the dirt, throw tantrums, and mispronounce things until she was five or six. Not sit here with a picture book and read like the words had always belonged in her little mouth.

A new grief in him began, a grief for a childhood barely started, already being outpaced by her mind.

And that was when the other things—the more obvious things, the ones he’d been too honeyed by daily bliss to see clearly—began to needle at him.

The future was closing in faster than he thought it would.

Their non-literal home was beautiful. A little too beautiful. Big, white, built from the creation of what once had been someone’s dream—stained glass in the sidelites and transom, a clawfoot tub in their oceanic bedroom, floorboards worn soft in the middle. It had charm. Soul.

But to Joel, nowadays, it had also started to feel like a keep.

Because Leela didn’t leave it until absolutely necessary. She stepped out onto the porch now and then, took Maya to the berry brambles, and walked to Tommy's occasionally. But she never involved herself. Not in the way Maria did, with her council meetings and community firepit nights. Not like Ellie, loud and cursing with her mess of teenage friends at the bar counter.

No 'friends.' No card games. No loitering on porches just to gossip. She was polite, moved through the town like a ghost too gentle to haunt, present when she had to be—but Jackson never really got to know her beyond her genius.

And in the beginning, Joel hadn’t pushed it. He’d respect that, protect her space with the quiet, dogged devotion he always had.

Trauma didn’t heal like a cut for his girl. It festered. Seeped into the walls. Made a home in the bones. He, of all people, knew what it was to be gutted by life and left walking around in your own ruin. Leela needed the quiet, needed to rebuild the walls around herself brick by careful brick, and if she’d found peace inside the four corners of their home, who was he to challenge that?

But then came Maya. Changing everything by just growing.

And with it came the slow, unsettling realisation that Leela’s fear was becoming an inheritance.

It hit him hardest one bright afternoon when Maya, who tagged along with him to run a quick errand—sticking to his leg like a barnacle—flat-out shrieked at the entrance of the general store.

“No, no. We go back, Daddy,” she'd begun from the street.

She’d been unusually clingy that day, and instead of nudging her to stay behind with Leela, he’d bundled her up and brought her along. Figured it’d be like before, when she used to ride tucked under his arm or babble at him from his hip. These days, she was brave. Intelligent. She liked counting fruit, pointing out colours, proudly telling him which apples were “juicy.”

But the second they stepped inside, she broke down. She wanted the fuck out of there.

She’d sobbed it over and over, tears wetting her little dungarees and boots, fists balled to her face, breath hitching, while Joel knelt beside her, stunned. His girl never reacted like this. Not to stores. Not to anything. So why now?

“Maya, hey, hey—look at me,” he’d tried to talk her down softly, rubbing her tiny arms, “we’re just getting fruit. Then we’ll go back, baby girl. You like apples, don’t you?”

But she’d kept wailing. Deep, frantic. Panicked. Like something invisible had reached into her and flipped a switch labelled hazard.

Joel could feel the eyes now. People watching from behind shelves and crates, faces folding into awkward sympathy, some barely disguising the discomfort. He barely registered any of it.

All he could think was—Goddamn, my baby's scared. Not because the prospect of the store was frightening, but because home was all she knew. Because her world had been drawn in close, little, familiar, tight, and any step outside of it was an immediate danger.

Still in a daze, he took Maya home soon enough. Held her, fed her favourite berries while she calmed down. Didn't say anything to a blank-faced Leela, not then. Just watched the way Maya wrapped herself around her mother’s neck and didn’t let go. Like they were still one body, one breath.

“I like here, Mama,” Maya had whispered to her.

“Then we stay here, okay? As long as you want,” Leela had assured, stroking Maya's hair.

And Joel lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling with a bitter pill stuck in his throat. A knot he couldn’t swallow down.

It wasn’t Leela’s fault. It wasn’t. But it wasn’t fair either—not to Maya. She deserved to hear laughter from kids near her age, sing rhymes with her friends, and go on playdates.

Because he’d seen these kids now. The world had made a lot of them—survivors, ghosts, raised in silence and scarcity, oriented by conditions that safety meant solitude. That hiding meant living.

He didn’t want that for his little girl. Didn’t want Maya to inherit the isolation. The fear. The belief that outside meant trouble and inside meant control.

So Joel started trying. Small things. Subtle at first.

Long, frequent walks to the grocery store with Maya. More dinners at the barbecue restaurant with Tommy and Maria. He’d sidle up to the couples gathered near the café, folks trading gossip and laughter, and being the stone-faced bastard he was, he would grumble something half-funny, trying to wedge himself—and by extension, Leela—into the rhythm of the town. It wasn’t natural for him—this mingling shit, but he he did it for his family.

And Leela came, most times, only for Maya.

At the playground, where the older kids laughed too loudly in a game of tag, he would squat beside Maya, pointing out. “You wanna play with them? Go on, baby girl. Say hi. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with trying.”

But every time, he’d see the same thing.

The exact moment Leela would freeze beside him, hands tightening around the strap of the canvas grocery bag she carried like armour. The subtle tension in her jaw, her mouth a thin line, standing there in hurt.

And Maya, watching her mama, would duck behind Leela’s legs like clockwork. Her caution. Her withdrawal. A mimicry that cut Joel deeper than any outburst could.

“I want home,” she’d parrot, deadpan, robotic. Already backing up.

Joel felt it like a slap.

And later, in the kitchen, he’d let it out. Not yelling, he didn’t yell much anymore, but his voice would scrape low, pressure building in the seams. Snaps over nothing. A dish not rinsed. A cabinet left open. Laundry left out on the clothesline. The wrong kind of silence. Long nights standing in their bedroom corridor, arguing too quietly for Maya to overhear.

“She’s starting to copy you,” he’d say, jaw working.

“She’s two,” Leela would shoot back.

“Exactly, darlin’. She needs to know the world ain’t all gonna hurt her.”

“The hell it isn’t. She’s with her mother. She feels safe. What’s wrong with that?”

He’d go still. Always did, at that line. Because he understood it, on a level few others would. But that didn’t make it right.

He’d exhale through his nose, run a hand through his hair like it could scrub the ache out of his scalp, fighting the impulse to strike the wall. He fucking hated this.

“She’s brave because her mother is braver,” Joel would mutter finally, eyes on the floor. “She’s gotta know there’s more than just closed doors—”

“How do you know, Joel!” she interrupted with a hiss.

He shut his eyes on instinct, “—and being safe. There’s living, Leela. Not just staying alive.”

Leela would go quiet then, in sorrow. Quiet, aching sorrow leaking shame, and didn’t ask for forgiveness because it didn’t believe it deserved it.

And sometimes—rarely—Leela would cry, just a little. He’d see it in the shimmer at the edge of her lashes, the way she turned away to hide her face in the crook of her arm. And he would stand there, fists clenched uselessly at his sides, hating the way his love kept crashing into her fear. Hated himself for adding to it, even as he knew he had to.

Joel knew it wouldn’t be quick or easy. Fear never lets go without a fight. But he also knew this: he loved Leela and Maya too much to let them stay inside forever.

In that quiet, stubborn tapestry Joel kept tucked away in the back of his mind—the one stitched from all the things he didn’t say aloud—plenty of threads held it together.

Two stretched, bounding forward: Maya, Ellie, both new, young and wide-eyed, full of questions and sunlight, weaving joy into every corner of the future he still dared to imagine.

The other ran deeper, coloured red as blood: Leela—tired, brilliant, proud. Fraying at the edges, pulled too tight in places, but still threaded through every part of him. She was the pattern he couldn’t unpick, no matter how much it hurt. Woven into the very fabric of him, even as she came undone.

But things between Joel and Leela lately have been... rocky. Worse than that.

And if you’ve followed it this far, you probably know by now—Leela was never really around to know what was happening, and she never really forgave Joel. Not for that.

Even though he told himself he did it for her—for them—the price he paid was her trust, and once broken, it didn’t come back easily. He couldn't even blame her.

Because he’d done this. He’d done the one thing she couldn’t forgive—not yet.

Took her work, the mammoth of a legacy she built with trembling hands, in the dark, decimal by decimal, proof by proof, pouring herself into it like it was the only piece of hers that mattered. And he took it, slipped out in the middle of the night like a goddamn thief with her notebook stuffed into his pack and headed south without a word.

Caltech. The Fireflies. Fucking death of good.

He went thinking he was doing it for her, for all of them, trying to scrape some meaning out of this wreck of a world, trying to give her back the future that had been stolen. But in the end, what he gave her was another theft.

He hadn’t trusted her enough to tell her. Hadn’t believed she could survive the heartbreak of hope, not after everything.

But she’d survived worse, hadn’t she?

And now—she was surviving him.

She didn’t scream or accuse him. No, that wasn’t her way. Just looked at him afterwards like he was a stranger with her blood on his hands. And in some way, he was.

She withdrew, inch by silent inch, until the space between them felt like a raging ocean. Her life shrank down to two absolutes: the work and Maya. And Joel went past it, a bad, breathing memory.

At first, it was small. She missed family dinners to entertain her workshop, tolerated his touches, his little kisses, his stupid jokes, his try-hard conversations at night before they fell asleep. She still kissed him goodnight—light brushes of the mouth, like habit, like politeness. He tried to meet her there, tried harder than he had in months.

But something in her had already begun to turn inward. Soon, she stopped laughing. Stopped touching back. And the kisses stopped, too. Not abruptly—just faded, like colour bleeding from cloth.

She began to stay up late, diving headfirst into that goddamned hard drive, pouring over its files until her eyes were red and raw from the blue light.

One night, after he had put Maya to bed and the house fell into its accustomed hush, Joel found Leela in the kitchen, hunched over her notebook at the island, bathed in the amber lights above the stove. Her pencil moved in relentless bursts—fast, jittery, like it was chasing her thoughts before they escaped.

Joel lingered at the doorway for a second, cracking his knuckles nervously, just watching her. Then he padded in quietly and slid behind her chair. He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knots he knew so well.

She stiffened for half a second worth of instinct—then relaxed, but only just. Her pen didn’t stop. Her eyes didn’t leave the page.

“You eat anything yet?” he asked, his voice barely more than a murmur against the crown of her head.

“Mhm,” she hummed, not really answering.

“What was it?”

“Um. Bread.” A shrug. A scratch at her nape. “Leftovers, I think. Bread.”

He didn't know whether to laugh or yell at her.

He dipped lower, pressing a kiss to her temple. Another at the corner of her jaw. “Been thinkin’,” he murmured, “tomorrow, maybe we take a walk. Just us. Creek trail’s thawed out. Might even find some of those frogs Maya keeps talkin’ about.”

She nodded absently, shifting forward so his lips barely brushed her skin. “Mhm. We’ll see.”

Joel lingered. He let his hand trail from her shoulder down her arm, fingers curling around her wrist. Then, almost shyly, he leaned in again, tried for her mouth, the edge then the soft bow of it—a gentle, building kiss, just enough to say I miss you. Come upstairs with me.

But she barely turned her head when his fingers traced down her chin and throat. Her lips caught the edge of his, then returned to her notes like nothing had happened.

“Joel,” she refused quietly, nearly apologetic. “I’m... I need to get this down before I lose my train of thought.”

Joel pulled back. Swallowed. “Got it,” he said.

His hand drifted off her wrist.

Sooner than later, the bed went cold. Her pillow stayed smooth. Her scent disappeared from the sheets. No creak of the mattress at midnight. No rustle of her turning toward him, murmuring, half-asleep. He waited a week. Then three months. Told himself she was just tired. Overworked. He even left the light on for her on most nights. But her side stayed untouched for weeks. And then it wasn’t her side anymore. Just empty space.

She made no scenes, but she made no room either. Joel became a fixture—like the porch railing, the boots by the door. Something that used to belong but now just takes up space. Just empty space.

Because he knew he deserved it. Knew it wasn’t just one thing, or one mistake. It was the thousand small betrayals: the silences, the avoidance, the cowardice of a man who thought keeping the truth buried would keep the peace. And now there was this quiet, unbearable nothing between them. A stillness too loud to ignore.

Back to square one, he guessed. Back to being the man who didn’t know how to fix a goddamn thing he loved without wrecking it first.

Even Maria had started to notice, asking questions with too-soft eyes when Leela's silence crossed into the summer. The quiet between them was too loud not to.

“She’s not talking to you,” she had stated to him earlier, before he left for patrol, her tone too casual on the surface.

Joel shook his head. “Ain’t her fault. Just let her be.”

“You’re not talkin’ either.”

He gave a humourless exhale, more through his nose than his mouth. “Not much left to say.”

Maria was quiet for a beat, then added, softer, “That’s not true. You just think it’ll hurt more if you say it.”

Joel finally looked at her, eyes shadowed under the brim of his hat. “What do you want to hear, Maria? That I fucked up? That I’d give my goddamn right hand to take it back?”

Maria didn’t blink. “I want you to stop pretending everything’s fine.”

He looked away again, the line of his shoulders rigid, like holding back a landslide. That one landed hard.

“I just… I don't know how to fix it without breakin’ more of her. Or losin’ what I have.”

Maria sighed. “You lived too long, Joel,” she said. “You think that makes you harder, but really… it just made you scared.”

Yes, she was right, but damn if he knew what else to do when every word he spoke just seemed to push her further away.

So, Joel didn’t bother explaining. How could he? How could he put into words the way he'd tried to buy redemption with silence? How could he justify betraying the one woman who had ever truly seen him—not just the survivor, not the killer—but the father, the man?

So he didn’t. He just tried like a goddamn fool, and wedge himself back into the corners of her world.

He started learning to cook on his own, fumbling through her spice rack like a man disarming a bomb, holding tiny jars of sumac, baharat and saffron. He burned rice more than he cared to admit, sliced his knuckle on a dull knife trying to dice onions the way she did, and measured out cumin in those labelled spoons. All of it for the smallest chance that maybe—she’d sit beside him again. That she’d taste what he made and remember the man she used to love.

Most nights, he got nothing more than a nod. Other nights, not even that.

He started taking early patrols, slipping out before the sun had even begun to crack over the mountains—just so he could be back in time for dinner, hoping that his presence might feel less like a shadow. He tried being quieter, helpful than usual, and patient. Cleaned up after Maya’s tantrums without a word, patched the leaky faucet no one had asked him to touch, restocked the pantry with the dried apricots that Leela loved. He’d traded two .44s and a good knife for them. Worth every bullet.

One long, back-breaking afternoon, he planted sunflowers beneath the kitchen window—tall, defiant things, yellow like August heat—so they’d be the first thing she saw when she came down for her morning coffee.

The next day, he stood leaning against the counter when she ambled in, silent as always. She poured her tea like it was a chore, staring out the window.

He tried again. “Sunflowers’re yours,” he said, voice quiet, encouraging. “Figured they’d like it there. Morning light looks good on them, right?”

She didn’t look at him or say a thing. Just took her cup and left.

He stayed where he was for a while, jaw working, hand flexing against the edge of the counter like he could squeeze the silence into something that didn’t feel like regret.

Still, it wasn’t enough. And he blamed every bit of himself. He did this, now he had to face the music.

Another promising evening, he stood by the stove with his heart in his throat, ladling out bowls of a chickpea stew he knew she couldn't go a week without. It smelled right—he was sure of it. That same sweet earthiness she used to hum over. He had Maya set a plate for her and sat her on his hip, fresh out of a nap and giggling, pointing at the pot and declaring it “orange soup.”

When Leela emerged from the hallway, hair hanging in knots, picking dirt off her fingernails, he looked up too quickly. Hope gave him away every time.

“Hey. I made us an early dinner,” he said, soft, stupid and hopeful. “Figured you'd get hungry soon. Come, sit.”

She paused, eyes drifting from the table to his hand, then to him.

“Thank you,” she said, and took the bowl from his hands without sitting down. Bent over and kissed Maya’s temple, her voice dipping into a gentle whisper for their daughter. “Maybe give her a bath tonight. Wash her hair, too.”

“Yeah, thought as much,” he hummed.

Maya was the only glue, a scared hope that all wasn't lost, and the one place Leela hadn’t drawn a line in the sand. She didn’t keep Maya from him or poison her against him. The one harness in this well-oiled rope he balanced on.

Then Leela turned, bowl still in hand, and headed straight for the basement door.

Joel stood there, hand still hovering over the back of her empty chair, feeling like he’d just been left out in the cold.

“Leela,” he tried, just once, not loud. “You don’t have to eat down there.”

She didn’t look back, just kept walking. And the door closed behind her.

He sank into the chair anyway, across from the spot she'd left bare, with all that love bottled inside him, rattling like a storm in a glass jar, praying for a crack. A fissure. Anything.

He hadn’t expected a goddamn earthquake to bring it all down.

Not a fight. Not another bout of silence. Not even the slow, invisible corrosion that had been eating away at their days, their hours, the quiet spaces between words.

It happened deep into August, nearly three months since they last spoke to each other past monosyllables, on a night so thick with heat it felt like the world itself was holding its breath. No wind, no clouds, no moon. Just stillness. Then, from beneath the floorboards, a low, aching groan—ancient, half-buried stirring in its grave.

Joel heard the first crash a moment later—metallic, jagged, unnerving. Then another. And then a sound he felt in his spine more than his ears: a raw, feral wail echoing up from the workshop. Hers.

He stilled where he sat, his back against the headboard, Maya's small body rising and falling steadily on his chest. She didn’t wake. Just sighed in her sleep, lips parted, her tiny fist knotted in his shirt.

He held still, listening, hoping it would pass. He lay perfectly still, willing it to be nothing. He definitely imagined it. Maybe a cabinet door slamming in the draft. But he knew better; the house didn’t make sounds like that on its own.

The noise came again—sharper this time, something being slammed into oblivion, beaten past recognition.

Joel exhaled and moved gently, untangling himself from Maya’s grip. He laid her into the centre of the bed and ringed her with pillows, a soft, uneven wall meant to keep her safe in the night.

Maya stirred, a little sigh hitching, eyes fluttering open with a blink.

He rubbed her back gently, managing a smile for her. “Hi. Go back to sleep,” he murmured.

But she didn’t. Instead, she looked up at him, her lashes damp, her voice tiny and confused. “Mama’s mad ‛gain.”

Joel couldn't even hide his dejection anymore, he simply let it run rampant on his face as she watched. He soothed a hand over her curls, pressing a kiss to her crown. “Mama doesn’t mean to be. Her heart’s real loud sometimes, that’s all.”

Maya flinched when another crash echoed. Joel felt it through her whole little body.

“Scary mama,” she whispered.

“Oh, baby girl,” he sighed, stroking her tiny cheek, swallowing hard. “Just close your eyes, okay? Daddy’s gonna help her out, and I'll be right back.”

She reached out to him blearily, tiny palm patting at the slope of his nose before she returned the fist beneath her head. Her eyes drooped shut, and she was snoring away in moments.

For a moment, he just stood there, watching her, making sure. Listening.

Another crash came from below.

What the fuck was this twisted part of his good life? He rubbed a hand over his face and turned toward the door, limbs heavy with sleep—or maybe it was dread. Probably both. He moved barefoot down the stairs, each step dragging him toward something he already knew he couldn’t fix.

The basement light glared beneath the doorframe, a thin blade of gold effusing onto the floor from a room already burning. He opened the door with a huff and descended the stairs, the wood creaking beneath.

The stale air hit him first—dense, electric, scorched, metallic. Burned circuits, hot solder, and beneath all that: the sour, unmistakable scent of grief when it’s been left to smoulder too long.

And then he saw her.

Leela was surrounded by wreckage—tools flung wide, cracked motherboards strewn across the concrete like broken bones. He counted at least three, maybe more. One was still beneath her boot, the delicate circuitry crunching under the force of her heel. Her hands were trembling. Her cheeks streaked with silent, unrelenting tears she hadn’t wiped away—like her body was crying without permission, leaking sorrow that had nowhere else to go.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t even acknowledge the sound of the door or his footfalls.

Joel stood there, rooted. For a moment, he didn’t know whether to speak or retreat. His mind scrambled for anything useful to say, but everything in him stilled as he watched her unravel.

It wasn’t the outburst that gutted him. It was the restraint.

This wasn’t rage. Deeper. Exhausted. A woman clawing at the walls of her own brilliance, trying to outrun the weight of everything she knew and everything she couldn’t fix. Trying to make sense of a world that refused to make sense back then. Performing an autopsy on their own dreams.

She brought her boot down again. Another snap. Another grunt. Another piece of her pursuit fractured beyond repair.

He had come down here expecting a storm. But what he found was the wreckage left in its wake.

Joel cleared his throat softly, the sound awkward in the charged silence. “Leela, honey.”

She didn’t look up. Just stood there, staring at the crushed remnants of the board beneath her foot. Her shoulders were tight, her breathing uneven—quiet, little gasps like someone trying to stay underwater.

Then finally—she grunted. “What do you want?”

It wasn’t a challenge. Or even anger.

Just... hollow.

Joel stood there, caught on the threshold, hands clenched at his sides like restraint might anchor him. The question hit harder than any destruction. He hated how she said it—like he was an interruption. A ghost. A reminder.

“What do I want?” he echoed. He stepped inside the room fully. “I want you to be done with this shit. Christ, baby. Look at yourself.”

She didn’t answer. Just swiped the back of her wrist across her face. The tears smeared into skin already marked by sleeplessness, a black bruise of exhaustion under each eye. Her lip trembled—not rage, but from how close she was to shattering. She was holding herself together with splinters.

“This ain’t just about bein’ tired. Or obsessed,” he said, low and hoarse. “This is—you’re gone. I don’t know where you went.”

The silence after that was like stepping into a vacuum. Thick, suffocating, vast. She didn’t argue. Just turned to a statue mid-collapse, crumbling from the inside out.

Joel scanned the room—the half-burned schematics, the warped breadboards, the soldering station with a fresh burn mark across its edge. This wasn’t tinkering anymore. This wasn’t research. This was a crash-out. A gradual collapse with no bottom.

And then he said it. The thing he’d been building toward for days.

“You’re gonna pack all this up,” he gestured at the blown circuits, the melted boards, the scribbled chalk math on the blackboards and ruin, “and give it to the folks at the dam who know what the hell to do with it. Then you’re comin’ home. You’re gonna focus on—us. On our family.”

Her head turned, slowly, like rusted hinges catching. That word—family—cracked her open. Her eyes, rimmed in red, shadowed and hollow, fixed on him like a dagger pressed to skin.

“And that’s all I am to you now?” she asked, brittle. “Maya’s mom?”

Joel’s jaw clenched. “Don’t be twistin’ what I said.”

She let out a sound—a laugh, but it bent at the edges, twisted bitter, hollow.

“I’m a dead loss with what I want, so now I've got to be your pretty little wife?” Her voice sharpened, cracked. “Raise a kid, cook dinner, smile at the table, be grateful you stayed?”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Joel’s voice rose before he could stop it. “I’ve been patient with you. You won’t talk to me. You won’t let me close. And every day I keep thinking—maybe today’s the day she comes back to me. And every day, I get a little more scared that you won’t. Because I've been holdin’ this goddamn house together with sweat and prayer for months, Leela. It’s almost a year, know that? A whole fuckin’—and I’ve been raising your daughter—”

“Oh, she’s mine now?” she snapped, hot and fast.

Joel put his hands on his hips, defeated. “Look, I ain’t doin’ this with you. Let’s go.”

“Then what are we doing? What is this?”

“Just come upstairs,” he pleaded. “You need sleep. You need a bath. You need somethin’ besides this... fuckin’ hole.”

That should’ve been the simplest thing. An ask. A mercy.

But her stare didn’t budge. She looked at him like she didn’t recognise him anymore. And then, breathing hard from exertion, she lashed out:

“She is mine, Joel. You’re not even her dad. So, stop trying.”

It hit like a punch. No—worse. Like a betrayal he hadn’t earned but somehow always feared. He stood there, breath gone, the echo of her words stretching long and cruel between them. Because she’d reached for the thing that would cut deepest, and used it.

He swallowed. His jaw clenched. Leela didn’t push, and good call on her part.

So he stepped forward, one step, daring. “Say it again.”

She looked at him, eyes wet but infuriated. “Why? So you can tell me how much you’ve lost? How you stayed? How you tried? How my daughter loves some bitter, traitorous nobody more than she loves her own mother?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t rise to the bait, however painful it seemed. “This is where you apologise.”

Leela scoffed, a sharp, bitter sound scraping from the back of her throat. “Go to hell.”

Joel didn’t budge. “I’m still here, Leela. Enough.”

Her head jerked up, eyes flashing. “For what!” Her voice splintered and rebounded off the walls.

Joel ran a hand down his face. He didn’t even know where to put the pain anymore, even his heart began to hurt from pounding for him.

He sighed, and the words slipped out, even if he didn't mean a word. “I can't fuckin’ stand you sometimes, you know that? Because you're so hung up on this idea of some crazy mended future, and you can't even see what it's becoming anymore.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “My crazy future. So why are you still here?”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. I still love you. Hurt me, and I still love you so much.

She sniffled. “I don't have to need you either. Get out.”

Joel’s eyes flicked to the floor, the ruined circuit boards, the mess of her mind made physical. Her body, thin and drawn, stood there like she was being held together by stubbornness and string.

“No,” he stated. “I’ll do whatever the hell I want.”

Her face twisted like that hurt more than anything he’d said.

“What do you want from me, Joel?” she asked again, quieter this time. But it wasn’t resignation—it was panic. Like she’d realised she didn’t have anything left to give. Her voice frayed at the edges, folding in on itself.

“I can’t even breathe in here. You do everything. You try for me. You wait outside the basement like that’s gonna fix something. But it won’t. None of this will.”

Joel took a step forward. Hands half-raised, like he wanted to touch her but didn’t know how. Didn’t know if he was allowed anymore.

“I don’t know what else to do, Leela,” he said. His voice cracked, thick with helplessness. “I feel like I’m losing you every goddamn day.”

She sobbed—sharp and sudden—and turned away like the sound embarrassed her. Her head dipped, and she laughed. Or maybe cried. It came out strangled, twisted. Like both, like neither.

“I look at you,” Joel said, quieter now, like the words had been sitting in his chest too long, wearing grooves in his ribs, “and I see everything I failed. And everything I want back.”

For a moment, nothing moved. And then a sound cracked from her—ugly, half-choked, something between a laugh and a sob that scraped up from too deep to name. She shook her head with a sharp, miserable little twist, like she already knew how this ended. It had ended before it began.

“This ain’t home without you, Leela.”

Her hands clawed into her hair, fingers curling tight like she wanted to rip it out by the roots. Like she could shed the skin of who she’d become—strip it away until there was nothing left but bone and breath and silence. Something that didn’t feel like a complete failure.

He watched her like a man witnessing an earthquake from the inside out.

“I’ll keep sayin’ sorry, or whatever you want to hear,” Joel said, thick-voiced. “I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll say it quiet, I’ll say it loud. You don’t owe me a damn thing, baby. But I’m still here.”

He didn't want to, but he did. He saw her fall.

Her knees buckled. No grace in it, no dignity. She just crumpled like her body finally gave up the lie of holding it all together. Her spine curved, arms wrapped around her stomach like she was trying to hold in everything that had been spilling out for months—grief, frustration, exhaustion. Rage she never let herself feel because there wasn’t time. Because someone had to keep going.

Joel crouched but didn’t reach for her. He knew better. Knew how to read this language. Knew what pain looked like when it didn’t want an audience. He simply knelt there, watching. Helpless. Waiting. The woman he loved, the mother of his child, was falling apart, and all he could do was bear witness. He hated every nerve in his body that stayed up.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, barely more than a breath. “I’m sorry, Joel. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

He shifted, careful not to crowd her, just enough so his knee brushed against hers—a tether, a promise. He didn’t dare reach out. Not yet.

Her face was a mess—blotched, red, tears carving lines through grime and sweat, her hair damp with sweat or maybe the shower, maybe the storm inside her. His girl looked like she’d fought through hell and come out burned.

“I’m not like this,” she rasped. “I’m not. I’m good. I didn’t mean it—I didn’t—”

He shook his head. “I know, baby. It’s okay.”

She made a noise, somewhere between disbelief and pain. Her hands lifted again, trembling, gesturing weakly at the walls around them. At the chaos. The notes, the sketches, the scrawled equations bleeding across paper like veins, all bent and burned and ruined. Months of work, ruined in a flash of fury. Her own hand, the one that had once traced formulas, had torn it down.

“I just—” Her voice cracked again. “It’s so loud. I don’t know where to start. Every time I try, something else falls apart. I can’t get one thing right. There’s so much... I can’t do it.”

Joel’s eyes followed hers. The room was wrecked. But more than that—she was. She had been holding too much for too long, and he hadn’t seen it. Not the way he should’ve.

And now he saw it all.

She wasn’t just trying to solve some goddamn problem.

She was trying to stitch back a world that didn’t exist anymore. Trying to take her guilt and her grief and her brilliance and turn it into salvation. Trying to prove she was still worth something. That what she carried still mattered.

Alone.

And he'd let her.

He’d been here in body, sure. Since Jackson. Since he crawled back into her life with guilt in his throat and calloused hands holding sorry after sorry. But he hadn’t been here. Not the way she’d needed. Not in the way a man shows up for someone he calls his wife. The kind of presence that steadies and shoulders some of the burden without being asked.

Penitent rather than a partner.

Joel looked around the room. At the wreckage. At the math and madness scribbled across the boards and torn pages like she’d tried to write her way out of grief.

Honestly, what had this world ever done for her? Fuck all. So, why was she killing herself to save it anyway?

And suddenly, he hated every second he hadn’t noticed. Hated how long she must’ve been screaming in silence while he’d been too careful, too sceptical, too wrapped up in his own guilt to see hers unravelling.

Trying to hold up the whole damn sky on her own—had been doing it so long, so quietly, he’d convinced himself she could. And she was failing. Of course, she was failing. Because no one could do what she was trying to do, not alone.

She needed help, and she didn’t know how to ask for it. And he—a goddamn idiot—had waited for her to say it instead of just stepping in.

Joel reached, then, slowly, intentionally, and touched her hand. Just enough to let her feel him—his warmth, his presence, the endurance in his callused palm.

She didn’t flinch.

He didn’t move for a beat and let the moment breathe.

Soon, gently—like easing a spooked animal out of hiding—he curled his hand around hers, not rushing to fix anything. Her skin was cold, fingers limp and damp with tears, and trembling just beneath the surface.

He eventually moved, pulling—guiding. “C’mon. I got you.”

One hand to her elbow, the other soft against her back, bracing her like a beam might brace a house half-fallen in. She didn’t resist. Her body rose with his, hesitantly, hovering, breathing as if testing the air after too long underground.

She stood as if she were shaking off rubble.

Joel balanced her the whole way. No words, only the grounding pressure of touch.

“There you go, you’re okay,” he murmured.

He led her carefully out of the wreckage—out of the tangle of torn-up notes and shredded pages, burnt edges curling like dead leaves, formulas smeared with ash and ink and tears. The broken pieces of her mind lay bare.

He brushed her hair behind her ears and eased her down onto the bench, where the tubelight came through, flickering, pale and overcast, gentle on her skin. She looked so little there. Infinitesimal enough to vanish with the atoms.

Joel crouched back down again, joints complaining. He was too old for this shit, but he wasn’t leaving the floor until she could sit still without falling apart.

He reached for the circuit board—the one she’d spent so many nights with. It was cracked down the centre, the soldering that had once been meticulous now dangled loose and broken, thin as veins, blackened at the ends.

He turned it over in his hands. Felt the story in it—weeks of effort, nights of silence, calculations done under flickering lamplight while the world slept around her. And still, she kept chasing the answer, even when it broke her.

His thumb ran along the fracture like he was tracing a scar.

Then he looked at her.

Her cheeks were blotched, streaked with tears. Her lip was trembling, bitten raw. Her dark eyes met his—wide, watery, tired—and she didn’t look through him.

“You don’t need to prove anything,” he said quietly. His voice was low, rasping from disuse. “Not to me. Not to the goddamn world.”

She turned her face away, jaw clenched. But she didn’t stop crying.

Good. Let her cry. Let it out, all of it. He’d take it if she couldn’t anymore.

He gathered another piece of the circuit board. Laid it next to the first.

“You’re not a machine,” he murmured. “You ain’t some miracle factory. You’re a human being. And I’ve been sittin’ back… watchin’ you wear yourself raw, tryin’ to fix what the whole world broke. And I let you.”

His voice cracked, rough at the edges. He swallowed it down.

“I should’ve seen it. I should’ve known. Done something.”

He picked up a scorched page of calculations, the edges curling inward like a dying leaf. Rubbed a thumb over a still-visible string of symbols. Her handwriting. Her mind.

“You wanna know the truth, Leela?” he said. “I didn’t leave you back then ‘cause I didn’t care about what you thought. I left ‘cause I couldn’t stand the way you looked at me. Like I was supposed to be strong enough to carry what you were carrying. I wanted to prove I was.”

He placed the page gently beside the board.

“That ain’t your fault. That’s mine, I was a fuckin’ idiot. I should’ve stayed anyway.”

He looked at her again, this time not hiding the hurt in his eyes. When the silence stretched, there was a shift—pain passing between bodies like breath.

“I don’t know the first thing about this stuff. These numbers. Science. But I know what it’s doin’ to you.”

He held up one of the broken pieces. The metal glinted faintly in the light.

“I know the woman who built this. And I know she doesn’t deserve to be carrying this weight with no one in her corner.”

He looked at her again. Straight on.

“I’m here now. I ain’t goin’ anywhere. And I don’t give a fuck if all I can do is sweep up the mess and sit there while you do your thinkin’. If that’s what help looks like—I’ll do it.” His voice dropped, full of quiet conviction. “Every damn day.”

Again, Leela stayed quiet, but her breath caught—just once—like something had snagged inside her chest, when the ache had gone too deep to speak.

Her shoulders eased, fraction by fraction, like a muscle learning it didn’t have to brace anymore.

And in her eyes, there was an immense fragility—believing and flickering and terribly human. An apostate remembering the taste of faith.

Instead of reaching back for her, Joel kept gathering her work, careful as a man piecing back the bones of something once living and sacred. As if, by putting it all back together, he could stitch her back together too.

He finished stacking the last of her notebooks, aligning the bent corners, smoothing the wrinkled pages. He reached for a pencil that had rolled to the floor—held it in his palm like it was something precious.

Leela moved, quiet as a mouse, stepped forward and folded herself into him—arms around his shoulders, forehead tucked into the crook of his neck as if she were collapsing into the only shelter left in the world.

Joel let it happen, felt her chest heave once, twice—then the sobs came. Raw, desperate things that shattered out of her like she'd been holding her breath for months and finally let go.

“I'm failing everyone,” she cried, “I can't do it.”

Her fingers fisted in the back of his shirt, pulling him closer. She clung to him, trembling, too small, as if the second she let go, she’d come apart entirely.

Joel gathered her in because he really was made to do it.

“Shh,” he whispered, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other rubbing slow circles along her spine. “No, you're not. I got you, baby. You’re good.”

And Joel finally made up his mind: he'd hate every unreliable finer feeling of his that had prompted him to wait for her to speak first, to break, and to ask for help. When all she needed was to hold the line when she could not, to stay and witness her break without turning away.

Because if she was going to fall again, then he’d be the one beneath her.

X

“Wait, what the heck am I looking at?”

Leela’s voice cut through the quiet like a scalpel—sharp, precise, more bewildered than anything. Tired, wary, somewhere between mildly offended and uncertain if this was a joke she was supposed to laugh at.

Joel didn’t answer right away. Just kept blowing on his coffee, like it might scald him if he tried too hard to drink it.

He had learned quickly how to deal with Leela, a long time ago: don’t rush her, don’t explain too much, and definitely don’t pretend you had it all figured out. She hated that most of all—when people acted like her confusion was an inconvenience. When they filled the silence with noise instead of letting her sit with the unknown.

She moved across the kitchen—slow, stiff—and stopped short in front of the fridge. He didn’t have to look. He knew what she was staring at. Had stood there late last night, hunched over the table with a ruler and a stub of pencil, scratching things out and rewriting them again, until it looked more like a high school science project than an act of love.

Under Maya's bright little chore chart, there, crooked, solemn and idiotic, pinned under two rusty Eiffel Tower magnets, was another chore chart. Handwritten. Across the top in Joel’s blunt, slanted handwriting: “LEELA’S WEEKLY—” something; it was smudged. He’d started with “Schedule,” crossed it out, and written “Plan.” And added in block letters, “/BATTLE STRATEGY.” The paper hung a little too long at the bottom—he’d used lined notebook paper and scotch tape to extend the grid—and one corner curled like it was already losing patience with the idea.

And under “Wednesday,” in Joel’s square, uneven handwriting again, the words: “Eat lunch (real food). Take a nap. Go outside. No work after 10pm.” Under that, in tiny script: “NON-NEGOTIABLE.”

Joel sipped his coffee.

Leela squinted. “Are these colour-coded?”

He shrugged. “Tried to make it easy to read.”

She pointed at a particularly crowded column. “You wrote ‘Eat lunch’ three times.”

“One’s for emphasis.”

She kept scanning, her movements more cautious now, like this whole thing might be a trap.

“‘No work after 10pm,’” she read aloud. She turned toward him, arms folding across her chest with that trademark expression he’d come to know: equal parts disbelief and interrogation.

“You seriously put that under the ‘Basic Humaning’ column?”

He met her gaze square-on. “Sure did.”

Her eyebrows twitched upward. She looked back at the paper. “‘Sanity hygiene’? ‘Minimum viable joy’? What does that even mean?”

Joel cleared his throat. “That’s the Maria column. Kicked me for calling it ‘mental maintenance.’”

Leela’s brows knit. “This one says ‘fun thing on purpose.’ As an actual task.”

“People do that,” Joel said. “Fun. For fun. Apparently.”

She didn’t reply right away. Only kept reading. Slower now. Her voice dipped, softer, touched with suspicion—less ‘you idiot’ and more ‘what are you doing? What the hell are you up to?’

Then her finger slid to the bottom row. “‘Sleep with Joel’, ‘hug Joel’, incentive column,” she read aloud.

There was a pause. She turned to him again, arms still folded, head tilted—not quite menacing, but enough to imply a threat. “Open to debate.”

“Open and shut.”

She shook her head, amused. “I don’t see your name anywhere in these boxes.”

“Wasn’t writin’ it for me.”

Her lips twitched. Just a flicker of a smile in incredulity, like something forgotten trying to remember itself. “You made me a sticker chart.”

Joel took another slow sip, felt the heat on his tongue. “Sticker chart’s comin’ next week. Gold stars for consistent dinner and makin’ it to bed before midnight.”

Leela stared at the sheet like it was an alien relic. An artefact dug up from some long-dead civilisation. Structure. Routine. Care. Absurd.

“Joel…” Her voice was quieter. Not mocking now—dampened, like she was trying not to wring it out too fast. She looked at the chart again. The attempt. “Do you really think this is gonna work?”

Instead, he set the mug down gently, both palms pressing flat against the counter. His back ached. His knees popped when he shifted. His jaw felt raw from a night of clenching—his whole body a roadmap of sleepless desperation, of wanting to fix something with his hands when it had never been about his hands at all.

“I think you’ll ignore half of it,” he said quietly. “And I’ll spend every day reminding you not to.”

He paused. Swallowed. “I think I should've done this months ago. Shoulda pushed harder. Or softer. I dunno. But I sat on my ass for too long waiting for things to fix themselves.”

A silence fell, full of old grief and new beginnings.

He scratched his jaw. “So I’m tryin’ different.”

Leela stood still. Her arms had dropped. Her posture wasn’t so tight now, her shoulders less guarded. She was staring at the chart like it might disappear if she blinked. Or like it had teeth and she couldn’t decide whether to pet it or run.

Joel followed her gaze. The damn thing was crooked. One of the magnets had slipped. The ink was too dark in some places, almost illegible in others. He’d written “Tuesday” twice.

But it was tangible. A stupid little map of care and the system. His way of saying I see you without breaking open and bleeding all over the floor.

The truth was, he hadn’t made it just for her.

He’d made it for them. For mornings that felt too long and nights that never really ended. A shape to help her stay upright when the days got too abstract to touch.

Because Joel didn’t have the words for what he wanted to say—but he knew how to build things. Structure was the only language he trusted when words didn’t cut it.

And sometimes, Joel's love looked like a dumb, dorky timetable on printer paper.

She reached up slowly, fingers brushing the paper, and tapped the Wednesday box. “Guess I'd better find some real lunch.”

Joel nodded, watching her. Heart caught somewhere between relief and disbelief. “And sleep with Joel.”

She turned to him, that crooked smile threatening again. “You know if you wanted to get me into bed, you could’ve just said so. This is a lot of paperwork.”

Joel snorted. “Shit. All this trouble for nothin’.”

Her lips finally gave in, curling into something half-amused, half-amazed, like she couldn’t quite believe he’d done this. That he’d thought this far ahead.

“I mean, you wrote ‘kiss Daddy’ in two places, every day. Were you hoping I’d never kiss you past twice a day?”

He clucked his tongue. “Daddy ain’t above beggin’ if it gets him lucky.”

Leela let out a breath—almost a laugh. Joel didn’t say anything, just reached for his mug again like it was the only way to keep from doing something dumb, like touching her.

Instead, she leaned in. Just enough for her lips to brush the curve of his shoulder. “Sticker chart seduction,” she murmured. “Real subtle.”

Then, softly: “Even cowboys need structure now, hm?”

Joel exhaled, half-laugh, half-sigh. “Damn right.”

The sight of her up close was too much and not enough at once, especially after all this time. And when he finally did move, it wasn’t rushed—it was devout. One hand rising to her face, the rough pad of his thumb brushing the hollow beneath her eye.

“You don’t have to fix anything for me,” she told him, certain. Her eyes were on the chart still. Like she couldn’t look at him. “I know that’s what this is. You see a loose hinge, you grab a hammer.”

“It’s not a hammer,” he said. “It’s a piece of paper and a few dumb rules.”

Her hand brushed his chest, then stilled, curled into the fabric of his shirt. “So,” she sighed, barely above a whisper, “nothing has changed, right?”

A second passed. Maybe two.

He leaned in, dipped his head, and caught her lips between his. No warning, no easing. There was nothing neat left to care about.

It was a low, breaking thing—his mouth against hers with months of silence behind it. Months of sleeping back-to-back. Of not reaching. Of pretending not to care when he was drowning. Of hurtful words, hissed arguments. Enough of all that.

And he needed her now—hungry, desperate, clumsy. Been too fucking long.

His palm slid to her soft nape, drawing her in, anchoring her there like he’d never let her drift again. His other hand found her hip, then her waist, then lower still, grabbing a fistful of her ass to pull her flush against him. He groaned into her mouth when she didn't resist, when she pressed back with the same aching urgency, and it was as if she’d been drowning in the same quiet.

She tasted like sleep-deprived mornings and bitter coffee, and made a soft sound—half-shocked, half-something deeper—as Joel swallowed it down.

His kiss deepened, jaw flexing, tongue brushing hers. He wasn’t thinking anymore. It was instinct, need, hers. All of it. The years in his hands, the apology in his grip. The want.

And it would’ve gone further. Would’ve tipped into something messier, deeper—right there in the kitchen, barefoot and half-dressed—if not for—

Smack.

A tiny palm struck the back of Joel’s knee. Right below the old joint that always stiffened in the mornings.

“Ha!” Maya squealed, triumphant. “Too slow!”

He jerked ike he’d been hit with a cattle prod, buckled, slammed his hand against the counter for balance, breaking the kiss with a grunt. Leela let out a startled breath, stumbled back, eyes wide, lips kiss-bitten.

Joel spun around, dazed and blinking, to face the pint-sized homewrecker now grinning up at him. She’d just won a game of ambush tag today, a stupid fucking idea he knew would bite him in the ass eventually.

“Maya—Jesus, baby girl—terrible timing—”

“Eee, you’re kissin’ Mama!” she announced, gleeful and scandalised, jabbing a finger toward him. “Onna mouf!”

Leela moaned, buried her face in her hands, looking like a teenager caught necking behind the school gym, red-eared and stupid with guilt.

Joel, though, had it in himself to roll up his sleeves with exaggerated slowness, already grinning down at the little terror despite himself. “That’s it, trouble. You’re gonna get it now. C'mere.”

Leela had just enough sense to step aside as Joel lunged, catching nothing but Maya’s gleeful squeal as she darted around the kitchen island. He made a slow, clumsy swipe—missed her on purpose.

“Missed me!”

Joel leaned back against the counter with a sigh of theatrical defeat. “To fast for your old man.”

Unfazed, Maya rounded back and dragged the wooden stool across the kitchen with the stubborn determination of a forklift.

“Y'all wee-d,” she declared, puffing as she pushed.

“You're wee-d,” Joel grumbled.

“I check my chores now.”

Maya climbed up like she was scaling Everest, grunted once with effort, and slapped her chubby hand against the chart taped to the fridge. She studied it with a serious frown before she noticed the bigger, uglier chart that hung above hers.

“This one,” she muttered, pointing to the new addition.

Joel nodded, still trying to calm the leftover heat pounding in his chest. “Mama's chart. You like it?”

Maya’s eyes widened, scandalised all over again. “Mama has chores?”

Leela exhaled, shoulders slowly dropping from her ears. “Apparently.”

Maya tilted her head, squinting at the columns as if trying to decode their secret adult language. Then, thoughtfully, she asked, “Do I get stahs for kissin’ Mama, too?”

Leela made a choking sound—not quite a laugh, not quite a protest. Joel grinned, crooked, and shot her a look over Maya’s head.

“Y’know,” he drawled, “that depends.”

Leela narrowed her eyes. “On what?”

Joel leaned a hand on the counter, going all casual. “On whether the kiss has a happy ending.”

Leela made a strangled noise, and with the stiff dignity of someone backing away from a live grenade, she turned to the sink and pretended to be very invested in rinsing out a clean mug.

“Oh, Joel,” she murmured under her breath, restraining laughter, without looking at him.

But he just picked his coffee back up for a sip, smug as shit.

Maya, meanwhile, was undeterred. “I can do a big kiss with a happy end,” she announced. “I can kiss Mama wight onna mouf!”

Joel coughed a laugh.

Leela gave him a warning glare, but it was ruined by the way she was biting her lip to keep from smiling.

“I think Mama’s gonna need a new reward system,” Joel murmured for her ears only. “Stahs, kisses onna mouf, maybe somethin’ extra for makin’ Daddy real happy.”

Leela turned just enough to look at him sidelong. Her mouth twitched. “Careful,” she said softly, “Daddy’s dangerously close to incarceration.”

Joel leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of Leela’s ear, his breath warm and ragged.

“Kinky,” he said.

And just like that, they were toeing the line again—right there in the kitchen, and before Leela could answer—before she could react to the slow-burn hellfire that was Joel’s mouth near her ear—there was a clatter behind them.

Maya had knocked over the stool.

She stood it, blinking innocently, hands still mid-air like she hadn’t decided whether to be surprised or proud. Then she calmly declared—

“Shit.”

X

Safe to say, the shitty chore chart actually worked.

Joel wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Maybe another few weeks of silence. A slow thaw, if they were lucky. A note left somewhere in her tight, efficient handwriting, letting him know Leela was still breathing, still eating, still surviving—but nothing more. He wasn’t prepared for this.

He closed Maya’s bedroom door quietly behind him, catching the latch with his thumb so it wouldn’t click, walking out of there more like a man escaping a sweltering sauna—shirt damp at the collar, temples sweating, back sore from leaning over her crib for too long. Her little body was finally limp with sleep after a thirty-minute campaign of bribery, back rubs, and whispered negotiations that made hostage diplomacy look easy.

Earlier, she’d kicked the blanket off for the third time and rolled over with a defiant grunt. “Not sleepy. Turtle time. Westin’ my eyes.”

Joel had sighed, rubbing her back in slow circles. “Westin’ them? That’s what people say before they start sno-win’.”

She giggled, a hand over her eye. “You snore, Daddy.”

Joel paused. “No comment.”

That earned him another sleepy giggle. She yawned right after, one of those full-body ones that made her fists curl and her toes point, and he knew he had her.

“Westin’,” she sniffed, “my...”

He kept patting, kissing her palms, both her eyes, her tummy, humming nonsense—old country songs, half-remembered ballads—until her breathing evened out and her fist crept toward her mouth, an old habit she pretended she’d outgrown.

Now, on the other side of the door, he stood in the hallway and let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. His knees cracked when he straightened fully. Christ. The things he did for that kid.

But when he stepped into the bedroom, every quiet ache evaporated.

Leela was there.

Not just drifting in and out to grab fresh clothes or the bathroom. She was in bed. Seeing her there, in their bed, the bed that had been so empty without her, it knocked a gear loose in his chest.

Her back rested against the headboard, duvet tucked around her like a neat envelope, knees tented, lamp casting a warm golden pool across her lap. Her long, thick braid was falling apart, little wisps of hair framing her face, and she was bent forward over a small embroidery hoop, working her needle through one of Maya’s little shirts—some new animal she had taken a shine to, if he had to guess. Turtles, definitely turtles.

Her nightstand—the one he still stocked with water every evening out of sheer habit—held her voice recorder and a few stray hair ribbons. For a moment, he just stood there like a dumb fuck who had forgotten how doors worked, caught somewhere between stunned and stunned stupid.

Then she looked up.

And smiled. “Hi, Joel.”

That single smile cracked across her face like sunlight breaking through the overcast sky, and he felt the ridiculous urge to cover his face just to keep from weeping like some idiot.

His peace and home had staggered back to him in that stretch. It wasn’t fair, the way he obsequiously ached for her even now. After all they’d been through. After the walls, the silence, the weeks she’d spent sleeping in the guest room, or nodding off at her desk, avoiding the bed like it burned.

He’d lived with the distance for a vicious while—so, the sight of her again, curled into the space they used to share, made him want to drop to his knees and thank whatever cruel world they lived in for giving her back.

“Huh?” she said, holding up the little alarm clock on her nightstand. “No work after ten?” Her voice had a tease to it. “Check.”

Joel blinked, then scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

“Chore chart actually works,” she murmured his exact thoughts, almost to herself, with a half-smile.

He huffed a breath through his nose and stepped inside slowly, the way you would approach a miracle. If he moved too fast, it might vanish.

Something about the way she said it—it should’ve felt easy, but it landed heavy in his chest. She hadn’t slept next to him in months, and the few times she did, she stayed curled on the far edge, as if gravity pulled her toward the wall instead of him.

And now here she was—like this wasn’t strange at all. Like she didn’t feel the difference in his bones.

He sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting on his knees, wooden. “Good to know it helps.”

She must’ve sensed it, too, because her hands slowed. She held the shirt loosely, the thread caught mid-pull. She finished her stitch eventually, snipped the thread, and set the shirt and hoop aside on the nightstand.

“I’ve been a difficult mess,” she said. Quiet. Unapologetic. Not defensive, not dramatic—just… true. “I haven’t been fair to you either.”

He rubbed at his jaw. His default. That old, worn-out gesture for when he didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t good at this kind of talk. Not the naming of feelings. Not the raw stuff. He could fight for her, kill for her, track every goddamn change in her breathing—but when it came to this kind of truth, he always faltered.

So instead, he shrugged. “Nah. You were gettin’ through it. However you had to.”

Her eyes flickered, her gaze drifting sideways. “I wasn’t with you,” she said. “I was in the same house, and it might as well have been a whole other continent.”

Joel breathed in through his nose, slow, as if that might anchor something inside him. He wasn’t angry. God, how could he be? He was just tired. Tired of the ache that came from not being able to fix it. From hearing her cry and standing on the other side of the door with his fists clenched and heart breaking.

“Look,” he mumbled. “I ain’t interested in tallyin’ up who gave what when. You needed space. I gave it. It happened, we move on.”

“I know,” she said, so painfully soft. Almost shy. “Sorry, Joel.”

“Don't have to say it,” he sighed.

“Alright. Sorry.”

“Jesus.”

Leela’s lips suddenly curled as her eyes slid back to him, and there it was—that spark. Mischief, restrained and warm. The part of her that used to tease him in the mornings just to see if she could make him smile before coffee. The part he hadn’t seen in weeks.

“I believe one of the incentives,” she began lightly, “was... ‘sleep with Joel’ today.”

He stared.

Not out of lust—though his body certainly answered with a long, slow, hardening ache—but out of disbelief. Wonder. The cautious kind. Like seeing a wild animal approach the palm of your hand. She hadn’t touched him in weeks. Months. He’d gone to sleep with a ghost every night. And now she was here, playful and real and warm.

Still her. Still bruised around the edges. But her.

“You keepin' track of that bullshit?”

She tilted her head, braid sliding off her shoulder. “Maybe?”

“And you checkin’ it off?” he asked, rougher than he meant to.

She leaned in slightly, voice a little huskier now. “Depends. Are you still available for incentive-based tasks?”

His heart gave a full, aching thump. He let a slow grin tug at the corners of his mouth. “Hell,” he said, “I’ll fill out the whole damn chart if it gets you in this bed again.”

She huffed a laugh. “I starve you too much. Never realised how important... it is.”

He turned toward her, one knee pressing deeper into the mattress. She smelled like soap, clean cotton, hot showers, and something that might’ve been bergamot. Just all woman. She slid her legs toward him, tentative, and he leaned in, bringing his hand up to fold the hair from her face.

“Beautiful girl,” he muttered.

She leaned into his palm, kissing it, hand finding his wrist, slender, sure. She touched him like she remembered everything about him—like she hadn’t forgotten a single inch. The way his pulse jumped when she got too close. The way his mouth parted slightly when she brushed the base of his hand.

“I missed this. You, all of you. Even when I couldn’t say it,” she confessed.

Joel felt a crack, right there in the middle of his chest. Like someone had reached in and twisted the muscle until it remembered how to hurt.

He bent forward, careful, his forehead touched hers, and he closed his eyes.

“I’m right here,” he murmured. “Ain’t going anywhere.”

Her breath caught faintly—and then she leaned in, nose stroking his, dark eyes fluttering shut. The distance between them collapsed without ceremony. A quiet fall back into place.

“Do you wanna sleep with me?”

Joel leaned back half an inch, eyes finding hers in the low light. “Gonna have to be more specific, darlin’.”

Leela huffed softly through her nose, and her eyes—God, her eyes—held that glimmer of mischief again. “Just lie down, Joel.”

He let out a breath that was half a laugh, half surrender. He eased back into the bed, boots off, shirt shed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he slid beside her.

“Alright, get in here,” he grunted, opening his arms for her. “Mother and daughter, all the same. Y’all only want Daddy when the night comes creepin’.”

Her snicker was muffled into him. “Would be wrong if she weren't.”

His arm curled around her waist, pulling her in until she was well-accommodated against him, her back to his chest, his large hand splayed against her belly, thumb sweeping slow arcs under the hem of her shirt.

Later, much later, the house lay in silence, only the soft ticking of the old clock in the hall marked time, and moonlight filtered through the bedroom window in silver strokes.

Joel stayed awake long after her breathing softened. Her body stayed in his warmth, bare skin wrapped in linen and Joel, and her cheek pressed into his bicep like she’d always belonged there.

“Beautiful girl,” he whispered again. She really was, he really meant it. She was the prettiest girl out there, someone who definitely would have hung off a billionaire's arm on the cover of gossip mags had it not been for the hand of fate.

He hadn’t learned how much he missed Leela until she was this close, and still not close enough.

His hand drifted slowly, tucking a loose strand of hair back into her braid. Then the tip of his finger traced the soft line of her nose, down to the curve of her lips. They parted with her breath, unguarded in sleep.

He swallowed down a laugh when he realised that someday, Maya would grow into this face. He saw it now—the angular set of her dusky jaw when she got adamant, the exact shape of her scowl, the way her lashes swept her cheek when she napped against his chest. It was all Leela. She’d been stamped onto their girl like an echo.

He touched her hand next—her pretty hand, bare on the pillow beside her, half-curled in sleep, how it looked so much smaller when she wasn’t holding a pen.

Long, lonely fingers. Wide, neat nails. The faintest veins surfacing under honey-brown skin. He counted the lean tendons, the way they ridged delicately over the bones. And there—a small scar just above her knuckle, the origin of which she’d never explained. He ran his thumb over it, like smoothing an old memory.

How they were always doing—fussing with Maya’s collar, knotting her own braid, attempting to patch up his worn boots again—and yet, they slept empty now.

His eyes caught on the curve of her ring finger. Bare. Waiting.

He imagined it full. A gold band resting, maybe a tiny diamond tucked into the metal like a secret, a ring that maybe had his name engraved on the inside, hidden against her skin, a ring she never had to take off, even to shower. And when they walked through town together, it would glint in the sun, and people would know.

That was Joel Miller’s wife.

That was Joel—with his home, his someplace where a warm hand waited for his.

He kissed that very knuckle, then laid their joined hands between them on the sheets, her fingers still lax in sleep, but his closed tight, as if to hold what he'd almost let slip away.

Not again. Not ever.

X

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[millers-girl]

in the quiet

chapter 8 of willow & whiskey

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: it took five days for you to tell Joel you couldn't trust him again, but only one for you to desperately beg him to stay.

warnings/tags: age gap, adult language, blood and violence, injury, stab wound

word count: 5.5k

series masterlist

It took five days to get to the Firefly base at the University of Eastern Colorado.

Five easy days, Ellie had called them, counting the lack of Infected and ambushes as a win. But for you, they were five long, grueling days – sleepless, aching, every mile dragging beneath the weight of Joel’s actions.

You hadn’t lied when you said you understood why Joel made the decision to stay behind in Jackson and hand you and Ellie off to Tommy for the last leg of the trip. He thought he was doing the right thing; thought he was protecting you both, from the inevitable fallout of letting people get close. 

But understanding and being okay with it were two different things.

You weren’t okay. You weren’t even close.

You were still angry, disappointed, even heartbroken – though you’d never admit it to him. The resentment curdled inside you, hot and sour, spilling into every interaction. 

You made a point of keeping your distance: falling behind him on the trail, slowing your steps until the gap widened between you two, then speeding up when he deliberately hung back to match your pace. You dodged his painful attempts at tentative small talk. You only spoke when necessary – and really only to take extra watch shifts or chores to avoid downtime with Joel.

And Joel noticed. Of course he noticed.

He began quietly hovering, staying close enough to be protective, but clearly unsure how to bridge the emotional gap between you two. He kept trying small ways to show he was there – offering to carry something for you (you insisted you were fine), adjusting your pack straps when you weren’t paying attention (of course you were, but you pretended not to notice), and even sliding an extra blanket your way at night (you took it, mumbling a stiff thanks that tasted like ash in your mouth).

You were hurting, and you were guarded. Every night, you turned your back to him by the fire, wiping at your eyes in what you thought was secret. Every morning, you steeled yourself before meeting his gaze, if you even did.

“Don’t worry about me,” you told him flatly one afternoon, when he tried to offer a hand up a steep incline. “I can handle myself.”

He let his arm fall, silently resigning.

On the fourth night, to both your surprise, Joel finally decided to say something. 

That day, Ellie had chosen to ride with Joel, her small hands clutching his jacket as she leaned her cheek against his back, giggling at whatever story he was telling. You’d trailed behind on Orion, watching from a distance as the two of them shared a softness you couldn’t bring yourself to touch.

Joel’s lips had twitched upward at her giggles and when he looked back, he caught you just as you scrubbed a tear from your cheek. His smile instantly fell as he watched you avert your eyes to the first road ahead.

Now, here he was, watching you take first watch, Ellie already fast asleep, and in the dim glow of the fire, he finally had the courage to ask, “Are you ever gonna talk to me again?” 

You turned, meeting his gaze over the flickering flames. Your chest tightened at the hope woven in the question, the way it softened his rough edges. This exact tone was what got you in the first place. So, now, you forced a shrug. 

“What’s there to talk about?” you asked, voice clipped and hollow, matching the tone he had taken on those first few weeks traveling together. 

He flinched at the coldness. He hated hearing it coming out of your mouth, replacing that lighthearted, playful and sweet tone that was your default.

“I’m… sorry.” 

You’d imagined him saying those words a hundred times over the past four days, dreamed of them like they would magically fix everything. Instead, they only made your heart clench tighter. 

You looked away, the fire’s heat barely touching the chill settling into your bones now. “It’s fine.” 

“It’s not,” he insisted.

And for whatever reason, that was what set you off – where did he get off trying to make everything right now? Trying to pretend like him leaving hurt him as much as it did you? Like it was the toughest decision he ever made? 

Your eyes snapped back at him, anger rising sharp and bitter. “Why does it matter?” you bit out. “You made it very clear we’re not family. So why are we even having this conversation?” 

“I was wrong,” he admitted, words landing heavy between you. “I just want to explain why I thought it was the right thing to do. I didn’t want to leave you, I just – I didn’t know what else to do.”

To his surprise, you said, “I understand why you did it.” 

His brows lifted, hopeful. “You do?” 

You gave a sharp nod. “You were scared – scared you were getting too close to us, starting to care, worried about losing us like… like you lost Sarah – ” Joel’s eyes darkened at the mention, but he didn’t interrupt. “I get it. But I never would’ve made that decision… Ellie is my Sarah. I love her, I’d do anything for her. And I’m scared every single day of losing her. But I’m never gonna leave. 

“I’ve protected her for fourteen years and I’ll protect her until I die. She’s my sister. My responsibility. Everything I do is for her, and you…” You weren’t sure if this was the right time to bring it up but the words spilled out of your mouth before you could stop them. “Look, I respect you. I care for you, if that wasn’t abundantly clear already. But you have a habit of self-sabotaging, and this last time really hurt Ellie… and it hurt me. So, when this is over and we get back to Jackson… I’m gonna ask Tommy to find me and Ellie a house to stay in.”

Joel paused for a moment, frown deepening as he pointed out, “You already have a house.” 

“We can’t stay there.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because I can’t trust you not to leave again.” The words fell heavy in the night air. “You dumped us on Tommy like we were a problem, Joel. Like the last half a year didn’t mean shit.” You shook your head. “I don’t care that you changed your mind thirty minutes before we left. It doesn’t change anything. We’re creatures of habit, us three. You always leave and we always get left behind.”

His voice cracked. “I’m not leavin’. Not this time.” 

You met his gaze across the fire, your own breaking under the weight of it. “I don’t believe you.” 

A twig snapped in the woods beyond, and both of you jerked toward the sound. Instinct surged through your veins like electricity – you raised your rifle; Joel reached for the knife at his ankle.

After a pause, a fawn emerged from the brush, its delicate legs carrying it past the camp without fear, vanishing into the night.

Your shoulders sagged with relief, though your pulse still thundered in your ears. “Go back to bed,” you mumbled, keeping your eyes on the treeline. “I’ll wake you when it’s time for second watch.” 

Joel hesitated, lingering a moment longer before finally retreating into the warmth of his sleeping bag. You listened to the restless rustle of his tossing and turning until it was time for second watch.

The hours of the next afternoon were spent with you listening to Ellie and Joel converse about the rules of American football. By the time the campus came into view, you were grateful for the distraction. If you had to hear the word “touchdown” one more time, you’d bash your head into a wall.

To your favor, the conversation shifted to college as the three of you passed through the quiet, overgrown campus, your horses’ hooves crunching over old leaves and cracked pavement.

“So people would live here and go to classes and stuff?” Ellie asked, craning her neck to take it all in. “Even though they were adults?” 

Joel gave a small nod, shrugging as his gaze swept the empty grounds. "Sort of adults. I think it was just as much about partying and findin' themselves as anythin' else. Figuring out what they wanted to do with their lives."

"What they wanted to do with their lives..." Ellie echoed thoughtfully, then turned her curious eyes to you. "What did you want to do with your life? Before all this, I mean. Did you ever think about college?"

You flicked a glance at Joel, who was already watching you, then narrowed your eyes at Ellie. "I was seven when the outbreak happened, El. You know this." 

"Yeah, but like… dream job. Didn't you ever think about what you wanted to be when you grew up?"

You hesitated, thoughts swirling in your mind. "Before the outbreak, we used to have these neighbors. The Sinclairs –” 

“The ones with the telescope in their backyard?” Ellie perked up, piecing it together. “The one that got you interested in space?”

You smiled faintly at the memory, nodding. “Mrs. Sinclair used to be a ballerina. And on days that my mom was late coming home from work, she’d send me next door, and Mrs. Sinclair would put on old records and teach me little bits of her old routines. She’d tell me stories about being on stage, about the music and the lights, and I couldn’t get enough of it.

"That year for Halloween, Mom bought me this pink leotard with a little tutu, and Mrs. Sinclair gave me one of her old ballet pins to wear with it – in the shape of a tiny silver slipper. ‘Just to borrow,’ she’d said. ‘Until you earn your own someday.’”

You paused, swallowing the lump rising in your throat, blinking against the prick in your eyes.

“I wore that pin every day for nearly a year after that. Always in my hair, always in a bun. Like if I kept it close enough, maybe it’d come true.”

When you looked back at Ellie, she was smiling softly, almost wistfully. “You would’ve made a great ballerina,” she said gently, making your smile widen.

“The best,” Joel added, his voice quiet but certain. You really met his eyes then – brown and steady and watching you with something careful and protective. Your chest ached. You searched his gaze for some hidden meaning or ulterior motive tucked behind the compliment, but found only honesty. It unsettled you, in a way. You looked away first, breaking the moment, fixing your eyes ahead.

Joel cleared his throat, shifting his weight as if shaking something off. “So I've been thinkin',” he began, addressign Ellie. “I don’t want a sheep ranch, actually. I mean, if I can do anything – well – when I was a kid, I wanted to be a singer.” 

Ellie let out a surprised giggle, and despite yourself, a huff of a single laugh escaped your lips. Joel didn’t miss it. 

“Why’s that funny?” he challenged, though his eyes crinkled faintly.

Ellie grinned. “You gotta sing something now.” 

“No.” 

“Come on,” she pressed. “We’re not gonna laugh.” 

“You’re already laughin’,” he pointed out, deadpan. 

Ellie had no defense, only a shrug. “Well, you’re singin’ for me later. I’m gonna save the fucking world, man. It’s the least you can do for me.” 

After a pause, Joel conceded. “Fair enough.” 

You refused to glance his way after that, but your mind betrayed you, spinning with images of Joel singing. You wondered what his voice sounded like? Probably rough and low.

Wondered what he would sing – country or something softer?

Wondered if he’d ever give in to Ellie’s relentless requests to sing Take On Me – God, you’d heard her play that on the radio for hours back in the QZ. You missed those nights sometimes, when danger felt more distant, and laughter was louder than worry.

But the moment slipped away from you as the Biomedical Sciences building, the unofficial headquarters of the Fireflies, came into view. You slowed instinctively, unease crawling your skin. Something was off – it was barren and quiet. The guard stations had no guards; the inside was eerily still. Joel even found a packing list, like they were leaving. No Fireflies.

The three of you did find a map pinned to the wall, the route traced in red leading to a hospital – St. Mary’s, in Salt Lake City. Your stomach dropped. The journey wasn’t over, not yet.

A scrape of boots echoed from outside. Joel stiffened, pulling you and Ellie back into the shadows. A group of four armed men entered the building, scanning the area. They hadn’t seen you – yet.

“Go,” Joel murmured, ushering you and Ellie toward the back exit. You moved quickly, heart pounding in your ears, weaving through the building until you spilled out near the horses. So close. Almost home free.

Then, Ellie shouted, “Look out!”

A man lunged from the side, swinging a bat at Joel. The crack of wood splintered against a tree snapped through the air. Joel grabbed the man, wrestling him into a brutal chokehold until his body went limp.

You barely had time to process before you turned, saw Joel… and saw the knife lodged into his abdomen, the hilt slick with his blood. Your breath caught, a frozen gasp in your throat. 

Joel’s eyes met yours, steady even now as he gripped the handle and pulled it free. The blade clattered to the ground, darkened with red.

“Oh, my God. Oh. my God,” you whispered, frantic, rushing to him as he staggered. “Joel – ” You helped him up onto Callus with a strength pulled from panic. “Ellie, get on Orion – now!” 

Ellie scrambled onto the horse as the other looters rounded the corner, weapons raised. “They’re coming!”

“We need to go – now!” you shouted, snapping the ewins, urging Callus into a gallop. Behind you, Ellie fired blindly, the crack of her pistol mingling with shouted curses. Your heart pounded so loud it drowned everything else. Hooved thundered beneath you. Trees blurred past. You didn’t dare look back.

Not until the sounds faded behind you, not until the adrenaline finally slowed and cold reality seeped in. Only then did you glance at Joel. He was slumped back, his weight leaning heavily into you. “Joel?” you called, voice shaking.

No response.

“Joel,” you repeated, louder now, as fear clawed up your spine. “Joel, stay with me – please – ”

But his body tipped sideways, sliding off the saddle before you could stop him. He landed in a snowbank with a dull, sickening thud.

“Joel!” You dropped down beside him, knees hitting the snow. “Joel, open your eyes!” Your hands pressed hard against the stab wound, but the blood kept coming, warm and wet beneath your fingers. 

Ellie dismounted, kneeling opposite you, her face pale. “Joel – come on. You gotta get up!”

“I can’t fuckin’ do this without you,” you growled, pushing harder, desperate, the snow beneath him staining red. “Joel, get up!” 

Ellie’s breathing hitched, tears welling in her eyes. “Joel!”

You leaned closer, hands trembling over the wound. “Please,” you whispered, voice cracking as tears lined your own eyes. “Please, Joel. Please get up.”

Somewhere in western Colorado, inside a house long since abandoned––its walls brittle, windows coated with grime, and air thick with mildew––you knelt beside Joel, ripping a spare shirt from your pack into uneven strips. Your hands moved fast but clumsily, fingers trembling as you worked.

The cold bit at your cheeks, but you barely noticed; your pulse thrummed loudly in your ears, drowning out everything but the sight of him bleeding beneath you.

You yanked open his shirt, buttons echoing on the floor as they scattered, and pressed the makeshift cloth firmly against the wound. Joel gasped awake with a sharp inhale, his body aching. His hand shot up, gripping your forearm, knuckles white, skin clammy and pale beneath the flickering light of your flashlight.

Your breath came fast, shallow, a tinge of fear clawing up your throat. “Stay with me, stay with me,” you whispered under your breath, like a mantra, a prayer.

“Holy shit, that’s a lot of blood,” Ellie said, hovering nervously nearby, her voice thin and small.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you muttered, the words spilling out in rhythm with your heartbeat. The cloth was already darkening, and despite everything, you latched onto the silver lining that at least he was conscious – even if his face was contorted in pain.

"Leave," he rasped suddenly, his voice rough and breaking. His brown eyes locked onto yours, urgent. “You have to leave.”

The shock of his words knocked the air from your lungs. “What?” you breathed, stunned.

Ellie was quicker to respond. "Shut up, Joel." 

But Joel wouldn’t let it go, wouldn’t stop. "Take the gun,” he pressed, his grip on you tightening.

"Joel, shut the fuck up!" you snapped, a wild panic edging your voice. What was he saying? How could he say that, after all you’d been through together? "Let me think!"

But Joel was relentless, dragging you closer by the collar of your jacket, his strength frightening despite how much blood he’d lost. “You go,” he ordered, fierce and fading all at once. “You take Ellie and you go north. Go to Tommy. You go.”

With the last of his strength, he shoved you back, hard. The force sent you stumbling, landing on your ass, the wind knocked clean from your chest.

You stared at him from the floor, heart pounding, torn between fury and terror. But there wasn’t time for either. You pushed yourself up, jaw clenched, and grabbed Ellie’s wrist. “Come on.”

You pulled her upstairs, the old wooden steps groaning under your feet. “Check every drawer. We need medicine, bandages, something for the stitches. We need to find something!”

Ellie nodded, splitting off, and you both rifled through the dusty remnants of another family’s life: broken dishes, scattered photos, clothes long moth-eaten. Drawers squeaked and banged, every sound loud in the stillness. 

“Here!” Ellie called, thrusting a small tin sewing kit into your hands. You didn’t even look at her, just sprinted back downstairs, knees hitting the cold floor beside Joel with a painful thud.

His eyes flicked open at your arrival, hazy but locked on you. There was something in them – raw, unguarded disbelief that you’d came back.

“We’re not leaving,” Ellie vowed behind you, moving closer. “We're not going anywhere." She took his free hand in hers, and your chest clenched painfully at the sight of Joel’s fingers squeezing hers, grounding himself to her.

Your own hand hovered above his chest before settling, trembling slightly over his weak heartbeat. "If I’d known a stab wound would've turned you into a big softie, I'd have done it myself ages ago, old man," you teased, voice thick with emotion. 

A faint smile ghosted over Joel’s lips, brief but real, and you cupped his cheek for a fleeting second, thumb brushing over his stubble before turning back to the wound. 

“I’m really sorry about this,” you warned quietly. “Trust me, this is not how I pictured my first time taking off your shirt going, either.” 

You drew in a long breath, trying to steady your hands. “Okay,” you whispered to yourself, building up your confidence. “Okay.”

And then you got to work.

The first time the needle pierced his skin, Joel groaned, his grip latching onto your bicep like a vice. His whole body tensed under your hands, and you felt his pain ripple through you, raw and electric.

"I know, baby. I know," you murmured, the words falling automatically as you worked, threading the needle through torn skin, pulling it tight, again and again. as you threaded the needle in and out of his skin. Hot tears continued to burn as they slid down your cheeks. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Joel’s eyes fluttered shut before you were even halfway done, his weight sinking heavier into the ratty mattress. You pressed harder, worked faster as the stitches held but the bleeding didn’t stop as quickly as you’d hoped.

When it was finally over, Ellie helped you by covering Joel with the thickest blanket she could scrounge up from upstairs. She curled up beside him, her hand resting on his chest, her body seeking his warmth. You watched Joel, unconscious, instinctively tilt his head toward her, leaning into her touch even as he drifted deeper into sleep.

A tiny, exhausted smile pulled at your lips.

You lay down beside him, your sleeping bag doing little against the hard concrete. The cold crept up from the floor into your bones, but you barely felt it. Your eyes stayed fixed on Joel’s pale face, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, counting every breath like a lifeline.

You reached out hesitantly, your hand finding his where it rested limply by his side. You threaded your fingers through his, squeezing tightly, silently begging him to stay.

Your thumb brushed over the back of his hand, tracing the scars and calluses, grounding yourself in the reality of him, alive and here, even if hanging on by a thread. 

But Joel Miller was a fighter – a thread was all you needed.

Ellie’s quiet snores filled the room, soft and steady, and for a moment, you let yourself breathe.

But as you lay there, tethered to him by the small, stubborn clasp of your fingers, the weight of it all settled deep into your chest. It felt… complicated. 

Complicated because of how you’d left things with Joel – the silence, the tension, the unspoken things you were both too stubborn to say.

And yet, somehow, it felt like the simplest thing in the world.

Because the second he was hurt––bleeding and broken beneath your hands––nothing else mattered. Not the fights, not the distance, not the walls he insisted on building around himself.

All that mattered was him. Saving him. Keeping him alive.

You closed your eyes, pressing your forehead lightly against the back of his hand. 

“I’m not leaving you,” you whispered, voice horse. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And in that quiet, flickering dark, you knew you meant it with everything you had. You didn’t care if he pushed you away – you’d keep coming back. Because that was what you did… for people you loved.

You didn’t sleep that night, afraid of what would happen if you woke up and Joel had stopped breathing. So you spent the night on your side in that uncomfortable sleeping bag, eyes glued to his chest, finding comfort in the rhythmic way it went up and down as he breathed. Every once in a while, your gaze would flicker to his face, to how peaceful he looked, even if he didn’t feel it. 

You only realized it was morning when daylight began to filter through the broken window panes, casting pale patterns across the floorboards. Now awake, you sat up, resting our back against the nearest wall, arms loosely draped over bent knees. Outside, the wind howled through the bare trees, reminding you of the wintery mix existing outside.

When Ellie woke up, she fidgeted with her pocket knife, scraping the dull blade against the concrete floor around her. Every few minutes, she glanced over Joel’s still form lying on the mattress, as if waiting for him to stir awake. You followed her gaze every time, your own heart sinking deeper at the sight of his pale skin. 

For a long while, neither of you spoke. The quiet wasn’t awkward – it was heavy, thick with the unknown of the future. You watched Ellie scratch patterns into the concrete, her lights pressed tight, shoulders tense.

It reminded you of before. Before Jackson. Before Kansas City. Before Joel. Back when it was just you and Ellie against the world. Just two people surviving day by day, moving forward without knowing where forward even led.

You swallowed hard, thinking about how lonely it used to feel. And you hadn’t even realized it then. You hadn’t known how much lighter it could be with someone else helping you carry the weight. With Joel carrying more than his fair share. You didn’t realize how much his presence had changed both of you, made you more than just two survivors scraping by.

Ellie finally broke the silence, her voice soft and steady. “What are we gonna do if… I mean, what if he doesn’t…” 

She couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought but she didn’t need to; you understood exactly what she was asking.

What if he doesn’t wake up?

The question made your chest tighten. You looked at her, then; really looked at her – at the circles under her eyes, the way her mouth trembled just a little as she spoke. Maybe she was asking it partly out of fear, but you knew it was mostly out of a need. Because she deserved an answer. 

You didn’t realize how much Joel’s interactions with Ellie affected you. He treated her like an adult, like she was capable of handling the harsh cruelties of the world you lived in. And she’d only thrived in that environment. She’d loved learning how to hunt from Joel, how to shoot the rifle, how to take watch. 

She deserved to be treated like an adult by you, too. She deserved for you to be honest, even if it was hard, because it was necessary. You couldn’t shield Ellie with false hope anymore; now, you had to honor her strength the way Joel had. The way Joel does.

You inhaled deeply, letting the breath linger in your lungs before exhaling. “I don’t know, Ellie.” 

She blinked at you, surprised, maybe expecting you to lie to protect her, as you’d done her entire life. You shook your head gently. “I won’t bullshit you. I wish I had a plan. I wish I knew how to fix this. But…” Your gaze drifted back to Joel. “I don’t know what to do. I’m honestly just trying to get through the next hour.”

Ellie nodded slowly. Her lips pressed together again, but she didn’t argue. Didn’t tell you to come up with something. Instead, she scooted closer, crossing her arms over her knees and resting her chin atop them.

“I hate this,” she mumbled. “Just waiting.” 

“Me too,” you admitted.

You let the silence fall again, but this time, it felt companionable. Ellie’s presence beside you was a quiet reminder that you weren't alone in this, even if it felt that way. Her head on your shoulder grounded you. 

Joel had changed everything. And God, you hadn’t seen it back then. You hadn’t realized how much warmer things had become with him in your orbit. He made you both better, stronger, more stubbornly hopeful.

You didn’t say any of it aloud, but you knew Ellie felt it too.

You leaned your head atop hers, arm coming to wrap around her. “We’re gonna figure it out,” you reassured her, keeping the truth at the center of your hope. You two would figure it out, because you always did.

Ellie gave you a small, tired smile, agreeing. “Yeah. We always do.”

After another bout of silence, Ellie stopped chewing her lip and stated, “He was trying, you know.” 

You furrowed your brows. “Trying what?” 

“To fix things with you.” 

The words landed like a stone in your chest. Ellie glanced up at you then, serious in a way that made her look older than she should’ve. “I could tell… even if you couldn’t.” 

You sat up a little straighter. “What do you mean?” 

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Just… stuff. Like when we were crossing that creek last month? You slipped on a rock and he grabbed you. Real quick. But he didn’t let go right away. I thought – I thought maybe he was just steadying you. But he kept his hand there. On your arm… He does that a lot.” 

You stared at her, words caught in your throat.

“And when you got clipped by that guy’s knife in Denver? You were bleeding from your shoulder and he went to you first. Before he even checked himself. I mean, if it had happened back when we were near Boston… he never used to do that.”

Memories flooded you – moments you’d brushed off, or told yourself didn’t mean anything. Joel shifting your sleeping bag closer to the fire one cold night. Waking you up gently for your watch shift so Ellie could sleep longer. The way he’d listened when you told that stupid story about how you’d spent that one birthday at the pancake house. He’d turned his entire body toward you as you spoke, his tired gaze softened like he was letting you in without saying a word.

“You didn’t notice,” Ellie added, a little quieter.

You pressed your palms against your knees, blinking hard. “I… I think I didn’t want to.” You rubbed your face. “Fuck, I was so stubborn.” 

“He wasn’t mad about it,” Ellie said. “He just… kept trying.” 

Something in your chest cracked open. You pressed a hand there, feeling the ache widen. “I should’ve told him I saw it. That it mattered.” 

“You can tell him when he wakes up,” Ellie said, simple and certain.

You looked at her then, this scrappy kid who was fighting tooth and nail to hold onto hope. And you remembered just how much stronger, braver, and softer Ellie made you.

You swallowed again, voice thick. “Yeah. When he wakes up.” 

The rest of the day was spent scavenging the house for any leftovers you could eat and making sure Joel was comfortable. Ellie found some canned food to hold you over until tomorrow, at least. It would’ve eased your stress if Joel didn’t look like he was getting worse. 

The botched stitching job you’d done was starting to grow darker, more tender. You only realized after Ellie had fallen asleep, curled up beside Joel on the mattress, her small form pressed protectively against his side. Her hand came up to rest over his chest like she could hold his heart inside his body, keep it beating, keep it from slipping away.

You shifted to sit nearby on the floor, knees hugged tight to your chest beneath your blanket. The wind outside picked up again, rattling the loose shutters of the basement windows, howling through the cracks. Shadows danced along the walls from the flickering flashlight you’d lit earlier. 

You couldn’t stop watching Joel’s face, his chest rising and falling shallowly beneath Ellie’s hand. You counted every breath like it might be his last. 

The tightness in your throat built under it forced you to move. You crawled closer, kneeling beside him. His skin felt warm beneath your hand, feverish. You pressed your palm gently against his forehead, feeling the damp heat, and then let your hand slide to his cheek. 

“Hey,” you whispered, even though you knew he couldn’t hear you. “Joel…” 

Your thumb brushed over the stubble along his jaw. “I know you’re not awake. I know you can’t answer me, but… I need you to hear this.” 

You closed your eyes for a moment, grounding yourself with the weight of his hand beneath yours. Then you leaned forward, pressing your forehead to the side of his temple.

“I forgive you,” you whispered. “Okay? I forgive you for what happened in Jackson. I forgive you and I mean it. I'll forget it, I'll never bring it up again. Just come back to us, please, Joel... come back to me. I need you. I can't do this without you. So please just come back."

You pressed a templing kiss to his temple, closing your eyes tightly, letting your tears freely fall now.

“I don’t even know if you can hear me,” you whispered into the dark. “But if you can, just hold on. Okay? Hold on for me… cause if you die, I’ll kill you.” 

The words felt fragile, ridiculous like tossing pebbles into the void. But you said them anyway, again and again, until they dissolved into broken sobs.

“I’ll do anything,” you breathed. “I’ll stop avoiding eye contact. I’ll laugh at those horrible jokes you tell. I’ll let you carry my pack. I’ll thank you whenever you give me your jacket to sleep in. You can keep adjusting my pack straps, keep checking my boots for wear, keep giving me the biggest portion of Chef Boyardee because you know I love it.”

You laughed through the tears, willing Joel to wake and join you. But he didn't.

You didn’t know how long you stayed there fore, forehead pressed against his, hand gripping his tightly like you could tether him to this world. Eventually, your voice gave out, raw and hoarse, and you simply sat there, holding onto him.

Somewhere in that endless night, something inside you shifted.

You sat back slowly, wiping your face with shaking hands, and stared down at him. Your jaw tightened. 

Your gaze flicked toward the window, toward the cold wilderness beyond. You thought of what little food you had left. Of the likely infection burning through Joel’s body. Of what you had to do next.

And the determination rose beneath the exhaustion.

Tomorrow, you’d find a way. Tomorrow, you'd’ save him.

No matter what it cost.

.

.

.

taglist: @orcasoul @lizlil @littleshadow17 @joeldjarin @mrsyixingunicorn10 @luvwanda @escaping-reality8 @hoddystark @mmkkzz @victoriaholland @xodilfluvr @ilovetoomanymen @21tao @mystickittytaco @keileighr @buckyandlokirunmylife @deesparticus @underchaos @keepingitlokiii @silas-aeiou @underchaos @tjohn63 @princess76179 @umadirectioner

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part xii)

THEOREM OF BECOMING—Transformation is not a moment, but a process.

summary: The journey back to Jackson is full of make-believe of a life that almost feels like it's coming true.

a/n: woohoo, happy AAPI month! I'm sorry this update took so long, I was so indecisive on how I wanted this chapter to end, and what I wanted to depict, especially at the end when it was hard for me to decide where I wanted to place all of them... I just hope it turned out okay! one more chapter left before the epilogue :)

word count: 12,800+ words (dare I say, a short one?)

Joel tried to imagine himself at university. Outlandish things like, what would’ve happened if the world had given him a second door to open?

Because being here—goddamn. It was hard not to wonder what it might’ve felt like, walking into a place like this with a backpack and purpose instead of a rifle and regret.

What kind of kid would Joel have been, sitting in one of those chairs? Twenty years old, maybe. Hell—eighteen if he'd played it straight. No Sarah. No mortgage. No busted-up drywall jobs. No worry about gas bills or whether the AC would hold another summer.

Fuck no, he wouldn't do whatever it was Leela was doing in that lab, with data and diagrams that looked like chicken scratch to him. He would want a degree in something that lets the brain wander. A major in liberal arts, maybe. History. Music theory sounded nice. All that “not real work” crapola folks in his neighbourhood used to scoff at.

He’d always had a good head on him—just never the time or the cash to spend chasing someone else’s definition of smart. See, college wasn’t for men like him. Places like this weren’t made for people like him.

It was a gate you needed a key for, and that key used to cost fuck-ton loans and inevitable debt. More than he ever had or would have.

But that never meant he wasn’t curious. Never meant he didn’t know things.

Truth was, Joel used to like ideas. He liked stories. He read when he could. Listened. Paid attention. Watched old movies with Sarah, sometimes caught the way dialogue turned into meaning. Took in books secondhand, borrowed from neighbours, dog-eared and scribbled in. Kept his head and hands busy. When he worked construction, he could out-measure, out-calculate, and out-plan any of those stiff-collared pricks with their clean hands and degrees nailed to their office walls.

Tommy used to joke that Joel could memorize a script better than a foreman could read a blueprint.

“Man, you ain’t dumb,” his baby brother said once, picking dried cement off his hands. “We’re just poor.”

And he'd agreed. Their whole academic system was a racket, just a way of putting a price tag on knowledge.

Places like Caltech were always for them—it was for the bright ones, the born-lucky, the rich kids with trust funds and internships lined up like bowling pins. Kids like Leela, in fact. He'd never set foot in a real university, let alone one like this. All that prestige and legacy. Hell, even the labs looked like spaceships.

Joel had never even been on a real campus before the world went belly-up, and now here he was, boots echoing in a dead lecture hall, listening to Leela piece together the last remnants of science like she was born for it.

He stood halfway down the sloped aisle, one hand dragging along the edge of a long desk. The laminate was peeling at the corners. He could picture a thousand students slouched here over the decades, bent over laptops or spiral notebooks, yawning, scrawling notes they’d forget the second finals ended.

Behind him, Ellie climbed onto the stage at the bottom of the hall, testing the strength of the lectern like a kid playing teacher. Her voice carried, all grin and gravel.

“Bet you’d sit in the back row. Right, Joel?”

Joel smirked. “Only place I could get away with nappin’.”

“Or so you think. I’d definitely be front row. Raising my hand. Asking annoying questions.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ain’t nothin’ changed.”

“Pft, whatever.”

Beyond the doors, down the corridor, he could just make out the faint click-clack of keys—Leela, working in the lab with that same eerie calm she always had when the world dropped away and it was just her and the numbers. Her silhouette had barely shifted in an hour. Her hair was loose, falling over one shoulder, half in the light. She looked like she belonged in there.

“Y’know,” he drawled out to Ellie from somewhere inside his head, “I think she and I… if we’d met like that back then… we’d’ve found each other.”

Ellie didn't tease him about it. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. I’d be the guy just tryin’ to keep up. Probably complainin’ about the campus coffee and the goddamn parking passes.”

She grinned. “She’d dodge you for two whole weeks.”

“Hm. Sounds ‘bout right.”

“Then one day you’d say something too smart that’d make her stop and think. And boom. Now you’re study partners.”

He sighed. “I ain’t smart, kiddo.”

“Nah, you’re smart.”

“Not that kinda smart.”

“Bullshit. You literally remember everything. Details. Faces. The way you describe a guy’s boots, I feel like I was there.”

Joel clucked his tongue. “You learn to read people when your life depends on it.”

She shrugged. “Still counts.”

He didn’t answer, but his mouth twitched—somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “Hey, know what else? She’d’ve helped me cheat on a math exam.”

“Ha, no way. Leela would smack you across the face.”

He rubbed his jaw, the beginnings of a smile ghosting across his mouth. “But she’d tutor me. Make me memorise some dumb equation by makin’ it a song or somethin’. She hums that stuff sometimes, y'know? 'Spretty cute.”

Ellie gave him a look—half fond, half exasperated. “Jesus. Jesse was right. You're cuntstruck.”

“Ellie,” he muttered, more warning than scolding, but it didn’t carry much heat.

“Aw, c’mon, Joel. Can you just imagine a life where,” she sighed, “you just live that time-honoured, grey area of life? Be a normal dude with a college sweetheart or some shit?”

“How the hell do you know all that?”

“I'm just that baller.”

“Jesus.”

Now, Joel meant to leave it there, but the thought had already taken root.

He let his eyes drift toward the broken chalkboard at the front of the room, and the lecture hall around them seemed to grow in his mind—less ruin, more memory of something he never had.

He imagined Leela sitting at a desk beside him, in a school that let smart kids like her and dumbasses like him sit together—just one of those big halls with sticky floors and ceiling fans that clicked when they turned, where the smart ones always found the front row and the tired ones sat wherever the sun didn’t hit their eyes. She’d be chewing a pen cap, probably, maybe twirling a strand of hair around her finger, nodding all serious while some professor went off about Gödel or Fermat or one of those names that felt more like hexes than people. Joel wouldn’t understand a lick of it—not even on his best, most caffeinated day.

But maybe—she’d lean in, whisper it in Layman's for him. Not to make him feel dumb, but because she wanted him to know. All sweet, patient, gracious Leela.

He’d pretend to follow along, nodding at the right times, but mostly he’d be watching the way her mouth moved around the words, the way her brows bunched up when she really got into it. Watching the gears turn in her beautiful, brilliant head. Joel still did that, when she went off on a tangent in their living room between her blackboards, he'd just want her to kiss her until she was blue in the face.

He nevertheless would've fallen so damn hard for her. Right on his ass. No question about it.

Wouldn’t have taken him long to ask her out, either—not if they’d met like that. Not if she didn’t already know all the things the world had done to a man like him. He would have acted like his balls had just dropped or something—nervous as hell, but trying to play it cool. Sweaty palms, rehearsed lines in front of his mirror. Something about those big, dark eyes of hers, her fancy shoes, or her mint-condition books. Something along the lines of: I promise I’m more interesting than I look… though I realise the bar’s low since I’ve been standing here staring at you for the last thirty seconds.

And if she’d fold and giggle ‘okay’—and he liked to believe she would—he’d take her out someplace decent. Someplace with candlelight, silverware, suited waiters, cloches and folded napkins. He’d pick her up in front of her building. Show up with a fat bouquet of daisies. Pull her chair out for her at dinner. Hold the door. Call her ma’am without even thinking. He would be flat-broke in that life too, but he was raised right with Texan manners imbued upon him by Mr and Mrs Miller, after all.

Leela would probably tease him a little, maybe make fun of how stiff his shirt collar was or how he kept checking the long-ass bill like it was going to change. But she’d smile through it and offer to go Dutch instead. That rare, toothy smile of hers that made her look so young, unguarded and just a little bit shy.

He imagined them walking back across campus after—quiet, inseparable, arm around his. Maybe it was autumn. Maybe the crimson maple leaves crunched under their feet, and she kept pushing her hands into the sleeves of her coat like she always did when she was cold but didn’t want to say so. Maybe he’d offer his jacket. Maybe she’d take it. Maybe he’d blow into her hands in an attempt to kiss them.

Maybe that night, standing outside her place, she’d look up at him with that same quiet challenge in her eyes she had now—like she was daring him to be gentle.

And he would’ve been. Gentle as fuck. Their first kiss wouldn’t have been some clumsy, rushed thing. No desperation. No fear of the dark coming back. Just... time. Time you don’t know you’re wasting until it’s gone.

He imagined her fingers curled into his coat on maybe their fourth date, maybe he'd just taken her out ice-skating or bowling, and she would push the coat off him, and pull him a little closer. Stay with me tonight. A breath caught between their lips. And maybe—God help him—maybe they’d have stumbled into the fancy elevator of her expensive off-campus apartment, shoes kicked off halfway, giggling when she nearly tripped over her own purse left by the door. He’d catch her waist, steady her, and she’d glance at him with those mischievous eyes that already knew what he wanted. I want all of you.

They’d lock the door behind them, not because they had to, but because they could—because no one was chasing them, nothing was breathing down their necks. Just a night in. Quiet. Private. Theirs.

The desk lamp would still be on, casting light over her math books still open, forgotten now, pages fluttering. Her room would be warm, a little cluttered, with too many books for one person. A corkboard with pinned movie stubs and Post-it reminders. A polaroid of them, maybe, from some campus event—Joel squinting at the lens, Leela mid-laugh as always, her nose scrunched in that way he loved.

They’d peel off layers slowly. Clothes in a trail from the doorway to the bed. His shirt, her dress, his belt, her tights, his boxers. Her bra hanging from the lamp. They’d laugh a little, giggling some, fumbling with the condom in his wallet like it was a joke they’d made earlier in the week—about how just in case that had suddenly become now.

No pressure. No pain. First times. A night they got to have too late. No urgency, no hunger born from grief or fear. Just intimacy. Just plain, affectionate, stumbling, careful sex. Earned. Trusted. Wanted.

He pictured them afterwards, her curled against him beneath tangled sheets, tracing lazy shapes on his chest while the radiator clanked in protest against the cold. Nodding while they discussed their upcoming test, how she’d incentivise him with a kiss for each question he scored, fingers moving through her hair, catching on a tiny braid she must’ve done while studying.

The window would fog up by morning. They’d sleep through their alarms. Maybe skip class like dumb rebels. Maybe make breakfast instead—pancakes from a box, the batter too thick, the frying pan too hot. He’d burn the first one and she’d steal it anyway, kissing him with syrup on her lips. Good fuckin' morning to me.

They’d graduate together, in this life. He’d be in the back row on ceremony day, shoes shined for once, hair swept back neatly, watching his best girl stride across the stage to grab her scroll. Top of her class, honour roll, summa cum laude. Maybe he didn’t get a diploma of his own—maybe he took night classes, taking the slow route out—but he’d be there, standing up before anyone else, clapping like hell, hooting her name with his hands cupped around his lips.

And she’d find him later, tassel on her crooked hat flying, gown wrinkled, eyes shining, leaping into his arms, and he’d spin her about. Kiss her right there in the crowd like he was the luckiest son of a bitch alive.

And in that life—the life he never got—maybe they’d go on like that for years. Their families are all tight-knit, spending holidays together, all of them waiting on hand and foot for Joel to pop the question, but he promised his girl all the time in the world. No muss, no fuss.

Graduation photos in front of some ivy-covered wall. Travel photos of the two of them from roadtrips and weekend escapes—mountains in Telluride, coasts in Monterey, lighthouses in Nantucket. Maybe later they’d rent a shitty apartment together in a big city even if he hated it—New York, or London, or some big German town with a zigzag skyline and a bakery on every corner—while she chased her PhD dreams and he’d just be happy to take care of them. Joel would take on carpentry jobs to keep the lights on and fix things around the building in exchange for rent. He'd play gigs, strum his old guitar, in pubs and bars all night for a good sum of cash. Patch the leaky sink with elbow grease. Assembling furniture that they couldn’t afford to buy. Shelves full of her notes. Coffee rings on the floor. Late-night supermarket runs. Eat dinner for breakfast and fall asleep with her textbooks open between them. The laughter of a life being made from scratch.

And maybe one day, not in a church, not even in a courthouse—but under that oak tree just outside her big, white house in Jackson, they’d say their vows. Soft ones. Barely louder than the wind. Just a handful of people who mattered, a patch of wildflowers in springtime, and the gold ring he’d carried in his pocket for years. Her hand in his, sliding the band into place. Her thumb brushing his knuckles while he tried not to cry. I offer you all I have, my dumbass and beating heart.

And she’d laugh when he picked her up, white dress, veil and all, just to prove he still could, and carry her over the threshold, whilst her sandals dangled from his fingers. They'd make love like it was the first time, on a nice, month-long honeymoon in the Maldives or Bali, on a linen, canopy-frame bed that wobbled by the time they were through.

And one day, he’d come home—sawdust still in his hair, tired to the bone, aching for his long shower—only to find a positive test on the bathroom sink, and they’d smile at each other like they’d just won the lottery. Those soft, teary eyes they’d share. You think we've got room for one more around here?

And from that moment on, Joel would've been all in. No half-measures. No second-guessing. Just him, right in her pocket. He wouldn’t leave her side unless he had to—work, maybe, or some emergency—and even then, she’d be on speed dial (not that she already wasn’t). He’d check in constantly. Make sure she was drinking water, eating enough. Sitting her antsy ass down.

Late at night, he’d press his ear to her belly, grinning when their baby kicked like she already had her mama’s fire. He’d murmur promises against her skin—about giving her the world, about love, about never missing a thing again. And he’d mean every damn word.

He wouldn’t miss a single ultrasound, even if the clinic was across town and the truck was coughing smoke. He’d be there for all of it—Lamaze classes, nausea, mood swings, sleepless nights, midnight drives for god-knows-what. He’d baby-proof every damn inch of the house, stock the cabinets with baby items, triple-check the crib screws, read every parenting book he could find, even the ones with goofy cartoon covers.

Overbearing? For fucking sure. She might threaten to divorce him half a dozen times before the third trimester—but he’d take it, all of it. With a grin and a kiss and a Yes, ma’am.

And when it was time—when the world narrowed to a hospital room and the sound of her hurting wails—he’d be right there, surgical gown and all, holding her hand through every contraction, brushing damp hair from her face, whispering through the panic, through his heart tearing in two: I’m right here, baby. I ain’t going anywhere.

And Maya would come hollering into their lives. Of course, that’s what they’d name her in this life, too. Radiant, beautiful, nascent Maya, looking just like her mama and holding his heart in her tiny fist. All that imagining he’d ever done—every if, every maybe—had somehow led to this little girl he called his.

He pictured Maya clearly in that other life—the one that never got to be. Toddling around their grad-school apartment, leaping onto his stomach in PJs on a lazy Sunday morning, giggling through a mouthful of sugary cereal while Leela chased after their little thief, trying to snatch the box from her sticky hands. One sock is on, and the other is always missing. Her wild curls bouncing as she ran to him when he walked through the door—always early, maybe this time in a stable job which involved him wearing a suit and tie, lugging a briefcase—arms outstretched, shrieking Da-da! like he was some kind of superhero, and without fail, he'd rain at least a hundred kisses on her before letting her go.

She’d throw a fit in the toy aisle over exactly the faulty stuffed animal, with lopsided eyes and a ripped tag, and Joel would fold like wet paper the second she pouted.

And if the bad times did come, the only arguments he and Leela might’ve had were the soft kind, inconsequential—disagreements over something like Joel’s brief, doomed venture into stocks, or Leela being scatterbrained with the grocery runs, or whether Maya should go to that elite preschool an hour away with the long waitlist and sterling reputation. Joel would’ve wanted the best for her, the kind of start he never had. But Leela would just want to keep Maya close a little longer, probably even attempt to homeschool her if she could swing it.

They’d make up over pizza on the couch—Maya asleep between them, still clutching that faulty toy, cartoons flickering on the TV. Their fingers would find each other over the back of her blanket, apology and forgiveness exchanged without a single word spoken.

And thereafter, the mornings were ones where he'd juggle coffee cups, lunch bags and backpacks, dropping Leela off at her university, her hair still wet from a rushed shower, pencil skirt on a tight ass that waited for it's morning squeeze, a thick binder clutched to her chest, a soft lingering kisses shared over the console; and then Maya in the backseat, singing along to the radio, squealing when he pulled up to her school next. She’d barely get her backpack on before she tore across the pavement to her friends, flashing Joel a quick flying kiss and a grin that damn near knocked the wind out of him every time.

And at night—the three of them crammed around a too-small kitchen table, Leela would sit, drafting her research papers or scribbling in a notebook, Maya in her lap, doodling in the margins, asking about black holes and dinosaurs in the same breath. Leela would answer every question like it was the most important one she’d ever been asked. Joel would just listen, smiling into his beer, tuck the moment away somewhere safe inside him, like a man who knew exactly how fragile good things could be.

And Maya would believe everything her mama told her. Because why wouldn’t she?

Joel blinked, staring at the cracked chalkboard. The room was silent, save for Ellie’s soft humming and the hum of distant power from the lab down the hall.

But that life—that life—wasn’t the one they got.

But maybe... maybe it wasn’t too late for some piece of it. Not the degrees or the papers.

But the love part. The quiet part.

Maybe that kind of life still had a place in this one. Maybe that was still real. Maybe it was standing just down the hall, surrounded by equations, stubborn as ever.

He smiled to himself, soft and stupid, like a man who’d just lived a whole other life in three minutes.

A loud metallic clatter broke the spell.

Joel turned—slow, blinking like he'd just woken from a dream—and found Ellie grinning at him, holding up a dusty diploma frame like she’d just pulled a sword from a stone. The glass was cracked in one corner, the name beneath faded and half-eaten by sun and decay. But scrawled across the middle in thick, unapologetic black marker was something brand new:

Dr. Leela Miller.

“Well,” Ellie said, lifting it higher like a trophy, “I didn’t know her last name, so…”

Joel stared. His breath caught on something warm.

“Reed,” he said, slow and quiet, like the name had weight. Affection weaved through it like a thread. “But this… this is fine.”

He could almost see it—this on the wall of that little apartment they never had. Over a desk cluttered with paper and empty mugs and one tiny sock, someone still hadn’t found the match for.

Ellie held it out to him like a kid offering a crayon drawing. “It’s probably not, y’know, technically accredited,” she said with a crooked smile. “D'you think she'll feel a little better?”

He snorted, folding his arms. “That's a ten-dollar word from a dollar-sized person.”

“Hey, fuck you.”

He gave her a look, soft and knowing. “Well, Leela won’t say it right now, but yeah. She will.”

Then he glanced across the hall.

There she was—his smartass, hunched on a table littered with papers and old, curling printouts. Leela had one hand braced against the edge, the other pressed over her mouth like she couldn't believe what she was seeing. Her fingers moved through a page, tracing lines of ink like a woman touching scripture. Like she was holding a piece of a language she'd thought was long dead.

Joel brought two fingers to his lips and let out a sharp, low whistle.

Across the hall, Leela jolted a little—more like a reflex than real surprise—blinking over at him with a stunned, empty look. It cracked after a second, softening into something small and sheepish, but Joel didn’t miss the way she moved, like she was dragging herself up from somewhere far away.

He tipped his head toward her, half a smirk pulling at his mouth, trying to keep it easy, light.

“Weather’s turnin’,” he called, voice carrying across the dusty floorboards. “We oughta get movin’ along before it gets any worse.”

“Um...”

Leela hesitated, staring back at the whirring, flickering monitor like it was something alive she’d been charged with keeping breathing. Her hand lifted slowly, clumsily, brushing her hair out of her face with the back of her wrist.

She gave a stiff little nod—obedient, automatic, like she wasn’t even aware of doing it.

Joel opened his mouth—half-ready to tell her it was fine if she needed more time—but Ellie piped up behind him.

“Ooh, we gotta head down to the coast first. Ay, you promised the beach, old man!”

Joel felt the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes. He turned slightly, cutting a look back at Leela for silent backup.

And Leela just shrugged. Just the barest hitch of her shoulders, like even the decision didn’t mean much anymore. Her mouth twitched at the corners, a hint of old amusement surfacing and dying again all at once.

“I've almost finished the upload,” she said, tapping the corner of the monitor, where some ancient progress bar crawled along painfully slow. “Just... eleven more minutes.”

Eleven minutes.

It used to drive Joel a little crazy, if he was honest. He’d thought it was grief or obsession. Maybe denial. He’d even thought as much, once—there wasn’t anyone left who cared about prime numbers and proof sheets. Leela's long nights hunched over scavenged paper, her fingers smudged with graphite and ash, scribbling until her wrist cramped. A fucking waste indeed.

No one needed the big hypothesis solved when there were clickers on the road and medicine running thin.

And now he saw it.

She wasn’t trying to bring the old world back. She was trying to make sure some vestige of it survived.

Not the comforts. Not its power grids or grocery stores, or monuments. But it's thinking. It's questions. The bones of the mind that had once built bridges and satellites and figured out how to split atoms. She was keeping that, preserving hope for the world that would eventually look back.

And she was sending it forward like a time capsule in the shape of code—across a patchy uplink, through battered infrastructure, to a settlement that might not even know what to do with it.

One day, someone would.

Someone with a mind like hers. Someone with less blood on their hands and more time. A student, a child, a generation down the line who’d never seen the world fall and might still wonder how it once stood.

She was sending it all to Jackson—not as salvation, maybe, but as seed.

Something to plant. Something to grow if they ever got a spring again.

And if that someone asked, if they searched—she’d be there. In the pages, in the math. In the margins, scrawled with her restless handwriting. A woman who had no lab, no colleagues, no safety, but still sat down and thought.

Joel rubbed his thumb over a dent in the metal of the desk. It was humbling, what she was doing. Quiet and unadorned, the way most real things were.

And for the first time, he didn’t feel far from her work. He didn’t feel like it belonged to a world he couldn’t touch. He was somehow a part of it, too.

He exhaled through his nose, scratching the back of his neck. Eleven minutes. Seemed like a small enough thing after everything they'd been through.

He shifted his weight, the old floor creaking under his boots, and his gaze caught on the diploma again—still cradled in Ellie’s hands, the cracked glass catching the faint grey light.

Dr. Leela Miller.

Miller.

His name. His... wife.

He hadn't expected it to hit him like that. The word sitting there plain and heavy, stitched onto her like it had always belonged. The beginning of his other life.

His name stitched there so plainly, so firmly, like it had always been meant to sit against her like that. A jolt went through him—sharp and unexpected—settling low in his gut like a stone thrown into deep water.

He could almost see it, just for a second—clearer than any dream he ever allowed himself to linger on: Leela standing beside him at some clean, sun-warmed courthouse, signing her new name across the marriage license with a little grimace, muttering about how bureaucratic nonsense would outlive them all. Joel, laughing under his breath, taking the pen after her, signing his name next to hers. The flash of a cheap camera. The clap of a judge’s hand on his back. Her grinning face turned up to his, awaiting a congratulatory kiss. And he would make it linger, pressing two, three, four kisses before he murmured against her lips: You alright there, Mrs Miller?

Yes, Joel didn’t feel the press of the world closing in.

He just stood there, hands planted firm on his hips, heart too big for his ribs, and thought, Maybe it ain’t the life I thought I'd have.

When he was young—back before the world cracked open—he thought he understood what a good life was supposed to look like. Steady work. A home. A little backyard for Sarah to tear around in. A dog, one of those loud mutts that drove the neighbours crazy. Bills paid on time. Supper on the table by six. Simple. Straightforward. A line you followed if you kept your head down and your hands busy.

He’d built toward that life once. Brick by brick. Sweat and sacrifice and stubbornness. And he’d watched it all turn to ash in a single night, leaving nothing but the brutal math of survival behind.

Wake up. Choke down rations. Shoot. Kill without a thought. Stay alive. Sleep with one eye open. Repeat.

Hope had been a dangerous thing after that, an unaffordable luxury. Like college.

But standing here now, and Leela hunkered over that blinking screen like she was fighting the universe itself to save what little good was left in it—Joel realised he’d been wrong about what makes a life and what was worth holding onto.

It wasn’t about clean houses or paid-off trucks or picture-perfect little towns.

It was about this.

It was about watching the woman he loved refuse to give up on the world, even when the world had given up on her. It was about Ellie clutching a battered diploma like it was the goddamn Declaration of Independence, blinking out the window like a daydreaming college kid who still believed she’d make it here. It was about Maya somewhere back home, waiting, safe, growing up in a place that hadn’t been paved over by fear.

It was about them.

So, why not... breathe life into that other reality?

Joel shifted slightly, his hand drifting to his pocket—more out of habit than thought. His fingers closed around the small thing he’d stashed there weeks ago, careful not to draw attention to it.

Rolled it between his fingers sometimes, in replacement for the brass button that Maya had bestowed on him—in quiet moments, when no one was looking. Like maybe if he kept turning it long enough, the edges would smooth out, the crack in the band would seal, and time would forget whatever broke it.

It wasn’t much to look at. Just a beat-up old ring he’d pocketed back in Vegas, half-buried in dust beneath a shattered display case. The stone was gone. The band was thin and cracked, barely holding together. Still, he’d kept it. Couldn’t say why at first. Just felt right in his hand—small, broken, stubborn. Reminded him of someone.

Lately, he’d been thinking about what he might do with it. How he could fix it, in his own way. Maybe shave a sliver of intricate wood into the place where the diamond used to be. Not anything fancy, maybe a flower. She liked sunflowers. Just something honest. Pine, maybe—she always smelled like pine sometimes. Or walnut, strong and durable, like him. Something alive, something that wouldn’t shine too bright, but would still catch the amalgam of Leela.

He didn’t know if he’d ever give it to her. Or when. Or if she’d even want it.

Hell, he didn’t even know what he’d say.

But he carried it with hope anyway.

That was the strange part. It wasn’t really the ring that mattered—it was the idea. That someday, there might be room for something like that between them. Not as some big gesture. Not to fix anything. Just to say: this is still yours if you want it. Just to prove he still believed in what could come next.

Maybe sometimes love looked like a broken ring in a calloused hand, waiting for a world soft enough to give it back.

The sharp things—the grief, the anger, the failure—they were still there, rooted deep under his skin like old thorns. They always would be. But for once, Joel could see something else threading through it. A quieter kind of ache. Not the pain of losing, but the ache of wanting.

He wanted the kind of life that didn’t just survive the world’s ending—but stubbornly, stupidly, beautifully outlived it.

He wanted her, and Ellie, and Maya, and every goddamn scraped-together piece of a future he never thought he'd deserve.

And in this dead place, in the flicker of failing light and old dreams burned onto curling paper, Joel believed—just a little—that maybe this had all been for something. After all, maybe they hadn't come all this way just to bury what was lost. Perhaps they were here to carry it forward.

Maybe they were the ones meant to build what came next.

His throat felt tight, but he welcomed it. A man could learn to carry that feeling. He should carry it. Get used to it. All these good things he was doing.

He slipped the ring back into his pocket, careful, like it might bruise. Gave the pocket a small, reassuring pat.

He glanced at Leela, at the way she leaned into the light like a plant aching for the sun, and felt that wild, wordless thing rise again inside him.

Ours, he thought. Not just hers. Not just his.

Ours.

X

The ocean resembled a busted mirror.

Not glittering or big or blue. Just slabs of grey and darker grey, churning slow under the breadth of a sky that didn’t give a damn. The wind came off the water in lazy fits, carrying salt and rot and the memory of heat that had long since packed up and gone.

Wind tugged at what was left of the boardwalk nearby, a few slats still clinging on like they didn’t know how to fall properly. Rusted carnival lights hung in strips. Booths were gutted. A souvenir shack had collapsed into itself, hurling faded postcards and cracked plastic mugs across the ground. He saw a cracked one half-buried in the dune: I Survived Santa Monica Pier. Bit fucking ironic.

The sea had taken it all back. The joy. The noise. The crowds. It felt biblical, in a way. Like the tide was the big guy's long exhale.

Joel stood at the edge of it all—boots half-buried in wet sand, stepping over a tangled snarl of sea-bleached fishing net fibres, arms crossed against the cold that kept slipping under his jacket. The pier beyond was a half-collapsed skeleton, stripped bare, its spine curling out into the surf with broken ribs of wood jutting upward. Boats still rocked gently in the distance—untouched, paint peeling, sails long since devoured by saline winds, hulls soft with barnacles and time. No lights. No squalling. Not even of birds.

Funny. He used to think that if they ever made it to the coast, something would change. That maybe it’d feel like the end of the road—or the start of something. No, this was just another place the world forgot.

Ellie was already out near the waterline, her boots discarded in a heap beside a tide pool. She’d rolled up her jeans and waded ankle-deep into the cold muck, laughing as she scratched her name into the sand with a busted piece of driftwood. She looked so small like that. Innocent. Her shoulders loose, grin so secretive. He didn't get to see that often.

He watched her kneel, tongue poking slightly out in concentration, and for a moment—just a flicker—it wasn’t Ellie crouched in the sand.

It was Sarah.

Not imagined, not hoped. Saw. Not older, not younger—just as she was the day he lost her.

Kneeling beside her, seaweed looped over her wrist like bracelets, giggling about how it was going to get washed away but doing it anyway. He could see her—clearer than anything. Her head of sunlit curls, tossed by the wind. Making a heart out of the seaweed. Lining the letters with broken shells. Elbowing Ellie with that half-teasing grin she used to have, the one that always said, Do not mess this up for me, Dad.

He clenched his jaw. Swallowed hard. Blinked until the double image snapped apart again, rattled the thought loose from his head, and it was just Ellie again, whistling tunelessly, digging up dead coral to decorate her crude scrawl in the sand.

Goddamn, was this what it was going to be now?

Visions. Ghosts. Fantasies of another life. Wishing, wanting. His mind folding over itself. Losing the thread.

Or was it just the many extremities of grief? The accumulation of too many years? Or was this the beginning of something slower and crueller? Alzheimer’s or some shit. Some fucking cordyceps variation they didn’t have a name for yet. Maybe he’d start forgetting the way back to Jackson. Maybe he already had.

He rubbed a hand across his face, dragging grit from his cheek. The salt clung to his stubble, and the ocean made his eyes sting even when the wind didn’t hit them.

A little ways off, Leela sat cross-legged on the sand, her back to the surf, little haphazard strands from her long braid slapping at her cheeks. A neat little pile of small seashells sat beside her, most of them dull with age and wear—but one, a tiny conch, recently vacated by some poor creature that hadn’t made it. It was still freshly pink inside, gleaming, faintly iridescent.

She had a needle gripped between her fingers, her brow furrowed as she carefully worked it through the shell’s spire. Every movement was methodical, like she wasn’t thinking about what she was doing, like it was all buried muscle memory. When she threaded the bit of twine through and tied a knot, she held the shell up between two fingers, inspecting, squinting at it like it was some precious thing instead of beach trash.

“For Maya,” she said quietly, flashing him a smile—small, lopsided, but real.

Joel let out a soft grunt of recognition. Awful lot of jewellery to be taking back to Jackson.

“Cute.”

He remembered that story—the one he hadn’t meant to overhear, but things stuck. Something about her old life, before Jackson, before her parents, before a child of her own. How she used to make little shell necklaces just like that one and sell them to dumb tourists along the coast back in her hometown. Overpriced junk, she’d said. That weird, lonely kind of pride people have when they remember who they used to be.

Maybe this was her way of passing it on. A sliver of childhood she could carve off and give to Maya. A small thing that said I was here. I was whole once.

He took a step closer, boots sinking into the sand, hands in his jacket pockets. “Still remember how to rip folks off, huh?”

She glanced up at him, just barely. “Who says this one’s not priceless?”

Joel smirked. “Better be. Our baby girl’s got high standards.”

That got a laugh. A real one—small, scratchy, but it cracked the stillness in a way nothing else had all day. Leela shook her head, still smiling, eyes on the necklace, watching the shell sway from its string.

A beat passed. Wind was threading through the bare bones of the city. Maybe this place had once been paradise. Joel didn’t know. All he saw now was wreckage. Absence. A ghost town choking on salt.

Behind them, far away, Ellie whooped, triumphant. “I told you, little bastard! Joel, look, that’s a motherfucking crab!”

Joel glanced over. She was crouched in the wet sand, a long stick in one hand, something small and wriggling and furious in the other. Her sleeves were shoved to her elbows, knees soaked through, hair wild in the wind. She grinned like she was twelve again. Like the world hadn’t burned down.

Another shriek from Ellie. “Holy shit—there’s more of them! A whole Jackson community!”

“Well, don’t just play with ’em. Grab a few. Might be good eatin’.”

Ellie wrinkled her nose, poking one with the tip of her stick. “Eat this? Dude, it’s got, like—claws. And it’s hard as shit.”

“That’s how you know it’s good,” Joel called back, deadpan. “Hard shell means there’s somethin’ sweet inside.”

Ellie gave him a look. “Oh, hear, hear—Wordsworth over here.”

Joel chuckled, shaking his head. “Just get a few, kiddo. We’ll see what we can do.”

“Fine,” she muttered. “But if it kills me, I’m haunting your lying ass.”

Then she dropped the crab anyway, watched it scuttle sideways into the surf with all the drama of a jail break, and burst out laughing—real, unguarded. Her laugh rippled across the beach like it didn’t know how rare it was. Like it didn’t think it was a goddamn miracle.

Joel turned back to Leela. His voice dropped, not meaning to get soft but unable to help it.

“So, is this what you pictured?”

He didn’t say the beach. He didn’t mean California. Didn’t mean the long road behind them—full of blood and breath and quiet, feral hope. Didn’t even mean the life they’d clawed together with broken fingernails and dogged luck.

Leela didn’t answer right away. She just looked out toward the horizon, the sharp line where grey sea met grey skies. Where the world used to open up into possibility, into summer vacations and shipping routes and postcards with skipping dolphins. Now it looked more like an ending. A sentence with no period.

Then she shook her head, just once. “Not even close.”

But she was still holding the shell in her hand. Still tying another knot in the twine. Still smiling, just barely. And somehow, that answer—quiet, and unfinished—was more honest than anything else she could’ve said.

Joel sat down beside her, his knees cracking like firewood. The cold bled through the seat of his jeans, but he didn’t flinch. Just sat. Facing the water.

Leela didn’t.

She was turned slightly away, angled toward the sand, toward the ground, like she’d taken some quiet oath never to look at the sea again. As if it had taken something and she wouldn’t give it the satisfaction of her eyes.

Joel laid his hand over hers, careful.

She stilled.

His palm was unpolished against hers, but he could still feel the tiny shape of the shell necklace beneath it. Warm from her skin. Light as a breath.

“Joel.”

Before she could ask him to get the fuck off her, he said, “Look, I just—”

“What do you think Maya’s going to be when she grows up?”

Leela’s voice was soft, half-swallowed by the sea wind. Not wistful, not dreamy. Just plain and curious, like she was asking about the tide.

Joel didn’t answer right away. His eyes slid back on the water—on the slow, thick roll of it, the lazy collapse of each wave as it dragged itself onto the sand. This landed hard—not because it was tragic, but because it was so normal.

And yet that question hung there. He rubbed his jaw in deep thought. That wasn’t a question people dared to ask anymore, not seriously.

Honey, what do you want to be when you grow up?

He'd asked Sarah that plenty of times. And her answer had been no-bullshit: a rockstar. He used to joke to her about it, how maybe she'd take her old man backstage one day and sign T-shirts with her primped face on it.

The world was too fucked-up now, no rulebook to follow. See, back in the old world, kids had answers ready. Doctor. Firefighter. Astronaut. Singer. Shit like that. You dreamed, you planned. You had options. Only now, the world didn’t want anything from its kids but survival. To grow up at all was a feat. To grow up and become something? That felt like a pipe dream.

Joel breathed out through his nose. He shifted in the sand, elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched against the wind.

“I dunno,” he said finally. “Ain’t somethin’ I let myself think about too much. We used to imagine the future. Now we’re just glad to get through the day.”

Leela said nothing. Just waited, steady, patient, the way she always did when she knew he wasn’t finished.

A bitter little smile curled the corner of his mouth. “Baby girl’d probably be a scavenger. Some real slick trader. Hustler like her mama used to be.”

Leela huffed softly.

“Maybe a sharpshooter,” Joel added. “Takes after Ellie. Bossy as hell.”

That made her laugh again—just a little. Joel felt it in his chest like the thinnest crack of sun through stormcloud.

He kept talking, quieter now. “Could be she ends up one of those quiet ones. People listen when she speaks. Not ‘cause she’s loud—but ‘cause she means her shit. Maybe that makes her a leader. Or a target.”

He hated that last part. But it was true.

The truth was—he didn’t really care what Maya became. He just wanted her to have the space to choose between gentleness and survival. To live long, safe, and full enough to even ask that question. And he hated the world for making him think all this shit.

“And maybe she’s just alive long enough for it to matter,” he finished. “It’s enough for me.”

Leela’s fingers paused at the shell’s knot.

Joel looked over at her, and she still wasn’t looking at the sea. Her face was turned away a little, but her eyes were distant—thinking hard, probably thinking too much.

“Does it scare you?” he asked.

She blinked slowly. “What does?”

“The future,” he stated. “What she might become.”

Leela was quiet for a long time. She pulled the twine taut, tied another knot. Maybe the third one in the same place.

Then she nodded, but it wasn’t sharp. As if something she’d carried for years, only just now saying out loud.

“I just can’t have Maya become like me, Joel,” she said.

Joel didn’t say anything because he knew what she meant. And she was fucking right.

Not just Leela's impossible intellect that she carried like a blade. Not Joel's desiccating anger. Not the endless spinning logic or the obsessive calculations that had driven her across the country in a haze of grief and purpose. Not the math or the memory or the way she could see ten steps ahead while the rest of them were still tripping over the first one.

No—she meant the burden. The self-blame. The detachment. The constant need to understand everything instead of just feeling it. The survival that looked like a function but was really just a retreat.

The way Joel disconnected. The guilt that never left. The way he didn’t flinch at corpses anymore because somewhere along the way, his empathy had learned to ration itself. The way he lived in his head because that was the only place he could guarantee no one would hurt him.

And because of all the ways they taught themselves to cope—none of them were life. They were pauses. Contractions. Damage control.

She sighed. “I thought I wanted that. I did. But after everything back there…”

She nodded toward the road that led back to the university. Toward where she'd left her hopes and regrets. A whole piece of her past.

“I realised that…” She tapped her temple, fingers light, like she was knocking on the side of something hollow. “She doesn’t need this.”

He didn’t press or fill the space like he normally would with some muttered acknowledgement, because this wasn’t a moment for patch jobs.

“This saved me,” she murmured. “The logic. The focus. It’s how I kept going after—after what happened. If I could just understand enough… if I could predict things, calculate the worst-case scenario, I could keep her safe.”

Her voice tightened. Just a bit. Joel heard it.

“She deserves more than that.”

Joel’s throat was dry. He swallowed hard, barely managing. “And now?”

Leela let out a long breath. Not weary. Just… stripped bare.

“Now I just want her to scream,” Leela said. “To run fast. To fall hard. To be loud, and wrong, and stupid—and free. I want her to feel so much that she doesn’t know where to put it. I want her to hit back, punch hard, when someone corners her. Not stand there frozen, plotting some clever escape like that’s gonna save her.”

Joel’s eyes flicked toward her.

She wasn’t looking at him. Still had her gaze fixed on the necklace in her lap, the shell swinging gently as she tied and re-tied the same knot like it was muscle memory. Like if she stopped moving, she’d splinter.

And goddamn.

That’s when it landed. What she was really saying.

He’d seen people go quiet in the worst moments of their lives—seen them freeze, let it happen, disappear behind their own eyes. Not because they were weak, but because someone, somewhere, had taught them that silence was safer than screaming. That survival meant outthinking, not resisting. That pain was something to calculate your way around.

Leela had been that sort of survivor.

“I couldn’t even save myself,” she said, bitter, flat, after a beat.

The fuck kind of thing was that to say? Making it seem like it just made sense?

Joel’s fingers tightened gently around hers, unable to unclench his jaw. “That ain’t your fault,” he reassured to an extent, teeth gritting. “You sayin’ that like it was your choice.”

She said nothing. But the silence was answer enough. And Joel couldn’t sit with that.

“I don’t give a damn what you think you didn’t do,” he muttered, heat rising in his throat like bile. “Someone took... somethin’. They did that. You think being smart, or planning a way out—fuckin’ hell—none of that would’ve mattered.”

She shook her head once. Not in argument—just acknowledgement. “No. But it still happened. And I did nothing.”

Then, finally, she looked at him.

There was no shame in her eyes. Just a brutal clarity. The kind that only came from staring something dead in the face for years and deciding to live anyway.

“I know what I am, Joel. I know what it took to survive. I know what it turned me into. And I don’t want that for her.”

Joel didn’t speak right away. There was nothing to fix. Nothing to deny. He understood her too well for that. She wasn’t afraid Maya wouldn’t make it.

She was afraid Maya would—by becoming someone like her.

“Baby, she’s gonna carry us,” he said, a promise in his voice. “But she ain’t gonna be us.”

Then he reached out, covered her hand with his—rough skin on hers, grounding her.

“She’s got us, Leela,” he added, more quietly.

And he meant every word. He knew what it was to survive through retreat. To mistake numbness for control. To wear grief like armour and call it strength.

Leela didn’t flinch. But she didn’t smile either. Her face softened—like she wanted to believe him, that she was someone worth having.

“I hope so,” she said.

They sat there a while longer, the tide crawling up toward their boots whilst Ellie shouted at them about a jellyfish. Joel felt the sting in his joints when the winds picked up, faster, saltier, sharper.

He looked down at the shell again, their hands twined around it. Small. Pink. Still shining faintly inside. Something you’d pick up on a beach day with a little girl who didn’t know the world yet.

They couldn’t offer Maya that clean world they had lived in. But they could hand her a few pieces worth carrying. And she’d figure out what to build.

For one brief moment, he let himself believe his baby girl would have the chance to answer that question one day—for real.

What do you want to be when you grow up, Maya?

X

The fire had sunk lower to the forest floor, just embers now, red, pulsing like a heartbeat under ash. Shadows lean long against the trees. Night smells like salt and old leaves, smoke in cloth, and distant sea. Boots scuffed quietly on dirt. The silence that only came late, when everyone else was asleep, or pretending to be.

“Can’t sleep either?”

“No.”

“You okay?”

“Just thinking.”

“Night too loud? I've got headphones.”

A pause. Then: “Thanks... I'm missing home.”

“Oh. Me, too..”

“Hm. It's the longest I've been away from it.”

Another pause. “Yeah?”

“I keep wondering if I’d feel different if I got back. Things just magically change.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Fabric creaks. One of them tugs their sleeves down.

“Still mad at him?”

Pause.

“…He just left. You saw how bad it got.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“And he didn’t tell me a word about the Fireflies. Or Caltech.”

“He thought he was protecting you. You know how he is.”

“That’s the problem.”

Another pause. “He said nothing. Just packed up and left. Like I’d only get in the way.”

“I know.”

“You think I meant it?”

“You sounded like you did.”

“I think I did, too. Then. I was just... so angry.”

“But now?”

A defeated sigh. “I don’t know.”

A beat.

“Maya watches the world like he does, too. I noticed.”

“She does that because she learns from him. You can’t raise a kid halfway in, halfway out. You can’t teach them to trust and then disappear when it counts.”

“Yeah, but—” Someone exhales sharply. Tosses a pebble into the fire pit. It hisses. “He came back, didn’t he?”

“Only because we followed him.”

“He came back because he’s never gonna stop coming back. That’s the whole point of him.”

Silence. A reckoning in the dark.

“You know what he told me once?”

“What?”

“He said—he didn’t think people like us got second chances. That we ruin too much. And still, every time he looks at Maya, it’s like he believes she’s the one thing he didn’t fuck up.”

Silence.

“He loves her more than he knows how to say. But he shows it. In everything. That’s the closest someone like him gets to a promise.”

“…he still left.”

“I didn't say he's good at it. He's a goddamn dick. And he was wrong.”

The voice is calm, blunt. Not trying to win. Just telling it as it was.

“But so were you. Saying you’d take her. Like she’s a thing you can lift out of him.”

Quiet again. Then: “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.”

“I just—she’s all I have. Everything good in me went to her. I had to follow him, and I have to keep her safe. Where do I win?”

“Jesus, she is safe.”

“No, I mean... he’ll break her heart someday, I know it.”

“Fuck no. Never Joel.”

“Hmph. You sound sure.”

“He didn’t break me. And the world gave him every reason to.”

Silence again. A longer moment, this time.

“Maya asks about you when you’re not there, right? She misses you. She asks for you. But when Joel’s gone? She watches the door. She won't leave it. That’s the difference.”

A breath.

“You take her away, and you’ll still have her. But she’ll never stop watching that door.”

Then the fire popped. A shift of posture. The brush of hair against cloth.

“He didn’t get to do all that before, you know. The whole marriage and two-parent household thing. Not with…”

Another breath.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Mm-hm.”

“And you’re still thinking about kicking his ass out.”

A creaking silence.

“I’m not good at staying.”

“Me neither.”

“Then why do you?”

A small sound. Could be a laugh or a sigh. “Because he’s good at making me think I can. I’ve seen what that man does when he loves someone.”

“Doesn’t that scare you?”

“No.”

A beat. “It really should.”

“I guess that’s the difference. I'm not scared of him. Not like you are.”

“I'm not scared of Joel.”

“Bite me.”

“It’s more about what he’d give up. For us. For her. What it would turn him into.”

“A dead man.”

No response. But from the dark—

“You think you’re protecting him?”

“I think I’m trying to keep us all breathing.”

“Well. That’s one stupid way to live.”

A rustle. Someone folding their arms. “Do you hate me?”

“What?”

“For saying all this. For thinking it.”

“Of course not. If anything, it makes you more real to me.”

“…But?”

“But if you take her from him—really take her—it’ll kill him.”

“I’m not trying to hurt him.”

The silence after that settles deeper. One of them pokes at the embers with a stick, ash dancing up like fireflies.

Then, softer: “I know. That’s why it would.”

X

As if into the mouth of some ancient beast, the Jackson gates shut behind them with a final clank, steel locking steel, rusting, slow, a reluctant welcome, and for a second, it sounded like a cell door closing.

Joel walked under the shadow of it and didn’t say a word.

The sun hung low on the horizon, flooding the snow-melted streets of Jackson with a weary saffron. Familiar smells maundered through the air—woodsmoke, cattle, hay, pine needles thawing on the wind. There was boisterous laughter somewhere. Hammers. And it all felt just close enough to touch, but not quite real. Like something playing behind a looking glass.

He was back.

Somehow, again, he was still standing. Luck—or stubbornness, someone up there still not ready to let him rest—was still with him. He’d gone to California half-dead and half-stupid, and still made it out. And more than that—they had come for him. Ellie. Leela. They’d followed. Chosen to come after him.

Because he was worth saving. Because someone out there still cared if he lived or died.

That part stuck like a splinter in his chest.

He barely had time to register the weight of it before Tommy was on him, hauling him into a rib-crushing hug, laughing through a wet voice.

“Goddamn, you tough bastard. You just don’t die, huh?”

“Too much to live for, baby brother.”

Joel didn’t hug back. Not at first. Then he did—hands slow, uncooperative, gripping Tommy’s shoulders like he had to feel the bones to believe this was real.

Joel pulled back from Tommy’s grip like he’d just come up for air.

The noise of Jackson started to creep back in—the call of someone on a ladder, boots on pavement, a dog yapping in the distance. All the moving pieces of life.

He turned to his brother, voice low. “Maya?”

Tommy smiled, but it was tight around the edges.

“She’s doin’ just fine,” he said. “Caught the sniffles crying her eyes out, but she’s fine.”

Joel stiffened. “She sick?”

“I said she’s fine, Joel,” Tommy said, firmer this time. “She… she just missed her daddy, is all.”

Joel looked away.

Of course she did. And he hadn’t been there. Not for her fever. Not for the nights she cried herself hoarse. Not for the mornings when she didn’t understand why he hadn’t come back. He’d walked out with nothing but a note and the ghost of an apology, like that would hold up in a house full of silence.

They passed through the main square, Joel’s boots heavy on the stone. It all looked the same; that was what struck him most. The tedium. The cruel, gutting way the world carried on like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t nearly drowned. Like Ellie hadn’t pulled him back from the brink. Like Leela hadn’t followed him into hell and back.

Like Maya hadn’t cried herself sick.

Then, they turned the corner. And there it was.

The big, white house.

For a moment, Joel took it in. How much he missed this place.

Its porch was half-shadowed, steps dusted with snow. The gate creaked in the wind. He used to hear it from the bedroom. Used to fix it every two weeks, he could never find the right hinges. Used to—

He swallowed.

It used to be a shape in the distance. Something he’d catch through the branches of the old oak tree on mornings, sitting like a clean dream against the sky. Back then, it was just a house. Then it was her house. Then his. A home that was anchored in history and laughter, and Leela’s quiet hum as she flipped a page in her notebook. Full of Maya’s shrieks, toy horses skittering across the floor, her squeaky boots thumping against the wood.

Now, it just looked... tall. Unreachable. Like he’d have to climb back up the whole goddamn mountain to get inside again.

He had left something whole and returned to find it grown in his absence, evolved without him—carved deeper, tighter, stronger. Or maybe that was just him. His fear of losing.

Tommy called out, “Maria’s up ahead—she brought baby girl down the block to get some fresh air. Cranky all goddamn morning. She won't listen to anyone unless it's me.”

“Why's that?”

He sighed. “Guess I remind her of her old man.”

Jesus Christ, this was going to hurt like a bitch.

Joel’s head lifted.

And then he saw her.

A small figure on the porch.

Standing just like she used to, on the top step—like she always did when she waited for him after patrol. One mittened hand resting on the railing, the other clutching that old stuffed horse, ears chewed and fur matted from love.

She was watching the path. Waiting. Lips trembling like her whole world had been breaking every hour they were gone.

His feet wouldn’t move.

Her curls were a little softer now, matted, darker. Her coat was buttoned crooked, boots mismatched, nose splotchy from a recovering fever and maybe something else—like she knew something was coming. Some part of her did.

He took a half-step forward and stopped himself.

Then—

“Mama!”

The word left her like a crack splitting open. Her eyes widened. Her whole body leaned forward as if pulled. Arms out. Little hands grabbing at the air.

“Mama, mama—ha—come—Mama—”

It was the kind of sound only babies could make. Too raw to fake, too loud for their size.

And she teetered on the step, wailing.

Not to him. Not even a glance.

Just attempting to barrel forward to her mother, stubby legs churning, the toy horse flopping from her hand.

Joel felt it like a bullet.

Every effort she took—away from him, toward Leela—landed heavy in his gut. It was instinct. Pure. Unforgiving. She had learned that when someone disappears, you hold tighter to the one who doesn’t. The one who stayed.

Joel barely noticed Leela rush past him, knees bending, a ghost trying to reassemble a body—and didn’t even register the blur of movement until she was halfway to the porch, arms already outstretched. Her eyes were wet but unshed, her mouth twitching like she was keeping herself stitched shut by force.

Maya crashed into her, as if her mother made her real.

“Mama, Mama…”

No trembling. No collapse.

And the sound she made then—Joel had never heard it before. Not from her. Not from any baby. It was half-relief, half-fury, all heartbreak. Like something in her had cracked wide open from the waiting.

He staggered, stopped walking altogether.

Leela lifted her, spreading kisses on her cheeks, nose and hair, rocking her like she was trying to put every second of the last few days back inside her arms. Maya’s sobs were hiccuping now, her face buried in Leela’s neck, her whole body trembling.

She pulled Maya in like she meant to disappear with her. Pressed her face into her curls, kissed the top of her head and closed her eyes like that was where all the warmth lived now, shushed her with slow, circular bounces, murmuring nonsense in that gentle, rhythmic tone only mothers had.

“It’s okay, Maya. Shh, Mama’s here now. Mama’s here.”

While Joel stood frozen on the road.

He didn’t know when his hand had clenched into a fist or when his breath had left him.

He didn’t feel anger. Not at Leela. Not even to himself. It was something deeper. Older. Like watching a life he’d dreamed of grow old without him. A desolation.

And Maya—was still crying. Still hiccupping. Her fists balled into Leela’s coat. She hadn’t even looked at him. Or maybe she had, but didn’t know what she was looking for.

He wanted to step closer. Just one more step. Reach out. Soothe her. Say something. But his feet might as well have been nailed to the frozen earth.

He had nothing in his hands. Not even the strength to say her name.

Ellie moved up beside Leela, brushing Maya’s curls back from her sticky, tear-wet face. She said something. Leela nodded. And they all began to walk up the porch steps together.

Joel didn’t follow. Not yet.

He just watched.

Watched how tightly Leela held their daughter. Watched Ellie glance back at him once, her face unreadable, before she jogged past him and followed Maria and Tommy down the road, and away.

Watched his whole life move ahead of him, step by step, without turning around.

Leela’s arms were tight around Maya’s little body, the baby’s sobs quieter now but still hiccupping against her mother’s shoulder.

All he knew was that he’d left all of this behind with nothing but a note and a mission and the idea that maybe, just maybe, he could do something that mattered. Maybe he could fix something.

He eventually trailed behind them like a ghost.

They reached the porch. Leela didn’t pause. Just hitched Maya higher on her hip, the little girl whimpering against her shoulder, and stepped inside.

Maya twisted as they crossed the threshold, her arms flailing, her cries rising in volume. A shrill pleading screech.

“Da-da! Come, come!”

“Maya,” Leela tried to shush.

“No, no! Da-da, pease!”

Her voice punched through him, sharp and high and raw.

“Da-da-da-da—...”

The door closed with a soft, final click. Over.

Somewhere inside, the baby girl's cries still carried over in fresh pricks at his pummeled heart.

Joel stood there, one foot still planted on the step below, like a man halfway to salvation and halfway to hell. He hadn’t moved. His hand—useless at his side—twitched, searching for something it had forgotten how to reach.

The latch echoed louder than any gunshot he’d heard these past weeks.

He stared at the wood grain of the door, the same one he'd walked through a hundred times before, and now couldn’t seem to approach. A stupid part of him still thought maybe it’d open again. That she’d come back, that she’d say—something. Let him hold Maya just once.

But the house stayed still.

So Joel sat. Dropped like a felled thing onto the top step, legs spreading, elbows propped on his knees, fingers pressed to his lips. Because where else did he have to go?

He stared at the dirt packed under the railings, at the porch slats he’d helped mend last summer. He wasn’t sure he had the right to look at any of this anymore.

It hurt to breathe. Not from the bruised ribs or the deep-healing wound in his side. The knowing. The understanding that he’d done this. The rot. The shame. The guilt. The want to fight Leela, argue, and bash against the door.

And when he rubbed a hand over his face, he felt it—wet.

Tears. Real fucking ones.

He stared down at the shine on his fingertips like it was a new language he didn’t speak.

Crying. Goddamn. So he was still capable of that.

After all this time. After the blood. After the fear. After the killing.

It wasn’t the pain of the trip. Not the near-drowning, not the way his ribs still clicked when he breathed too deep. Not even the damage done to Leela’s precious math notebook, still folded at the bottom of his pack like a prayer he couldn’t read.

It was this silence that used to be his favourite harmony. This porch. This big white house across the street, standing like a lighthouse in the middle of the Wyoming snow.

His big, white house.

Or maybe it never had been his. Maybe he’d only been borrowing this life. A thief in someone else’s dream.

In this big dream, he might not be welcome anymore. He’d left thinking he could prove something. That there was still good he could do. That it mattered if he bled for it. That the sacrifice would mean some shit when he brought it back.

Only now—he was just a man sitting on the porch, hands empty, spine bent like a penitent.

He was still the loser. Always had been, hadn't he? A man who couldn't hold onto what mattered, even when it was pressed into his hands. Slipping through his callused fingers, sand in an hourglass.

“Da-da.”

A tiny voice. Raw. Exhausted from crying.

He blinked. Looked down.

Two tiny fists rested against his knee, barely covering them.

She stood there—his baby girl—in her yellow footie pyjamas, curls plastered to her forehead with sweat and tears, her cheeks flushed and snotty, a fist now halfway to her mouth. A warrior, somehow. She looked like she'd marched out here on stubbornness alone.

“Up, up, Da-da,” she said, her voice barely more than a breath, lips rounded to an 'O'.

He didn’t move. His hands stayed clenched on his knees, like he wasn’t sure if they were still allowed to touch her.

He just looked at her—like he was seeing a miracle and wasn’t sure he deserved to touch it. This small miracle with her tangled hair and her crooked little mouth, trying to be brave. Her big brown eyes stared straight through him, full of a deep, solemn thing children shouldn’t carry but sometimes did.

Maya wobbled slightly, off balance, still reaching. Her coat sleeve bunched at the elbow, her fingers finding a fold of his jacket and tugging. It wasn’t strong. It wasn’t a demand. Just a little pull. A tiny act of faith.

“Pease, da-da.”

That was it.

That was all it took.

He broke. Open like a thundercloud. A dam giving way after too many winters.

No big sound. No shudder. Just a quiet, helpless noise from the back of his throat, a beam giving out in a storm, as he leaned forward, reached for her with hands that shook, that had pulled triggers and choked men and now dared to try and lift someone so little and innocent. Someone still his.

He drew her in like she was the only warmth left in the world.

She wrapped her arms around him, little boots stomping onto his ribs, one arm locked around his neck, her fingers fisting the collar of his shirt, and burrowed in like she’d never left him. Like there’d been no time apart. Like he hadn’t abandoned her.

She just clung. The way babies always do. She didn’t care about the mess. Her dainty love hadn’t learned conditions yet.

His throat narrowed, his chest hitched once, sharp—then again, then again. He dropped his face into the crook of her neck and let it come, loosening that lock in him that had been latched since Sarah died. The kind of crying that doesn’t make sound, that just happens. Tears soaking into the fabric of her coat, into her hair, into his beard. He breathed her in like it might fix something, might make him whole.

“I got you, baby girl,” he sniffed.

She smelled like cinnamon. Like sleep. Like their kitchen in the mornings when Leela was fresh from her shower, Maya would toddle in and reach for a bite of breakfast with both hands.

She smelled like everything he’d fought for. Everything he might’ve lost.

Maya leaned back slowly, the softest untangling of her arms, her tiny body still half-draped over his chest. She blinked at him, her brows drawn close in a look far too serious for her little face. Her mouth tugged slightly downward, curious and concerned all at once.

Joel tried to smile for her. Tried to smooth his face. “I'm okay, it's okay.”

But she saw it anyway. The tears, still clinging to his lashes, streaked into his beard.

She stared, her little hand floating uncertainly in the air between them, fingers flexing like she knew there was something she was supposed to do but wasn’t quite sure how.

Then—clumsily, earnestly—she reached up and touched him, just one little hand against his cheek.

Joel looked from her eyes to her palm.

So small, it barely registered, but he felt the gentle tap, the warm pressure. He felt her try to wipe it—like she’d seen done before—dragging her palm across his stubble, awkward, too hard, leaving a streak of baby drool behind.

She sniffed. Then tried again, this time gentler. The way her mama would do it.

“Mm-mm, no,” she told him.

And then—her other hand went to his hair.

A soft, patting motion. Adorable, pure toddler comfort. No finesse, no words.

She looked at him like she was waiting for him to stop crying. Like she believed he could. That he should. Because Mama always did, when she wiped Maya’s tears. Because after the tears came warm arms. And sometimes applesauce.

Joel let out a sound that wasn’t a laugh, wasn’t a sob—just breath. Cracked, quiet. “You takin' care of me?”

His hand cupped the back of her head. His forehead rested against hers, their noses nearly touching. Her fingers were still in his hair.

“Da-da, no, no,” she resonated.

Joel’s heart clenched again—but differently this time. More like remembering what it was for. Beating for her. Alive for this.

He kissed her temple, the warmth of her skin soaking through his bones.

For a moment, the world held still.

No howling wind. No boots on snow. No years of silence pressing down between now and what he’d lost. Just this: the tiny weight of her heart against his chest. Her trust, folded into his jacket like a brass button or her mama's ring in his pocket.

The floorboard behind him creaked.

Joel didn’t lift his head. He felt her before he saw her. The air changed when Leela entered a space—like some internal pressure recalibrated. Softer, but tighter. She didn’t take up more room than she needed, never had. But somehow, her presence always rearranged it.

She stepped to the railing beside him and leaned, arms resting along the wood. The porch light behind her cast a low, golden ring along her dark, frizzed-out hair on her shoulders. The fire inside flickered behind the curtains.

She said nothing at first. Just looked at him. Looked at them.

Like she was trying to map it out—this man, this child, this picture she couldn’t quite trust yet, this picture that didn’t match the one she’d carried around for too long—of absence, of damage, of a man who left too much behind.

Joel didn’t look at her straight on. His eyes stayed on the horizon past the railing, that dim stretch of pine and powder blue, mountains against the dusk that bled into dark. He could feel her gaze, though. The questions in it. The ache. The absence they were both pretending didn’t sit between them like a third body.

“Joel,” she murmured, the first ripple on still water.

He swallowed. His arms tightened almost instinctively around Maya, who shifted with a faint hum, fist tucked against her mouth once more.

“Just let me hold her for a bit,” he said. It came out low, like an apology, or a prayer through gritted teeth.

A breath passed. Then, quietly—

“You can hold her as long as you want.”

He finally looked at her. Her face was turned to the dark, but he could see the fine edge of exhaustion there. Not the kind that came from no sleep—but from too many nights spent enduring what no one saw.

Her voice was softer when she added, “Do you want to shower first?”

Joel blinked, the words hitting him sideways. What a normal fucking thing to say. So regular.

His mind fumbled with it—like she'd offered him a cup of coffee in a warzone. Like there hadn’t been a canyon gaping between them only days ago, carved out by silence and anger and too many things said too late.

The absurdity of it almost made him laugh. Almost. But the sound got stuck somewhere in his throat, tangled with something older and harder.

The wind stirred again, tugging at the hem of her sweater. She didn’t smooth it down. Just let it flutter around her thighs like she didn’t feel the cold.

“Leela,” he said, low, worn, like gravel under tired boots.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak right away. Just leaned a little further into the porch railing, her fingers curled loose around the wood. Shoulders rising. Falling.

Quieter this time—less like she believed it, more like she needed to—“Come inside, Joel.”

Not an invitation. Not a plea. Just something said because it had to be. Like muscle memory. Like faith said out loud.

“You don’t belong anywhere else.” A beat. Then, “And it’s cold outside.”

Joel looked down at the little girl in his arms. Maya’s cheek was pressed to his chest, her lips parted, her breath warm through his shirt. Her small hand clung to the collar of his jacket like she thought he might still disappear if she let go.

He felt it again—his daughter. His reminder. His consequence.

She came to me, he thought. She still comes to me.

Even now. After everything.

He shifted his weight and rose, careful not to jostle Maya. His knees ached. That old pain in his spine flared, but he barely felt it. She was heavier than he remembered. That, too, was a gift.

Across from him, Leela didn’t move. She didn’t offer him a hand. Didn’t clear the way. But she didn’t block it, either.

The door behind her stayed open.

Oh, here they were again.

Same porch. Same house. Same damn man, more or less.

But different. He wasn’t pounding on the door this time. Wasn’t driven half-mad by a baby that wouldn’t stop crying. He wasn’t walking in blind and bitter and ready to do a good thing just to silence a bad one.

Now he carried that baby in his arms. His baby. His girl.

And Leela—she was the one with the door now. Not just the one behind him. The one she kept closed for years, locked and latched and bolted from the inside, because too many people had barged through without asking.

Joel stepped forward.

Not past her. Not through her. To her.

The space between them was close. Intimate. He stopped just short of touching her, close enough to feel her breath ghosting warm in the cold.

She turned her head, finally. Just enough to see him.

Their eyes met. A half-second. A heartbeat.

There was no forgiveness in that look. Only recognition. And maybe—God help them both—want. A bit of love. Still there, under the rubble and the ruin.

He didn’t say, Thank you. Couldn’t. Didn’t think they’d be enough if he did. And she didn’t say, Welcome home.

When he stepped through the door beside her, the warmth met him like a memory.

As he crossed the threshold, this time he came to carry it all. To be part of it.

Maya stirred in his arms, murmuring something soft and wordless. Her thumb found her mouth again. Her head dropped against his shoulder like she knew this place of hers. Like her little body remembered what his mind kept trying to forget.

Joel blinked hard, the air in his lungs thick.

It was the same spot he’d once stood when he almost didn’t come back. When he’d looked at Leela in that doorway and thought about forgetting this ever happened.

Now she stood just behind him. A quiet key turning in an old, rusted lock.

And he thought: This is how it happens. Not with a grand gesture. Not with a reckoning or a flood of apologies. Not with big dreams of another life coming crashing down.

But like this.

A door not closed in anger. A man not barging in. A home not yet reclaimed, but not lost either.

Step by step. Word by word. Warmth bleeding slowly into cold skin.

Not a finish line or a full repair.

A place to start again.

One last time.

X

taglist 🫶: @darknight3904 , @guiltyasdave , @letsgobarbs , @helskemes , @jodiswiftle , @tinawantstobeadoll , @bergamote-catsandbooks , @cheekychaos28 , @randofantfic , @justagalwhowrites , @emerald-evans , @amyispxnk , @corazondebeskar-reads , @wildemaven , @tuquoquebrute , @elli3williams , @bluemusickid , @bumblepony , @legoemma , @chantelle-mh , @heartlessvirgo , @possiblyafangirl , @pedropascalsbbg , @oolongreads -> @kaseynsfws , @prose-before-hoes , @kateg88 , @laliceee , @escaping-reality8 , @mystickittytaco , @penvisions , @elliaze , @eviispunk , @lola-lola-lola , @peepawispunk , @sarahhxx03 , @julielightwood , @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi , @arten1234 , @jhiddles03 , @everinlove , @nobodycanknoww , @ashleyfilm , @rainbowcosmicchaos , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @orcasoul , @nunya7394 , @noisynightmarepoetry , @picketniffler , @ameagrice , @mojaveghst , @dinomecanico , @guelyury , @staytrueblue , @queenb-42069 , @suzysface , @btskzfav , @ali-in-w0nderland , @ashhlsstuff , @devotedlypaleluminary , @sagexsenorita , @serenadingtigers , @yourgirlcin , @henrywintersgun , @jadagirl15 , @misshoneypaper , @lunnaisjustvibing , @enchantingchildkitten , @senhoritamayblog , @isla-finke-blog , @millercontracting , @tinawantstobeadoll , @funerals-with-cake , @txlady37 , @inasunlitroom , @clya4 , @callmebyyournick-name , @axshadows , @littlemissoblivious } - thank you!! awwwww we're like a little family <3

“”

[snoopysupe]

Scott Street:

Joel Miller x Fem!OC

Preview

Rating: M (18+)

Summary:

The Outbreak of the Cordyceps Virus in 2003 had stole humanity on Earth to all that knew life before it.

Twenty years later, the humanity that was left stole the life of Valeria Pérez, tossing her to the wild, with a knife and a swollen stomach.

With a narrow percentage of survival, Valeria had survived against all odds and faced the daunting task of newfound motherhood in a world that noise would cost a life.

With only herself as navigation, Valeria strived to find a safe haven for her baby and her. Through the grapevine, Jackson Hole, Wyoming, was the destination and Valeria would go great lengths to get to their so-called paradisal utopia.

On the way, Valeria meets presumably, a father and daughter duo at the end of the barrel of a gun.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Fem!OC

Fic Warning: Please proceed with caution! Mentions of blood, violence, death, kidnapping, torture & r*pe. Child birth in detail. Also explicit language. I will continue to list the trigger warnings prior to the chapter starting. This is slow(ish) burn romance between OC and Joel Miller.

Preview of upcoming chapter:    

“You fucking pointing your gun at my baby?” Vale’s voice had turned making him side-eye her with a small ounce of fear bouncing in them. Vale was seething, obviously feeling threatened as Joel dropped his gun to the floor and raised his hands in surrender. Not wanting brain matter to be the last thing Ellie or the baby had seen of him.

Ellie took a step forward, “Vale, it’s OK.”

        "No, no. It's not OK." Joel spoke. "You brought a fuckin' kid into this world? Huh?" He was trying to dominate the situation that had his hands tied behind his back.

        Ellie threw him a look. She knew the consequences if Joel were to deliberately press buttons that would set Vale off. Considering he had a loaded gun to his head and had just severely pissed the older female off by pointing his gun at her baby, the kid knew his chances of survival were slim if there were anymore verbal mistakes on his part.

        Although, he may have already surpassed that boundary by the look on Vale's face. The accusation slipped so effortlessly out of Joel's mouth and it caused a growing lump in Vale's throat that she tried to swallow down.

       "You think I had a choice, Joel?" Vale croaked. Her eyes followed the male as he turned to look at her, the gun pointing between his eyes. "You think there's a doctor that could've gotten rid of her?"

        "Then who else is here?" Joel avoided her question with another, "You lied to us."

        "Joel—"

        "—No one else is fucking here."

        Joel raised his voice, "Then who the fuck helped deliver that kid?"

        "I did it myself!" Vale shouted, her eyes never leaving Joel’s as the baby began to sniffle at the raised voices. Vale wobbled, “You—You think I had help here? I carried her for nine months, looked after the pair of us for nine months and then brought her into this fucked up world, by myself. I’ve spent seven months of my life pretending the outside was survivable. For her.”

Taglist: @picketniffler @girlwith-thepearlearring @pedropascalswifeyyy @fanfaric @fakeflowersandcandles @bowsnbang @brigcally - thank u all for confirming that u would like this fic created! let me know if you would like to be added/removed :)

A/N: rip to my husband, joel miller. mwah, i think about u all the time.

hello, welcome to scott street (!!!) this will be more or less based off of the show but please correct me down the line if my storyline is not cohesive lmao. also heads up, sometimes for self indulgence i change things cause i would EAT joel miller for breakfast.

ok, i have never posted a fic on tumblr, no idea how the layout etc is supposed to be bc i was a wattpad girly. please have patience w/ me i’m not very tech savvy (don’t look at my account on a computer bc i don’t even know what the layout looks like anymore) and my writing is mediocre at best! these may be slow updates bc tmi i also have a seven month old baby (INSPO???) but i will try my best to get chapters out once their properly polished off from the dusty 2023 drafts shelf. feedback is always welcomed but pls be gentle, i’m in my postpartum sensitive era. enjoy!

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Healed Masterlist

"You saved his life. I'm asking you to help him keep it."

Joel Miller x Doctor Reader

Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Summary: After Joel's suffering at the hands of Abby, he survives. You, a new resident of Jackson, are tasked with healing him, bringing him back to life in more ways than one. Warnings: alternating pov, injury, eventual smut, mutual pining, fluff, domesticity in the apocalypse, joel survives, medical jargon, blood, sponge baths Chapters will have individual warnings.

Masterlist

Chapter 1 - Convalescence

—- Please let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list!

[cxrsed-angel]

Pedro Pascal Characters Masterlist:

Joel Miller:

Overtime 18+ (smut) :You stay late after work with Joel at his construction office.

Once Bitten and Twice Shy (fluff) : Joel regains the holiday spirit after reuniting with you in Jackson

Knuckle Deep in the Backseat 18+ (smut): Joel convinced you to learn how to drive and offers to teach you, but ends up in the back seat with you.

Key Hooks (fluff) : After Joel repeatedly loses his keys after you suggest a key dish. He finally gets a key hook and has a suggestion of his own.

Girls Night Out (fluff): Joel takes care of you after your first girl's night out.

Attatchment Issues (angst): Joel goes out on a camping trip with Joel, and you miss him more than you expected.

Similar Worries (angst): You and Joel confide in each other about your shared worries and anxieties.

I ♡︎ Dilfs 18+ (smut): You find a old graphic baby tee in whats left of the old mall and teases Joel about his dilfness.

Marcus Acacius:

Epistolae (fluff): After two months of not hearing back from your husband while he's fighting a war, you worry about him and fear that he he may not be coming back to you alive, you re-read his previous letters as an attempt to calm your anxieties.

Reed Richards:

Office Hours with Dr. Richards 18+ (smut) : You've been struggling in your intro to physics class and decide to see Dr. Richards at his office hour for help with the homework he assigned.

Javier Peña:

Booty Call (Smut): Javier calls for a booty call and of course you cant say no, even its the first time he’s coming over to your place.

Never Have I Ever (fluff/smut adjacent?): A game of never have I ever leads to you sending the stranger in the black jacket a drink

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part xi)

summary: Joel is too far from home, travelling and surviving once again, for a purpose.

a/n: buckle up, this is a looooong one. I wanted to share all the journey and the loss in a single chapter, initially, I wanted to break it into two, but it only made sense here to have it done with. Please take this with a grain of salt, and understand the world of TLOU is difficult and irredeemable. bad shit happens, you can't stop it. okay, let's do this!

word count: 19,000 + [ I had an ask from a sweet anon who wanted this included. hello! I hope you can estimate your reading time now, thanks for letting me know :) ]

DAY 1: EN ROUTE TO CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES - APPROX. FOURTEEN HOURS SOUTH OF JACKSON, SOMEWHERE PAST SALT LAKE CITY.

Regrets and worries. Joel knew now—they weren’t the same. Not even close. Two different beasts, pulling in opposite directions. One stalked behind you, the other ahead. He had both nipping at his heels.

Regret caught up fast enough. It had already happened, and there was no undoing it. Hated that shit to the core. And worry? Well, he was so used to seeing its back before him now, just waiting for it fuck up. Together, they twisted in his gut. Frayed wires, snarled and buzzing, so tangled he couldn’t tell which was which anymore.

Not here, not now—lying on the splintered floorboards of some half-collapsed home, walls paper-thin against the hiss of falling snow outside, air cold enough it bit the inside of his nose when he breathed too deep.

The cabin was barely standing. Roof half gone, one wall caved in, and wind came through the boards like breath through teeth. It was shelter in the loosest sense—four walls and a place to keep his back to. That’d have to be enough.

The stew sat like lead in his stomach. Came out of a battered can, label long gone. Might’ve been beef. Might’ve been dog food. Probably expired a decade ago. He didn’t care. Shoved it down like punishment. Energy was energy. Didn’t matter how it tasted going in—only that it stayed down. Now, though, his gut churned like it disagreed. Violently.

With the rifle close at hand, Joel sat with his legs stretched out, boots frozen stiff with slush, snow melting slowly off his jacket shoulders. He hadn’t bothered stripping out of his gear. No point. Cold like this, alone out here, you didn’t sleep long anyway.

He’d been riding for fourteen hours. Maybe more. He’d stopped keeping track somewhere past hour ten. Through rough terrain, past the last of the patrol lines, past roads that weren’t really roads anymore, just veins through snow-covered land that didn’t feel real. The map crumpled in his jacket wasn’t worth shit now. Just paper soaked with sweat and hope.

And fuck this snow. It wasn’t just cold—it was fucking brutal. It soaked through seams, dulled the edges of his vision, and turned the horse into a slipping mess of nerves and bone. He couldn’t wait to hit the open heat again—past Vegas, past the mountains, back where the sky turned gold and didn’t bite.

Vegas. Jesus, he’d be riding past it soon. What a weird thought. He’d never liked that place. Clinking noise and vice and strobe lights that didn’t mean anything. Still, the thought of it almost felt like an assurance now—like anything would be better than this stretch of cold emptiness.

The sun had set and risen without his permission, and the horse was starting to limp. He’d have to rest it come morning. If there was a morning. This part of the country didn’t feel like it had days anymore—just gray stretches of silence between dusk and deeper dusk.

And still, sleep wouldn’t come.

He rolled something between his fingers—small, brass, worn, warm from the heat of his palm. A button. Not from anything he’d owned. Probably from a coat someone lost before the world went to hell. Maya had picked it up off the road during the summer, on their way back home from dinner at Tommy's. He remembered her squealing when she spotted it, stubby fingers plucking it out of the dirt like gold, and handing it to him later, bestowing him a treasure, her tiny gummy smile vast as anything.

He’d kept it ever since. Didn’t matter what it came from. The button was hers, then his. It hadn’t left his pocket since.

He squeezed it between his fingers, thumb brushing the grooves, meeting his lip just once, and tucked it away again.

He hadn’t said much when he left. Tommy met him in the barn before sunrise, lit only by a lantern swinging from a nail. The horses had been restless. Cold was coming in through the slats, and Joel had cinched the saddle like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Tommy had offered to go—thrice. Said it didn’t sit right, Joel riding out alone. But Joel had shaken his head.

“You stay here. For my girls.”

He didn’t trust anyone else to watch over them. Not the way Tommy would. “Just make sure they eat and sleep. That they know I'm doin' fine. You hear me?”

Tommy didn’t argue after that. Just handed him the reins and clapped his shoulder once. It was enough, maybe more than enough.

He’d ridden out before the light touched the mountains, the sound of the gate swinging shut behind him like a period at the end of a sentence.

Just yesterday—just yesterday—he’d been home. His home. The big white house, on the edge of Jackson with the bramble bushes out back and Leela’s cursive handwriting on the walls in pencil, tiny indelible equations scrawled between coat hooks and door frames.

Maya had held onto his finger compliantly, in her too-thick coat, dragging her plastic basket across the frost-hardened ground, and crouched beside him in the garden beds as they picked out what her mama had wanted for dinner. Carrots, lumpy and sweet. A head of cauliflower. All collected in her basket, while Joel wondered out loud to her, that maybe Leela was making that spicy stew of hers, with sumac and saffron.

And that night—he’d had Leela’s breath in his ear, her hand latched around his. They’d curled up together under that white duvet, head resting close, her thumb drawing soft, slow circles into his palm until he drifted off.

Now here he was.

Cold. Dirty. Bone-tired. Alone. Chasing ghosts toward a city he hadn’t seen in decades.

He leaned back until his head tapped the wood behind him, and let out a breath. It fogged up in front of him and vanished.

“Screw it,” he muttered.

The backpack was by his side, half-buried in snow-dust. He pulled it closer, unzipped it with numb fingers. Inside, wrapped tight in old linen, was Leela’s notebook—the one with her proofs, her ideas, the kind of math that gave him a migraine. The one he was risking everything to deliver.

Tucked beneath it were two small tape recorders. But—there were two of them, same make, scratched from use. He’d grabbed both in a rush. One of them had her logs, her working thoughts on the Riemann Hypothesis. The other… who knew.

It didn’t matter. He needed her. Her voice. Even if it was just numbers and theorems he didn’t understand. Even if it was her being brilliant in a way that left him in the dust. Something to make the world feel less far.

Joel held one to his chest a moment. Closed his eyes. Thumb hovering over the play button for a moment before he pressed it.

The machine clicked. The static cleared. A brief hiss.

And then, for a second, all Joel could hear was the wind scratching at the seams of the broken-down cabin. Then came her voice—soft, unsure.

He smiled, exhaled, and let the recorder rest on his chest. Ready for sleep.

X

L.REED MAYA INFANCY DEVELOPMENT LOG – AUDIO FILE #9

(Click. The soft static of the recorder kicks in. There's a rustling sound, like someone adjusting a blanket or shifting in bed. Then, Leela's voice—gentle, low, a little breathless, like she’s just settled in beside someone small and wriggly. Maya.)

“You wanna say 'hi'? Hi?”

(Maya hums. Coos softly before saying—) “Hah.”

(Leela laughs.) “Close enough. Okay, so. It is August the seventeenth. Time is… very late.” (A soft snort.) “Um, two-twelve a.m. Bedroom. Maya, age eight months.”

(A soft, gurgling coo interrupts. Then a thump-thump—like a baby kicking her feet against the mattress. Leela exhales a smile into the mic.)

“Baby girl is vocalizing consistently. Her consonant-vowel chains are stronger. Lots of ‘ba-ba’, ‘ga-ga’, ‘ta-ta’, occasionally ‘da’. This morning, I caught her mimicking Joel yawning and singing. She’s watching his lips more, listening to intonation. Repeating the pitch, if not the structure.”

(More babbling now. Higher-pitched. Happier. Leela’s voice quiets slightly, as if leaning in.)

“But just now…” (a pause, soft disbelief flickering in her voice) “…she said ‘Mama.’”

(There’s a quiet moment. A little sniff from Leela, then a huff of a laugh.)

“I was holding her, rocking her. She had her hand on my lips, just as I taught her to express ‘I love you’. Looked me dead in the eye. And said it.”

(Maya giggles, wet and delighted, then says it again—muffled but distinct) “Mamamamama.”

“That. Right there. Did you hear that?” (Leela’s voice wavers, thickens with emotion she’s trying not to name.) “Omigosh, baby.”

(We can hear Maya closer now, her soft breaths, her curious coos.)

“You wanna say that for me, please? Can you say 'Mama' one more time?”

(Soft, adorable, Maya speaks.) “Mama.”

(Leela giggles.) “Yeah?”

(She's excited, seeing her mother smile.) “Maaaa!”

“Maya's first word. Not just a sound. Not just noise. She meant me.”

(Another pause, the rustling of blankets. Leela’s voice softens even more, almost like she’s speaking to herself now.)

“My baby is growing so fast, learning, laughing daily, and it's all Joel. He speaks to her so much, it's no wonder she wants to talk right back at him. But I don’t know what I expected. I mean, I’ve studied this a little from that old baby book Mom had lying around in storage. I know the milestones. The phoneme acquisition timeline. But hearing it…”

(She stops. A breath. Then, quieter—) “It made me feel real. Like I didn’t just survive her. Like maybe I was meant to be her mother after all.”

(Maya babbles in the background, then lets out a little sigh and flops back against the mattress. Leela chuckles softly, tired.)

“She does this cute thing with her hands when she’s trying to form new sounds. Presses her fingers to her mouth like she’s shaping the word. Like she’s building it.”

(A beat. Then Leela's voice dips into playfulness—dry, teasing, a rare glint of humor.)

“She’s smarter than me, I know it. It’s totally fine. I’ll just be the one who cuts up her fruit and explains Hilbert spaces until she’s old enough to tell me to stop.”

(The door creaks open. Joel’s voice enters the room, low and gravelly, but softened with affection.)

“You still up, darlin'? Jesus, go to bed already.” (His boots thud quietly against the floor as he steps in. A pause. Then the sound of a kiss—quiet, slow. A press of lips to Leela’s temple.) “Doin’ experiments with the poor kid again? Hi, baby girl.”

(Leela hums, leaning into him whilst Maya squeals in excitement at Joel's arrival.) “Infancy development log for future purposes. Joel, come sit. Listen, listen. Maya said her first word.”

(There’s a beat. Joel exhales like he’s trying to hide a smile. He shifts closer—more rustling, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight as he sits beside them. Maya lets out a soft coo.)

“Yeah?” (His voice is quieter now, touched with awe.) “What’d she say?”

(Leela pauses. Her voice is a little breathless when she finally answers.) “She said 'Mama.'”

(Joel is quiet. Then—he laughs under his breath, low, warm and a little stunned. A laugh that carries years in it.)

“Course she did. Trouble and a traitor.” (A kiss, this time to his baby’s head.) “Smartass, just like you.”

(Maya babbles off-screen—happy nonsense, punctuated with a triumphant little—) “Mama!”

(Leela half-laughs, disbelieving) “Hear that? Again and again. No prompting, Joel. Just—‘Mama.’ Like she knew.”

(Another tiny voice from the baby.) “Maaaaaama.”

(Joel sighs like a man personally betrayed.) “Wow. She’s on a roll.”

“You seem jealous.”

(Joel, in mock offence) “Psh. Jealous, schmealous.” (Then addresses Maya directly, lowly.) “You know how many nappies I’ve changed for you, trouble? How many times I’ve walked you around this house at two in the damn morning?”

(He leans closer, pitching his voice hopeful and coaxing.) “Say Da-da. Come on, baby girl. Just once. Da-da.”

(Maya hushes. Then lets out another cheerful—) “Mama.”

“She’s doin’ it on fuckin' purpose.”

“She’s a baby.”

“She’s my baby. Which means she’s bein’ a pain in my ass on purpose.”

(The static is filled with the sound of Joel scooping her up, lifting her overhead with ease—Maya giggles, squeals, kicks her feet.)

(Joel playfully threatens.) “That it? You say 'Mama' one more time and I swear to God, I’m throwin’ you in the trash.”

(Maya hiccups out another: “Mama!” then laughs like she knows exactly what she’s doing. Leela bursts out laughing behind the recorder.)

“Right, you're with the raccoons now. C’mere, you lil’ menace.” (He smothers a chuckle with a deep kiss against Maya's cheek.)

(Leela's teasing does not cease.) “Go ahead. She’ll climb back out.”

“She’s got your damn mouth. And your attitude.”

(Leela’s voice, still recording, drops into a whisper—proud and fragile.) “Cannot believe she picked me.”

(Joel snickers.) “Yeah, baby. But we’re all hers now.”

(Click.)

X

DAY 2: EN ROUTE TO CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES - APPROX. TWENTY-SIX HOURS SOUTH OF JACKSON.

You know how when you're completely alone, and there’s nothing left to look at but the walls, nothing to hear but the ticking of your own breath? When there’s no noise, no job, no person, no purpose to pull you away from the one thing that's been haunting the edges of your mind?

That’s where Joel was. No goddamn purpose except forward.

The road stretched ahead like a savage scar across the earth—silent, broken, endless. The only sound was the dull rhythm of hooves on packed dirt and the occasional creak of the saddle under Joel’s weight. His ribs throbbed with every breath.

No talking. No laughter. No baby cries. Just him, the horse, and the wind. It was in that kind of silence—complete, bone-deep—that the memory found him. The quiet made space for things he didn’t want.

It wasn’t even something big. Not some major milestone, holiday, or sweet, cinematic moment he could cling to like a lifeline.

Just a soft thing. A quiet day. It had been raining since morning, their first wave of summer storms.

It was not hard, not a downpour, just that steady mountain drizzle that turned everything gray and soft, that blurred the windows and hushed the world, made the house smaller and cozier. Inside this cushy room he'd made for his little girl, the air was scented of old cotton, wood, and whatever Maya had wiped on his shirt earlier.

Joel had stood in the nursery, one arm braced on the crib’s rail, the other setting down a freshly folded onesie on a small, lopsided pile. The window had been cracked, just an inch, enough to let in petrichor and the patter of water on the roof. The rhythm of it folded itself into the room like background music—so familiar he barely noticed it anymore, like a breath or heartbeats.

The laundry was warm from the dryer, and the little pink crib had become a makeshift laundry basket—tiny socks, soft bloomers, onesies with Leela's sweet embroideries of bears, owls, stars, and moons, all heaped together like a colourful cloud.

Maya, just a hair past eight months, sat squarely in the middle of the pile, the clean laundry heaped around her like a nest. She had one sock in each hand, neither matching, and looked at them like she was weighing philosophical truths. Her dark curls were sticking up in fuzzy snares. Her legs were crossed, her posture oddly regal—like she’d appointed herself queen of the sock mountain.

Joel glanced at her, then down at the onesie in his hand. It had a bear on the front, kind of wonky, with one eye stitched lower than the other.

He let out a soft huff through his nose. “I keep meanin’ to ask your mama to patch that bear’s eye. Looks like he’s been through some shit, right?”

Maya blinked at him, then looked back at her socks, utterly unbothered.

Joel folded the onesie and stacked it. “Yeah. Damn garden’s gonna be drowned if this rain keeps up,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. “See, I told Mama not to put that basil down near the low spot, but she won’t listen. You’ll see when you’re older—ain’t no one listening to the man with the shovel.”

Maya scrunched one of the socks in her hand, held it up, and gave him a look like, Is this even a sock or is it something greater?

Joel chuckled. “Yeah, I know. Socks. Don’t make no sense, huh?”

He reached over and gently tugged one of the matching pairs out of the pile. “This your big contribution?” he asked. “You fold this one? Looks like it got run over by a possum.”

Maya made a quiet noise—something between a hum and a grunt—and waved both socks in the air like streamers. Joel looked up again, and this time, he softened.

“I see you, baby girl,” he murmured. “Workin’ real hard.”

She blinked at him, pleased with herself, and stuck one sock on her foot over the other one she was already wearing.

“That’s it,” Joel hummed. “Yeah, two socks on one foot. Tyra Banks, you are. You’re gonna revolutionize the whole town.”

And suddenly she was a firecracker of excitement in her double-layered socks. She was up on her feet, squealing, “Da-da-da-da!”

Her little bare feet thudded softly on the crib mattress as she twirled, arms stretched out like wings. The flannel dress—a new one, made by her Mama, cut from one of Joel’s old shirts—fanned out around her like a pinwheel. The plaid knots at her shoulders bounced with every turn, and the fabric spun around her legs with a gentle swish, like the hush of wind through leaves.

Maya made a breathy sound with each spin—a little “hah!” like surprise was bubbling out of her chest. Her curls, puffed up from the static, lifted with each whirl, a halo of chaos above her head. She looked like joy personified: loose, unselfconscious, free.

Joel, sock still half-folded in his hands, couldn’t help but watch. Something about her face in that moment—the pure glee, the trust in the world—grew a warm ache. The kind you didn’t know how to carry, because it was too good. Too fleeting.

“Look at you,” he said, quiet. “You like that dress, huh? That’s Daddy’s old shirt, you know.”

Maya squealed but didn’t answer, too caught up in her spinning. Until her balance gave out. She toppled sideways into the cloth hill with a wild, delighted shriek, caught herself on her hands, and let out a giggle.

He opened his mouth to warn her to slow down—when the thunder cracked.

It came like the snap of a tree limb overhead—sharp, sudden, alive with force. The windows rattled in their frames.

The sound wiped the joy clean off her face. Her arms dropped. Her breath caught in her throat. She pivoted toward the window, her expression one of stunned betrayal—like the world had just raised its voice at her for the first time.

Then she moved.

Ran straight at Joel, flung herself against the crib rails, fingers latching onto his jeans like she could climb up into his skin. She didn’t cry, not yet. But her whole body was taut and trembling. Her face was still turned toward the glass, mouth parted, trying to understand the sky.

He saw the tiny tremble in her lower lip, the way two fingers picked at them nervously, the way her eyebrows drew tight, a wrinkle forming between them like a shadow.

Another thunder roll followed. This one longer, deeper. It crawled over the house like a prowling animal, ploughing into the roof.

Maya let out a whimper—not loud, but helpless. She looked up at him, big eyes wide, uneasy, and in a voice cracked with fear, she whispered, “Da-da, mhmm. Up, pease.”

Joel didn’t answer. He moved first.

In two strides, he was at the open window. He reached up and slammed it shut with the heel of his palm. The muffled silence afterward was almost a relief, just the soft percussion of rain on the roof.

“There we go. Nothin', it's gone now.”

Then he came back to her, crouched down, arms open before she even reached him. She crashed into his chest with a panicked little cry, climbing up him like he was a tree, tiny fingers clawing for purchase in his shirt, breaths shallow.

“I got you, honey,” he murmured to her as he stood, lifting her up against him. “You’re alright. I got you, baby girl.”

Another boom rolled over the mountains—long, low, rumbling—and she whimpered, her face pressed into his neck, her whole body trembling against his.

He gathered her up and lowered himself slowly to the rug. Sat cross-legged, grunting, settling herself in the crook of his chest. He curled himself around her like a shelter, drawing her in until she was tucked fully against his chest. Her bare toes nudged under his arm, one arm trapped between their chests, the other clutching his collar in a death grip.

“It’s just the sky talkin' to you,” he said, soft against the crown of her head. “Ain’t nothin’ but the sky being all big and loud for its favourite little girl.”

Another crack of thunder, and she jumped.

“Ahh, no, no, no da-da!”

“Okay, okay. Ssh.”

That’s when Joel gently brought his hands up to her ears—those big, calloused palms, rough from years of labour but soft now, careful as he cupped her tiny head. He didn’t press, didn’t smother—just curved them over her ears like a living shield. Just enough to hush the worst of the world.

“There,” he whispered, voice tucked low in his throat, like a secret just for her. “That better, baby?”

She only sagged into him, her whole weight melting down like her bones had gone soft. Her breath came fast, shallow little gasps against his neck, her cheeks hot and wet where her tears were soaking straight through his shirt.

Joel’s chest clenched.

“Shh, hey now,” he murmured, rocking her gently, like he’d done when she was still small enough to fit in one forearm. “Ain’t no storm gonna touch you. Not while you’re right here with me.”

He pushed a kiss to her temple—warm, lingering—then rested his cheek against her curls, letting himself sink into her warmth too. Her curls were soft against his stubbled jaw, but still quivering like a frightened baby bird. Every flinch of hers felt like a blow to his own ribs.

The next clap of thunder rolled in, less sharp now but still loud, echoing through the valley.

She flinched again—hard—and bowed into herself even tighter, like she was trying to disappear inside his chest. Her lip quivered, her little shoulders jumping beneath his hands.

Joel tucked her closer, wrapped himself around her, every muscle taut with the instinct to protect. To cover.

“It’s okay,” he soothed, peppering kisses wherever he could. “Almost over, sweetheart.”

His hands moved—slow, pacifying—one cradling the back of her head, the other rubbing small circles between her shoulder blades. He could feel her heart racing under his palm, tiny and frantic. Like a hummingbird. But with each pass of his hand, it began to slow, just a little.

Outside, the thunder rumbled again. Softer now. Farther away. Tired, fading.

Joel didn’t move his hands. Just kept holding her, kept being the still point in the storm, the rock she could anchor to.

“You hear that?” he said, reaching down to brush his thumb against her eyes and wipe the tears away. “Storm’s gettin’ tired. Runnin’ outta gas.”

And as the rain gentled on the roof, Maya’s breath began to slow. Her tiny fists, once knotted in his shirt, loosened, fingers going slack. Her lashes fluttered against his collarbone like moth wings. Not asleep—but safe. Settled.

After a minute, she shifted. Pulled back just enough to sit upright in his lap, still nestled between his knees. Her legs folded beneath her, toes peeking out under the hem of her dress. She didn’t say anything—just found one of the buttons on his shirt and started turning it slowly with her fingers, brow furrowed.

Then she looked up. Big, brown, still-wet eyes. A pout like a petal turned down, cheeks sticky with the last of her tears. Her curls were a damp halo, and her bottom lip wobbled, just a little.

Joel leaned in, forehead leaning gently against hers. Let their warmth meet in the middle.

“Hey. Doesn’t stand a goddamn chance against you and me, right?” he asked in a whisper.

Maya blinked up at him. Then touched her fingers to her lips—soft and sweet—and pressed them to his. That little 'I love you' trick again. She gave it off so freely sometimes, to Ellie all the time, to Maria, even Tommy, who bugged the hell out of her.

He gave a breath of a laugh, quiet and rough-edged. His eyes closed as he felt her tiny hand against his mouth.

“I love you too,” he murmured, catching her little hand between two cautious fingers, rubbing the bare lines there. His fingertips barely spanned her palm, this tiny little thing that trusted him to hold her through her first storm.

Let it thunder, he had thought then. Let it break the whole damn sky. It wouldn’t get to her. Not here. Not while he was breathing.

That memory bloomed behind Joel’s eyes like a flame in the cold.

He blinked, slow, pulled back to reality by the enduring rhythm of the horse’s hooves. Wind whipped around his straight collar. His ribs ached with every breath.

Forever was a grandiose fucking myth. That soft, rainy day might as well’ve been a dream. A world made of cotton and woodsmoke and spinning plaid dresses. Twenty hours behind him. Maybe a thousand miles. Maybe gone forever.

And if she was scared now? If the thunder came again and she reached for him, he wouldn’t be there.

All he had now was the ghost of her breath on his neck. The echo of her trust. The weight of his baby girl he could still feel in his arms, though she wasn’t there.

Joel hunched deeper into his coat, reins pulled taut, leather digging into his palm.

Because the storm hadn’t left him. It had just moved inside.

X

DAY 2: EN ROUTE TO CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES - APPROX. TWENTY-SEVEN HOURS SOUTH OF JACKSON, JUST PAST GRAND JUNCTION, COLORADO

The first thing that hit him was the same goddamn cold.

Not the kind he was used to, that stung his fingers or turned his breath white—but the kind that stole. That lung-squeezing, bone-hollowing cold that came with being slammed headfirst into a river in the middle of no-fucking-where.

It engulfed him whole.

Joel’s skull cracked against stone. He barely had time to curse before the water closed over him. It was an aggressive silence, all muffled roars and bubbles, blood rushing in his ears. His body spasmed on instinct, legs booting, hands clawing for something—anything.

His face broke the surface with a sharp gasp, just before a boot came down, hard, and shoved him under again.

He went back under with a strangled snarl, teeth bared in the dark, throat filling with river. He thrashed—unseeing, feral, like a dog tangled in barbed wire, hands scraping across riverbed rock. Something thick and ugly filled his chest—not just water, but rage. Blind, instinctual, living within his very marrow.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

He didn’t even know where the trap had sprung from—just that one second he was crossing that busted-out bridge, cold wind at his back, and the next he was flying sideways, skull and ribs screaming as they hit the bank. A flash of movement, then mud, then water.

Now his gear was scattered, his rifle somewhere downstream to the Gulf of California, and the weight on his back was not budging.

Had to give it to him, the guy was strong. Not smart. Sloppy, wild. But strong as fuck.

Joel twisted, spine screaming, hips torquing. A crack of pain lit up his ribs—he didn’t have time to wonder if they were broken. He got one knee up in the current and drove it backwards—boot connected with something soft. The man grunted. Joel surged, body arching, hands fumbling. His fingers closed around something slick. A stone, maybe. Maybe a piece of his own gear. He didn’t look. Just swung it upward.

There was a crack of bone. The weight lifted.

Joel broke the surface like a corpse pulled from the deep. He choked, spat, and coughed, the sound raw and ragged. His whole body was trembling, muscles stuttering from the cold.

He had half a breath in him before the guy was on him again.

“Sonuva—” he bit out through chattering teeth.

Big, ugly, one of those loner types. Eyes wide and bloodshot. Beard crusted with something black. Stinking of rot, blood, sweat and boots that’d walked through worse places than this.

Joel didn’t waste time—got a hand on the man’s face, fingers clawing for the eyes, gouging. The other hand dropped to his belt—the knife was still there. Thank God. He drew it, fast, but his wrist was shaking and his grip was off.

He wasn’t thinking. He was moving. This wasn’t the first time someone tried to kill him. And it wouldn’t be the last.

The blade found flesh—but not where it needed to. It glanced off the bastard’s side, shallow, not enough. The guy roared and drove a fist into Joel’s temple. Stars burst behind his eyes.

His boots skidded on slick river stones. He went down hard.

The weight came again. Pinning him. Crushing.

The man’s knee jammed into Joel’s chest, ribs shrieking under the press, full body leaning in. Joel felt something crack. Pain ripped through him like lightning. The knife slipped from his hand.

Shit—

“You're fuckin' dead, asshole.”

Alright. Bring it the fuck on.

The guy was growling in his ear, teeth gnashing, breath hot and putrid. Hands clawing at his throat. Joel struggled, arms scrabbling. His body was giving out. Water dragged on his clothes. His lungs were still half-full of the river. His legs were kicking, but they felt far away.

Too tired. Too fucking slow. Too fucking old.

A knee jammed into his chest. His own vision flickering. The sky above him was a fair smudge between barren tree branches.

Not like this.

He saw her face. Maya’s. Then Leela’s. Ellie’s. Faces he’d left behind to protect. Faces he wasn’t ready to forget. Just a little more time. One more chance. Go back home, forget this whole damn thing. Just live.

Not like this, not like this, not like—

BANG.

The body on top of him jolted. A spurt of red bloomed across his shoulder, steam rising from the impact.

BANG.

Closer this time. Blood misted across Joel’s face. The man slumped. Collapsed. Dead weight, sudden and slack.

Joel lay there for a second, breath snagged in his throat. The silence came back—but it wasn’t tranquil. It was sharp. Expectant.

He eventually gasped furiously, chest heaving, struggling to pull air through raw lungs. Hands numb, shaking. His ears rang. Blinked the blood out of his eyes.

Then slowly, painfully, he shoved the corpse off and rolled onto his side. Coughing. Wheezing. The river soaked into his bones like poison. His fingers dug into the pebbles just to remember what solid ground felt like.

A third gunshot wasn't coming.

He turned his head, half-expecting a hallucination, knife still in hand—every nerve sparking. His body was coiled, heart pounding in his throat, soaked through, freezing, half out of his mind—

And standing there, staring at him with wide, shit-scared eyes—

Ellie.

Still holding the pistol two-handed, her arms locked, face pale and furious and terrified. Her breath ghosted in the cold, breathing hard, like she’d run all the way here. Snow dusted her hair, melting into her collar. Hair messy, sleeves pushed up, a smear of blood on her cheek—he didn’t even know if it was hers.

She looked like a goddamn kid again, that shock in her.

Joel stared at her for a moment that felt like the world had paused—like time itself needed a second to understand what the hell just happened.

She took a step toward him, lowering the gun.

“Joel—” Her voice broke halfway through his name.

And then, behind her, out of the trees—Leela.

Moving quick but steady, wrapped in that old worn coat of hers, fur-lined, hair tied up into a big, tight bun, eyes locked onto Joel like she’d been hunting him through a warzone. Her hand was clenched around something that looked cobbled together from broken bottles, tubing, and copper wire, rigged with metal scraps and cloth. A bomb, crude and half-melted, glass fogged with something dark and hissing inside. Acid, maybe. Of her own damn making.

A fucking acid bomb.

He stared at them both, still on his knees in the water, stunned, soaked, heart clawing its way back into his throat.

For a split second, he thought he was dreaming. Thought maybe he’d finally cracked. That maybe he died in that river, and this was what his mind made up on the way out.

But unfortunately, no.

Ellie was still holding that pistol, shoulders tense. Leela was here, real as anything, her breath catching when she saw the blood on his face.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel rasped. He staggered upright to his feet, knees buckling, one hand pressed to his broken ribs. His voice was hoarse with cold and panic. “What the hell are you doin’ here?”

Ellie didn’t answer. She was staring at him like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to hug him or shoot him for leaving her like that.

Joel was still dripping, clothes ungainly, cuts stinging on his hands and face. His fingers flexed around the knife hilt, but he let it drop, slowly. His voice, when it came again, cracked with cold and fury and fear.

“Have you lost your goddamn minds?!”

He didn’t care how raw he sounded. Didn’t care that his legs were shaking. Because what the hell were they thinking?

Jackson was safe. He left them there for a reason.

Joel turned his gaze to Leela, eyes wild. Still couldn't believe this shit. No, he was definitely imagining this.

“You—you brought her out here?” he rasped to Ellie, the words stumbling out, shredded at the edges.

His voice cracked with wrath, but beneath it was something else. Something jagged and terrified. He wasn’t yelling at her—he was yelling because if he didn’t, he might fucking break.

But Leela didn’t move. Just stood there. Still as a statue, wet snow clinging to her sleeves, her mouth parted like she couldn’t speak. And her eyes—no.

She looked at him like she didn’t recognize what she’d found. Like she’d expected someone else. A stronger man. One who wasn’t half-drowned, bloody, and shaking from the cold. A man who didn’t have someone else’s blood running down his neck.

She’d come all this way, and this was what she got.

He wasn’t even sure he was breathing anymore. This was the whole reason he’d left. So she wouldn’t have to see this version of him. The one he tried to keep locked up in the dark.

The bleeding one. The broken one. The furious one. The one who failed and lost—over and over again.

Joel’s lungs seized. His ribs ached like something inside had torn loose. Not broken, just bitterly bruised. He didn’t know if it was the pain, the grief, or just too many nights without sleep.

“I told you to stay the fuck back,” he growled, staggering forward, fury spilling out of him just to cover the terror underneath. He took a step forward, wet boots dragging in the muck. “Do you even know what the hell I’m walkin’ into? You think this is a joke? You've just killed yourselves!”

He wasn’t shouting at her anymore. He was shouting at the world. At himself.

But Ellie’s voice cut through the fog like a blade. “He would’ve fucking killed you. How about a 'thank you'?”

“Coulda blown my goddamn head off,” he grunted.

“You scared the shit out of me, Joel! You just—” she rubbed her wrist against her nose, to quiet a sniffle, “When she came to my door with the kid, crying her head off, I thought you were... God, you're such a fucking asshole!”

Joel stopped.

Her hands were shaking. The gun still hung in her grip, barrel down, smoke curling from the muzzle. Her eyes were glassy, but she wasn’t crying. Ellie never cried, not where he could see it.

He wanted to argue. Tell her she shouldn’t have been here, that she was reckless, that she’d risked everything—

But he couldn’t. Because she was right.

So instead, he looked away. His jaw clenched. Hands flexed uselessly at his sides, fingers twitching with adrenaline that had nowhere to go. The cold came creeping back in.

He didn’t know what the fuck this was anymore. Didn’t understand how they’d followed him this far. Didn’t even understand why. All he knew was that the two people he’d tried to protect by walking away were now here—wet, cold, bleeding. Standing in the wreckage of his silence.

And for a second, it felt like the whole damn universe had flipped inside out.

Then he muttered, hoarse and quiet, almost to himself, “I ain’t sure what’s what anymore. Stupid kids.”

He barely had time to let the words settle before Leela moved. Past Ellie. Past the smoking pistol still loose in her hands. Past all the invisible lines she obeyed—the ones built of silence, of distance, of dignity too scarred to name.

She moved like he had finally broken open inside her. And all he wanted was to just bring her close, sink her into his chest, all her warmth and strength, be grateful she had come all this way, and she was still alive. His good arm opened to do just that.

Until she hit him. Hard.

Joel didn’t even register the motion. Just the crack—a sharp, ringing pop against his cheekbone, like someone had fired a shot next to his ear. His head snapped to the side, mouth open in dumbfounded silence. The cold air lit up against the raw skin like fire on ice.

He barely managed to turn his head, blinking, confused, lips parting to speak—the fuck—to find her eyes, to demand something, anything—

When the second slap landed. Harder.

Across the opposite cheek, this one sent him a half-step back. His balance rocked. His knees gave a warning lurch. His vision blurred at the edges.

Ellie, though, came through with a hollow, “Jesus.”

The ringing in his ears drowned out everything. Even the birds had gone still. The only sound was that awful, hollow rush of blood in his head. His jaw ached. His mouth tasted of copper.

He didn’t know whether to be infuriated or stupidly impressed.

Leela was small. Smaller than him by a long shot. But she had those arms—those long, welder’s arms. He’d seen her rip stubborn rusted bolts loose like paper tabs, carry piping half her weight over her shoulder, hold Maya in one arm and stir sauce on a pot without breaking for a full hour. All that strength—he felt it now, blistering across his jaw. Twice.

She stood before him, chest rising and falling too fast, few loose curls clinging wet to her cheeks, lips parted like maybe she was about to say more—but didn’t.

And Joel just stood there, wordless.

The cold didn’t exist anymore. The bruising in his ribs didn’t matter. His back could be broken for all he knew, and he still wouldn’t have felt it.

Because all that existed now was her.

Leela. Storm-eyed. Livid. Trembling. Hot, if he might brainlessly add. And something else—something behind all that rage. A breaking point.

He had never seen her like this. Not once. Not even in the worst moments. Not even when Maya was screaming from frequent colic at two in the morning and Leela hadn’t slept in days. Not when the generator blew and she spent a week hauling scrap in snow up to her knees to get the lights back on. Not even when he'd practically roared at her for taking up that supply run with Tommy all that time back.

She always held the line. Quiet, astute, controlled. Too benumbed, sometimes. Too in her head to react. Never like this.

Then—her hand was on him again.

But this time, not to strike, but he did flinch though. Her slaps hurt like a bitch.

Her fingers curled into his scruff—rough and fast, like a wrench clamping down on rusted metal—and she yanked his face back toward hers.

He tried to look away. Tried to drop his gaze, tried to vanish into the pain, the shame, the damn noise in his skull—oh, she didn’t let him.

Her grip was iron. Her eyes locked with his, and what he saw wasn’t just rage. It was worse than rage.

It was finality.

“Listen good, Joel. I left my one-year-old daughter behind to travel for two days through stinking shit, trying to find your dumbass. And when we get back to Jackson after this,” she said, her voice low and flat, steel cooled just before it cracked. “I’ll make sure you never touch a goddamn hair on Maya's head again.”

She let go, just like that.

Her fingers unhooked from his chin like she was cutting a rope, severing the last thing tethering them together.

And he—well, he didn’t fall, not exactly. But his spine bent, his head dipped, and his shoulders slumped like something inside had gone slack. Like the immaterial weight he carried every day had finally doubled, and he’d just let it.

She stepped back, stiff, her breath catching now, arms trembling—whether from rage or the cold or the crash after adrenaline, he couldn’t tell. The acid bomb still dangled from one hand like a fucked-up metaphor—glass, cloth, something sharp—as if she didn’t even realize she was still holding it.

Joel didn’t move. Couldn't force another word out.

He stood there in the destruction of it—soaked to the bone, shaking, cheeks stinging red, the blood of a stranger drying on his collar. His pack and rifle, drenched. His bearings were lost. Everything that had once made him sure of the next step.

And now—that one sentence—rattling around his skull like a bullet in a spent chamber, louder than the gunshots, louder than the river, louder than the slaps.

Leela meant what she said. And there was no fire, no flood, no click of a rifle or scream of infected that disturbed him more than those words.

He’d lost her for good. Not in some hypothetical, not in a nightmare. He lost her, in truth. In the cold light of consequence.

And he was losing Maya too. Not to death or sickness.

To himself. To the choices he made, trying to keep them safe.

He swallowed hard. It felt like glass going down. His eyes, dull and sunken, drifted sideways—to Ellie.

She hadn’t said a word through all of it. Just stood there, in the dying light, watching. Her eyes were too sharp, too old for her age. Her mouth set in a line like she was biting down on something jagged to keep it from spilling out.

She didn’t say I told you so. Really didn't have to.

Joel straightened up, rolling his shoulders. Slowly. Felt every snap and creak in his spine. His breath shuddered through cracked ribs. His jaw clenched once. Twice.

Then he did what Joel always did. He put it all in a box—every shattered piece—and shoved it deep, where the other shit festered, where it couldn’t get in the way. Where it couldn’t slow his hand if the trigger needed pulling. Where it wouldn’t matter.

Because they were still alive. And that meant the work wasn’t done.

So he cleared his throat. Almost a cough. And nodded once at Ellie. Then, he spoke in a voice low, steady, already shifting back into the man he had to be.

“We gotta get movin’.”

Ellie blinked at him. Leela didn’t turn.

The stinging wind picked up around. Joel looked toward the trees—branches swaying. The river was still coursing around him, still loud in his ears, but fading now.

He adjusted the straps of his pack on his shoulder and shook out the water from the rifle. Pocketed the revolver and a knife he couldn’t remember drawing.

He didn’t ask if they were ready or reach out. He just started walking ahead.

Because there were still threats out here. Still ground to cover. Still two people behind him who might not want him anymore—but they needed to make it back home.

And if that was the last thing Joel could give them, then by god, he’d give it. Even if it broke him for good.

X

Now, Leela knew everything.

It wasn’t about how much she knew—it was how deep it cut. And worse, how much she must hate him for it. There was no middle ground left. No soft place to land. Whatever warmth she’d once kept lit for him—whatever delicate belonging he’d built with her and Maya—it was probably gone. Extinguished.

They made camp off a deer trail, tucked under a collapsed ridge where the wind didn’t bite quite as hard. The sun was long gone, dragged under by the tree line, and the cold had come thieving in.

A fire snapped to life with Ellie’s careful work, dry bark and pine needles catching under flint sparks. It cast a low amber glow, flickering over ash-stained hands, over their little circle of silence. They were three bodies, orbiting the same silence. One fight too many.

Joel sat against a stone, one knee bent, the other leg stiff with bruises. He pressed the heel of his hand into his ribs—each breath was a blade. A cracked rib, maybe two. It'd heal in some time. His cheek throbbed where Leela’s palm had landed square beneath the eye. There was still the taste of blood in his mouth from the split inside his cheek, and he didn’t spit it out. He kept it there. Felt like something he owed.

But the rest—the real pain—had nothing to do with flesh.

His knuckles were broken open again. Skin peeled back, raw and crusted with blood. They hadn’t been torn like that in months. Not since Maya. Not since he swore to himself that those days—those versions of him—were done.

He found a patch of old snow, tucked in the roots of a fallen tree, and jammed his hand in it without thinking. The sting cleared his head for a second. Not long. But long enough. Better that than thinking about what he'd lost in the last twenty-four hours.

Across from him, just past the fire’s reach, Leela sat hunched against the bark of a maple, her knees to her chest, arms wrapped tight. Her silhouette was tense. A wire pulled too far. Her face was turned away, but he could still feel the gravity of her silence.

She hadn’t said a word since the fight. Since the slap. Since she told him he’d never touch Maya again.

Joel didn’t blame her.

He couldn’t look at her too long. It felt like staring at something holy that you’d already shattered with your own hands. Like the moment before a deer bolts—only this time, the deer had every reason to tear you apart instead.

Ellie passed around rations—some real food for once, not the dog-food shit Joel had been choking down since he left Jackson. Canned venison. A half-stale biscuit. Dried apples.

Leela barely took a bite. Just lifted the fork, stared at it, waited for the appetite that wasn't coming, and handed it back to Ellie with a quiet shake of her head.

“C'mon, Leela,” Ellie tried. “You can't just—”

“It's okay. You need more energy than I do,” she reasoned. “I'm really fine, honey. Thanks.”

Of course, she wouldn’t eat it. She wasn’t built for this kind of hunger. She could stomach a hundred theorems, burn through chalk and paper and sleepless nights like they were fuel, but this—this fire pit, this blood-caked survival shit—he never wanted her to have to endure it. He’d promised her safety. Comfort within their big, white house with walls thick enough to keep the world out.

But he’d dragged her right into it.

Joel watched her movements like they were coordinates. Markers of the damage. Not one bruise on her skin, but she looked like she’d been through hell. Not the kind he was inured to. The parent alone kind. The watching every shadow in case it takes your child kind. And he’d left her in it.

He cleared his throat. The words scraped coming up. “You two ate somethin’ on the way?”

Leela didn’t respond. Didn’t even twitch.

Ellie glanced between them. Her voice filled the space like a thread trying to stitch up a wound that wouldn’t close. “She foraged,” she said. “I had rations. We got by.”

Joel nodded, though it didn’t ease a damn thing. Getting by wasn’t the point. One day was enough. One day without Maya, not knowing where she was—what she needed. Whether she’d cried herself to sleep. Whether she’d asked for her dad.

His hand throbbed inside the patch of snow he’d buried it in, and he left it there. A self-inflicted punishment that didn’t go deep enough.

He glanced across the fire again.

Leela hadn’t moved. She looked fossilized—ancient and delicate, trapped in amber. Beautiful, brittle. Ready to break under the wrong kind of breath. He wanted to go to her. Kiss her palms. Her feet. Kneel, grovel even. Say anything.

I’m sorry. I did this for you. I didn’t know what else to do. I’m here now. I’m here. Take me back.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t trust his legs. Didn’t trust her to want him near. Didn’t trust himself not to ruin something worse.

“Who’s got Maya now? She okay?” he asked instead, softer this time. Barely a whisper.

Ellie shrugged. “Tommy has her.”

Yet, something in Leela shifted.

She turned her head toward him slowly, like a hinge rusted from disuse. Her eyes gleamed amber glass in the firelight—not soft, not tearful. Eyes that used to flinch from cruelty now dared it.

“Oh, you care so much all of a sudden?”

Joel shrank back. Not from the words—he could handle words. It was the disgust behind them, the truth he could hear in the marrow of her voice.

“Of course I fuckin’ do—”

He stopped himself. The old Joel—the one with fists and fury and pride—wanted to bark something back. But the man in front of her now? All of that had caved inward.

“It’s all I care about,” he said instead, quieter, shriveled on the way out. “She’s all I care about.”

Ellie glanced between them again, saw the scene for what it was, and without a word, she got to her feet with a grunt.

“I’m gonna go scout the area,” she sighed, a quiet, nonsense excuse. Her voice didn’t carry judgment—just tired understanding. And wise enough to leave broken things alone until they stopped bleeding.

Joel barely heard her leave. His eyes were on Leela. On the streak of dried dirt down her neck. The way her free hand curled into a fist at her side.

Leela’s glare didn’t soften. If anything, it sharpened. Her mouth twisted, barely restrained.

“If you did care,” she continued slowly, “you wouldn’t have left her, you lying coward.”

Joel stared into the fire. His ribs ached with every breath. His hand stung. But none of it compared to that.

Coward. That one fit. And still, all he could think was—you deserve it. Every word. Every second of this.

“You nearly cost my daughter her father,” she went on. “The one you promised you’d be. All for your self-righteous, noble bullshit that I never even knew about.”

Our daughter, he wanted to say, but it caught in his throat. It rose halfway up his throat before dying there, stuck in that place where pride and sorrow went to rot. Because maybe it wasn’t true anymore. Maybe that word—our—was already gone.

Joel stared into the fire. His ribs throbbed. His knuckles ached. But none of it hurt like her voice.

“I left to protect what is mine,” he muttered. “I left because—”

“Because what?” Leela cut in. “Because you didn’t think I could handle it? Because you thought sneaking off in the middle of the night was kinder than just letting me choose with you?”

Joel blinked, and it hit him in the gut: she wasn’t exclaiming because she didn’t need to anymore. Because maybe she was done needing anything from him at all. It was worse this way—each word a clean and precise incision, a scalpel gliding through flesh. Pain wearing the skin of rage.

Grief had taken root behind her eyes, and it had teeth.

“I don’t care that you didn’t tell me about LA sooner,” she said. “I don’t even care that you thought you were loving me by keeping it all to yourself—because you’re a dense, selfish, sad, angry bastard, Joel, and I knew that from day one. I chose you anyway.”

His mouth opened. Closed. Hollow. Stupid. Like a man reaching for an apology after the fire’s already burned down the house.

“I hate your goddamn nerve,” she spat. “I hate that you thought you were sparing me. I hate knowing that if you died out here, I wouldn't even know where to bury you.”

Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. That calm—that cutting calm—was worse than rage.

Joel tried to speak again, defend himself, make her understand. Nothing came. Just breaths. Just fire.

“I hate that you thought you were protecting me,” she said. “You always think that you know what’s best. That you can carry it all on your own. That if you just bleed enough, it counts as love.”

Joel leaned forward. His cracked rib barked in protest, but he barely registered the pain. “I wasn’t tryin’ to—”

“Yes, you were,” she snapped.

She turned her face back to the fire, as if looking at him hurt worse than the memories. “You don’t get to decide what I can survive, Joel.”

His hands shook now. Tremors he couldn’t hide anymore.

“I do,” he rasped. “I fuckin’ do. I’m the only one who does.”

Leela laughed. Not from amusement—but something bitter and jagged that barely passed for a laugh at all. “You think that makes it better?”

Joel looked down at his hands. At the crusted blood, the swollen joints. The man they belonged to.

“You haven't seen what I've seen. Fought, bled, and starved with this shit. Leela, there are slavers out here,” he said, eyes dropping to the fire. His voice was unraveling. “And if you get away from that, there are people who try to eat you. Hunters. Raiders. Rap—”

He stopped. The word stuck like a bone in his throat. A single syllable, too heavy to lift up. Don’t say it. Don’t fucking say it.

But they both heard it anyway.

Leela flinched like she’d been struck. In half a moment, her shoulders straightened, eyes steel again.

“You think I don’t know that?” she said, sharp as shrapnel. “I have been living with it in every breath I take.”

Joel wanted to disappear. Not walk away—vanish. Just cease. Be unmade.

“I left because I thought I could do something for you,” he said, voice low, cracking open at the seams. “Find someone. Anyone. Get them your proof. Make it count. That way, maybe everything wouldn’t just sit there in the dirt and rot, like you said. That is what you wanted.”

The fire popped. A spark shot upward, fizzled, and died in the cold air.

Leela stared at him. And in that look was every sleepless night. Every muffled sob she’d buried in Maya’s curls. Every second of silence and solitude he’d forced her to carry alone.

“You think I needed you to go fix it for me, Joel? What are you, my partner or some god?” she asked. Her voice was raw now. Stripped to the bone. “You don’t get to disappear and say it’s for our own good. No. You don’t get to wrap your guilt up in goddamn sacrifice and act like it’s some kind of gift.”

His lips parted, then closed again. His throat constricted like it was physically rejecting words.

Because what was he going to say? That he did it for them? That he didn’t tell her because it would’ve broken her heart that he kept from her this long?

That he thought maybe—just maybe—if he made it out to LA, if he delivered her precious legacy, if he gave the Fireflies her working theory, maybe then he wouldn’t have to carry the guilt anymore?

He was supposed to carry it. That was the deal. That was the role he’d carved out for himself after all the blood, after every goddamn life he'd taken and every one he'd failed to save.

But Leela didn’t see it that way.

All she saw was the door closing. The boots gone from the threshold. A child wailing at night with no arms strong enough to lift her.

And all Joel could whisper—quiet, hollow, useless—was: “I needed to do the right thing for you.”

She stood. Slow. Heavy. Like her joints were made of stone. The firelight curved around her, throwing shadows under her eyes, painting her tired skin gold and gray.

“I needed you to stay. To talk to me, to trust me.”

And that was the kill shot. It landed clean.

Presence over preemption. That was all it was to her, only he realized too late.

“I didn’t need some far-off maybe or prove yourself to someone who knows you,” she said. “I needed you. Here. I needed to step outside the house without worrying if she’d choke or fall or cry herself raw. I needed her dad to hold her so I didn’t have to do it all alone. I needed someone to watch her grow with me. Because that is what is real, Joel.”

Joel closed his eyes.

And he saw her—Maya—small and warm in his arms. Her tiny fist tangled in his shirt collar. Her big, bright, brown eyes blinking up at him. The way she said Dada like it meant safety.

He’d traded all of that for an empty road. A mission. A maybe.

And now here he was—blood dried on his collar, ribs cracked, knuckles split, and heart hollowed out like the carcass of some roadkill he hadn’t even seen in time.

He’d gone looking for hope. Thinking he could trade blood and sweat and scars for redemption. For Ellie. For Tess. For Sarah. That if he walked far enough, bled hard enough, proved his love with enough miles and silence and pain—he’d earn something back.

But Leela was right. He’d dressed his guilt in duty. And called it love.

And now all he had to show for it was this—The wind in the trees. The crackle of dying fire. A man lost.

He wanted to go to her. To hold her back, take her hand, press his forehead to hers, say the words he couldn’t ever seem to find.

But he didn’t move.

He just sat there, broken and burning, his only fallback left to survival. The fire crackled on, spitting cinders into the dark.

And Joel—protector, survivor, fool—just watched it, and hated the man he’d reverted to.

X

DAY 3-5: EN ROUTE TO CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES - APPROX. SIXTY HOURS SOUTH OF JACKSON

“We're seeing this through. So I'm not leaving, and neither is Ellie,” Leela had finalized for him outright.

“Look, I can't—”

“I don't need you to. I said I'm not leaving, Joel.”

Stubborn fucking mama.

And Joel didn’t fight them on it anymore.

He should’ve. He told himself that. Told himself it the morning since they saddled up and rode out together—that if he were the man he used to be, he’d have grabbed both of them by the arm, dragged them back into Jackson, forced them to stay where it was safe.

But Leela had made her choice. And the truth was, he didn’t have it in him to push her away again.

So now, they rode.

The world around them unspooled like a reel of forgotten film. Dry plains gave way to rocky scrub, sagebrush rustling under the winter wind. They passed old highways cracked wide with weeds, a rust-eaten railroad bridge swallowed half by floodwater, a small burned-out town swallowed whole by silence. The road south stretched endlessly ahead, its shoulders littered with bones of the old world—billboards sun-bleached to blankness, gas stations gutted, houses like open, parched mouths.

The cold had let up somewhere past Idaho. By the fourth day, they’d started peeling off their outer layers, stripping down to threadbare flannel and undershirts. The sun was sharp now, almost springlike in the way it bore down around noon. Nights were still bitter, but the frost no longer clung to their boots come morning.

Ellie named every strange cactus they passed, tried to make him laugh by pointing out skeletons shaped like they died mid-dance. One, half-buried in the sand, was hunched like it was tying its shoe; another leaned back, arms splayed, the skull twisted toward the sun.

He gave her a few hums in response, nothing more. His attention kept drifting behind her—to the woman riding pillion, quiet as a shadow.

Leela didn’t speak much. Not to him. Just to Ellie. She wasn’t angry anymore. That was the worst of it.

Anger had a shape, volume—one he could understand, parry, push back against. This silence was weightless and permanent. Like the ash after a burn.

At night, she curled in close to the fire, wrapped in her own coat. She didn’t sleep easily, just like old times. Joel noticed the way her body stayed curled too tightly, like she was bracing for something. And sometimes, when it was his turn to take watch, he’d hear her stir behind him, restless, breath catching in her throat.

She’d wake with a sharp noise, legs thrashing, hand flying to her side like she expected something there.

Joel would glance over, pretend he hadn’t noticed. But he always did.

One night, she jerked upright so fast her hood fell back. Her breath came fast, shallow, and she folded forward with her arms around her knees, head ducked low like she was trying to disappear inside herself.

“Darlin’, you alright?” he had tried to call to her once.

“I—I wasn’t sleeping, just...” she drawled off, voice dry with exhaustion.

He nodded. “Okay. I'm right here.”

Joel turned his gaze back to the dark horizon, giving her that thin veil of privacy she always clung to. But when he heard the rustle of her coat, the soft scrape of her boots in the dirt, he realized she hadn’t lain back down.

Instead, she stayed awake beside him. Didn’t say a word. Just sat there with her arms folded, eyes watching the fire.

This happened more than once. Sometimes she’d wake from those dreams and never return to sleep. Other times, she didn’t even bother lying down—just sat with whoever was on watch, a silent shadow, her eyes rimmed red and distant come morning.

Joel didn’t ask. He wouldn’t push her, not about that.

He knew the ghosts that came back louder in the quiet. Knew how the wilderness could turn remembering into something sharper, hungrier. How it could whisper the worst things back to you in your own voice. And even if she didn’t say it, he knew exactly what kept her awake. What she was afraid of.

Sometimes he wondered if she thought Maya would be safer if she’d stayed behind. If she questioned the math, the risk. If she blamed herself, the way people like them always did.

But even like this, she was still… same old Leela. Which meant she was still incredible.

She knew how to move through this land, the way a bird knows when to migrate. He caught her one afternoon scaling the knotted side of a tree that had grown wild across the ruins of a collapsed overpass. She gripped the bark like she was born to it, legs coiled beneath her, moving with deft efficiency. She tossed down a fistful of small, yellow apricots, slightly underripe, and a few wild pears with bruised skins that thudded onto Joel's waiting jacket. Later, he watched her dig up something near the riverbed—root veg, maybe burdock or wild carrot—and clean it carefully, rubbing the dirt off with her sleeves, pressing them to her nose, testing if they were sweet or poisonous.

Joel lowered himself beside her with a grunt, his knees stiff. He held open her pack as she added more roots, careful not to crush the fruit she’d wrapped in a handkerchief. Woodsmoke wafted through the air from the fire that Ellie had just started uphill.

“You always know what to look for,” he said, keeping his voice low. “The stuff that won’t kill us, I mean.”

Leela didn’t look up. “You get good at it when you’re tired of throwing up pine bark.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Pine bark?”

She picked up another root, brushed the dirt from its ridges. “Good for the heart.”

Joel nodded, chewing the inside of his cheek. “I'll take some of that when we get back home.”

She doesn't say anything more. His sentence hung in the air, almost shaping into a misreality.

He kept looking at her hands—fast, continued, precise. She wasn’t being cold. Just simple. Honest. It was a fact of the earth, same as everything else she pulled from it.

Evidently, she hated canned food. Always had. Joel remembered how she used to nudge the tins aside, which he'd brought her from patrol, grimacing at mushy peaches and synthetic meat stew like they were poison. So now, she gathered what she could. Built fires. Let the fruit and roots roast slowly over the open flame.

That night, he found three apricots—peeled, pitted, still warm from where they’d sat on a flat rock near his sleeping bag.

Didn’t let him go hungry.

And in the morning, when he stirred against the half-deflated camping mat, shivering from the cold ground, ribs smarting, there it was—her jacket draped across his shoulders, fur tickling his nose. That puffy green one she always wore, the one patched at the elbows. Smelled faintly of smoke and lavender soap. She must’ve covered him sometime before dawn, when the fire died low and the frost crept back in. His fingers curled over it without thinking, bringing it to his nose. He didn’t want to let it go.

Didn’t let him freeze either.

“Take care of your own damn self out here,” he muttered to her that afternoon, when Ellie had wandered off to check a sound in the brush. “I’ll be fine.”

Leela didn’t answer. Maybe she’d heard it too many times before.

Soon enough, they were moving through the shell of a city—some old Vegas township gutted by time and flame. Dust coated everything like it had fallen just yesterday and never stopped. Storefronts with sun-bleached awnings sagged in silence, windows cracked or blasted clean through, their displays long since picked over—or left to rot. An old jewellery store stood crooked between a payday loans kiosk and a shuttered vape lounge, its signage hanging by one rusted chain.

Joel didn’t like it. Too many angles. Too much open space.

Ellie pushed open the busted glass door.

“Gimme a sec,” she called over her shoulder. “Might be something useful in here.”

Joel stayed out on the sidewalk, scanning the street, back set against the tilt of the wind. Leela had wandered across the way, squinting up at a streetlamp that had snapped clean in half and was tangled in telephone wires like a dead limb. Her coat tugged in the breeze, hair pulled back tight today.

Joel kept half an eye on her, the other on Ellie.

From the inside, Ellie’s voice floated out through the cracked window. “Ooh, now this is romantic. Joel, check it.”

Joel let out a harshened sigh. “Don’t, kiddo.”

“C’mon,” she said, grinning, holding up an old velvet ring box missing its jewel. “Little shiny thing like this? She’d probably cry.”

“She doesn’t want all that,” he muttered, eyes tracking the rooftops. “Doesn’t want anything from me. The way she's goin' about this, I might have to move out again when we get back.”

Ellie snorted, still rummaging. “Sure, that’s what she says. But I dunno, man—if I survived the apocalypse and the kind of shit you two been through? I’d want some credit. Maybe a bouquet of barbed wire. Something symbolic.”

Joel gave her a flat look through the broken window. “You done yet?”

Ellie wiggled the ring box again, then tossed it onto a dusty counter. “You’re no fun. What happened to carving rings from bone for her?” She held up the sign of the horns. “Disgusting, but metal as hell.”

Joel huffed through his nose, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

Leela turned back then, catching his eye from across the street. She didn’t wave. Just nodded—barely—and returned her attention to the crumpled lamppost, fingers brushing the wiring like she was piecing something together.

And then came the gunfire.

No warning. Just the sudden crack-crack-crack of it, echoing off old brick, and Joel flinched sideways as the sharp hiss of a bullet splintered stone inches from his ear.

“Down, down, move!” he roared, rifle up in a second.

Ellie hit the floor, crawling fast toward the back exit, already firing through the jagged window glass. “Joel!”

Joel ducked behind a rusted truck frame, adrenaline flattening his breath. The street flared with gunfire, loud and close. Somewhere to his left, Leela had disappeared from the sidewalk. Goddamnit, where was she? Where was she?

“Ellie,” he growled, crouching low as he swung around the corner of the car, “head down, c'mon!”

“Yeah, I got it!” she shot back, sharp with focus. “You see Leela anywhere?”

“I dunno,” he muttered. His heart punched harder. Maybe she found cover nearby. Dammit, that stupid ring joke didn’t feel so funny now.

Ellie ducked and returned fire without hesitation, pushing herself into the side of a rusted-out car. Joel followed suit, rifle up, stock tight against his shoulder.

“Fuckin' ambush,” he grunted. “You see that? Two o’clock—rooftop. Gotta be fast, kiddo.”

Ellie scoffed. “I know, I ain't blind, old man.”

They’d walked right into it. Fucking scavenger crew—hunter types, the kind that circled ruined cities like vultures. Not Fireflies. Not FEDRA. Just the kind who didn’t blink at killing for shoes or rations.

Shots tore through the air like thunder cracks. Joel’s head snapped to the sound—figures ducking behind a flipped bus, another peeling off to circle left. Four, five, six—too many.

His gut tightened.

“Ellie, no. Stay down!”

“I got it, Joel!”

She broke cover, darting low. But she didn’t get far.

One of them—tall, fast—slipped out from the wreckage like a fucking shadow, got behind her, arm around her throat, dragging her back behind a wall.

Joel stopped breathing.

Everything else—gunfire, shouts, the pounding of his own heart—fell away. The world narrowed to that one point: Ellie being taken.

He saw red. And he pushed forward.

Not tactical. Not planned. Just rage and instinct.

He exploded from cover with a snarl caught in his throat, moving like he had a purpose and a goddamn clock ticking down. His revolver barked—once, twice. The first man went down with a bullet in his chest. The second—gutshot—dropped screaming. Joel didn’t blink.

He was already on the third.

The one with his arm wrapped around Ellie’s throat.

Joel hit him from behind, slamming him into the wall with bone-cracking force. The man grunted, tried to turn, but Joel hooked his elbow and wrenched—shoulder dislocated with a wet pop—and drove a knee into his spine, once, twice, until he dropped Ellie with a choked gasp.

She hit the ground, coughing.

Joel didn’t stop.

He fell on the bastard like a dog on a carcass, knife already in his hand. It wasn’t quick. He didn’t want quick.

First strike—base of the neck, just above the collarbone, angled down to sever the artery. Second strike—lower, ribcage, a twisting motion that made the man buck and scream.

Blood sprayed warm across Joel’s chest, his hands, soaking into his shirt. His knuckles were already skinned raw from impact. He drove his boot into the man’s hip when he tried to crawl. Then the knife again, this time straight into the chest.

Between the ribs. In and out. Faultless. Practiced.

Joel didn’t stop, grunting, letting the man bleed, until the man went still.

And even then, for a moment, he just crouched there—knife dripping, chest heaving, the silence crushing.

Then he heard it. Not Ellie. Not gunfire.

A gasp.

Joel’s head whipped up.

Leela.

Ten feet away, half-shadowed by the remains of a splintered awning. Her boots frozen mid-step in a puddle slick with oil and blood. She wasn’t crouched, wasn’t armed, wasn’t anything but exposed. Frozen. Not moving. Not blinking. Her hands had lifted halfway—toward her mouth, toward her wide eyes, he couldn’t tell.

Not just the scene. Not the blood. Not the body crumpled beneath him, throat torn wide, chest leaking into the cracked pavement.

Him.

Joel. The man who traced the outline of her ribs under cotton sheets. The man who kissed her slowly as breakfast sizzled on the stove, called her ‘darlin’’ until she broke out a grin, danced slow with her in the living room to the record player, Maya on his hip, all honey and drawl. The man she let in, trusted, after all she’d been through.

But he wasn’t that man now.

Only this was left. This feral thing she’d never seen before.

Blood up til his elbows. Wild-eyed. Panting like a fucking animal. Knife still tight in his broken fists. He didn’t know how long he’d been on top of the guy. Didn’t remember the last stab. Couldn’t even tell where the screaming had stopped and his breathing had started.

And she saw it. All of it.

Her expression—it gutted him more than the fighting ever could.

She didn’t look angry.

No, she looked like she’d just walked through a door into another life, and one she hadn’t agreed to. There was fear there—not loud, not flailing—but silent. Contained. Like someone who’d learned a long time ago that panic didn’t save you.

“Leela—” His voice was gravel, torn and rasped and nothing soft.

She flinched when he stood. Not away—just a jerk of her shoulders, like she’d been struck once and braced for the second.

And that—was the fucking worst of it.

Because Joel had seen her scared before. Seen her tense up in the dark, eyes scanning for shadows that didn’t exist. Seen her sit up from a nightmare with her hands clenched into fists, her breath short and strangled.

But she’d never looked like that at him.

He didn't get to go to her. Get to explain. He wanted to wipe the blood off his hands, off his chest, off the whole goddamn world. But it was too late. Because right then—

“C'mon, we have to go!” Ellie’s voice splintered through the space between them. She was already pulling on Leela’s wrist. “Now, now, go, go, go!”

Joel heard the shot before it echoed. Close.

He saw Leela’s fingers twitch—like she might reach for him, or maybe just steady herself. For one splinter of a second, he felt everything—her horror, her disbelief, the silent question in her eyes: Is this the man I love? The one Maya sweetly calls da-da?

And then that old, festering and terrible being in him took the reins. The hunter. The killer. The man who always fucking survives.

“MOVE!” he barked, voice cracked open by fury and urgency. A dire command.

Leela jolted. Her head ducked. Her feet moved.

And they ran.

They didn’t stop running until the city was a smear behind them—just smoke and ruin on the horizon, softened by distance and dust.

They found cover in a half-collapsed service station half-sunk into the dirt, the roof bowed like a snapped spine, windows blown out, desert wind whistling through the hollow bones of what used to be civilization.

Joel sat slumped against a concrete pillar, elbows braced on his knees, hands stained and stiff. Dried blood mapped across his knuckles, under his fingernails, along the creases of his palms like some fucked-up tattoo he hadn’t earned but couldn’t wash off. His shirt clung to him, crusted dark across the chest.

He hadn’t changed. Couldn’t. Didn’t deserve the comfort of clean clothes just yet. No river around to wash off in any way, and even if there had been, it wouldn’t scrub out what was under his skin.

He hadn’t looked at her. Not once.

She sat maybe too far away. Back to a wall. Her pack in her lap, unzipped. She wasn’t cleaning a weapon like methodical Ellie—not Leela. She didn’t carry guns. Joel would never let her.

Instead, she was threading a needle.

Or trying to.

He watched her from the corner of his eye, head bowed like he wasn’t. Her hands—usually so steady, precise—were quivering. The needle slipped from her fingers twice. She picked it up again, quietly, without swearing or sighing, and tried again. Her knees were drawn up. The strap she was stitching had only a small tear, maybe half an inch—but she worked it like it held her together.

He’d seen her sew before. Months back, she once fixed the lining in his jacket in less than three minutes with the same damned needle. She’d repaired most of Joel’s clothes back home, stitched her own strappy little tops, embroidered tiny designs into Maya's clothes, humming while she did it, threading them with ease, her fingers confident and graceful.

Every stitch is a solution, she'd say to him when he watched her, and the design is just the equation. A measure, a numeral. Now she looked like she didn’t even remember how to hold the damn thing.

Because every so often her eyes slid to him.

No, not to him. At him.

The difference. His hands. His shirt. His boots, still stained from when that last bastard had coughed blood all over the ground and it had splashed up onto Joel’s shins.

And she’d seen it all.

The way he’d moved. Not just fast. Not just angry. But precise. Like he knew the exact spots to hit to ruin a man. Like it wasn’t new. Like he’d done it before. Because he had. More times than he could count.

And she knew that now.

She’d seen what was under the soft Texan drawl, the morning coffee, the warm, calloused hands that tucked Maya’s curls behind her ears when she ate. She’d seen what that tenderness was built over.

Violence. Unapologetic, unflinching, survivalist violence.

And Joel couldn’t scrub it off. Couldn’t fold it up and stash it away before she got too close. He almost wished she had screamed and told him he was a monster. Asked how the hell he could do what he did. At least then he’d know where to place her in all of this.

Joel swallowed, jaw tight. A vein throbbed at his temple. His heart had slowed, but it still kicked, irregular, like a motor trying to start after a crash.

What the hell was he supposed to say? Sorry you saw me gut a man alive? Sorry I turned into the thing you’ve spent a year convincing yourself I wasn’t?

He’d been brutal before. She just hadn’t seen it.

Only now she’d seen what he truly was. The old world didn’t raise kind men—it bred survivors. And Joel had survived every way a man could. Through pain. Through blood. Through choices that never stopped echoing even now.

The only thing he managed to say, finally, low and gruff and barely louder than the wind scraping across the station floor, “We’re still a full day out. We’ll keep movin’ at first light, so get some rest.”

X

And look, Joel was trying to rest. Trying and failing, but still.

His head was a goddamn mess. Static. Replay. A loop he couldn’t break. Blood. Breath. The sound that bastard made when the knife went in—wet and sudden, a choke of surprise right before the silence.

Joel exhaled hard through his nose. Closed his eyes. Let his head fall back against the cracked concrete wall, cool against the sweat on his neck.

And then he heard it. Soft at first. Half-whispers. Barely there.

“I’m Leela.” A pause. A breath. A shift of cloth behind the shattered doorway of what used to be a bathroom. “Leela... no. Leela. I want to tell you—no. I have solved—my parents and I have solved—no.” A frustrated exhale. Then, quieter, “I am Leela… dammit. C’mon.”

Joel opened one eye. Turned his head.

The light in the bathroom was dim—barely a glow from some scavenged flashlight she’d propped up near the mirror. He couldn’t see her, but the words carried, echoing off tile and porcelain. She must’ve thought she was whispering. Must’ve thought no one could hear.

Across the room, Ellie was propped up on her elbow, her face lit faintly by that same flicker. She was grinning, eyes alight with mischief.

“Been goin’ on for ten minutes,” she snickered, voice hushed, like sharing a secret. “It’s adorable. I think she's nervous to meet these Firefly folks.”

Joel didn’t smile. Just raised an eyebrow. Looked back up at the ceiling.

Adorable. Maybe. Or maybe it was a bad sign. A red flag waving itself stupid in the middle of the dark.

Practicing your own goddamn name. Stumbling over words like they were bricks in your mouth. That wasn’t adorable. That was pressure. That was fear, chewing at the edges. That was a person so wound up she didn’t trust herself to say hello without screwing it up.

His jaw tightened.

There was a part of him—a stupid, reckless part—that wanted to get up. Walk over there, nice and quiet. Knock on the doorframe just once. Let her know she wasn’t alone. That she didn’t have to rehearse anything. That if she needed to talk, he’d sit there and listen, no matter how long it took.

But the other part—the bigger, meaner part—kept him pinned down.

Because he still hadn’t earned the right. Not after what she saw. And the last thing she needed was him looming over her, making it worse.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Exhaled slowly. He was a complete fucking idiot.

“You’re an idiot, Joel.”

For a moment, he thought he had been the one to say it out loud.

He blinked and turned his head again. Ellie. Still watching him. Smirking now, like she’d been waiting for him to figure it out.

He grunted. “Not in the mood, kid.”

“You’re never in the mood,” she shot back, flopping onto her bedroll. She rolled her eyes, but there was no real bite behind it—just the kind of tired, familiar sass that came from too many nights like this. “Doesn’t stop you from being a total dickhead.”

He gave her a look. One of those long, dead-eyed stares that usually shut her up. The kind that said, Don’t push me.

Not tonight.

She just grinned, hands behind her head. “You really think she came all this way—through all those cities, with people trying to kill us every ten miles—just to tell you to fuck off?”

He didn’t answer. Not right away.

“She cares about your hardass, just as much as I do,” Ellie muttered.

So, maybe Ellie saw all the things Joel didn’t let himself see. Or maybe she was just better at hope.

Because he had thought it.

More than once, he’d pictured it—that she’d reach the Fireflies, hand off whatever math magic was burning a hole through her skull, nod her thanks, and go. Cut the thread. Return to Jackson. Return to their—her daughter. Back to her life before he bulldozed into it like he always did with anything good. Maybe she’d have the decency to leave a note at the door when kicking him out.

Joel, please just leave us alone. I don't want a psychopath raising my daughter.

Maybe he deserved that.

He sat there a moment longer, thumb working absently along a notch in the stock of his rifle, tracing the smooth edge over and over. The kid was right. She had come all this way. Across states, through wasteland, through gunfire and ash, and sickness and silence. She’d fought beside them. Saved his life once. Slept with one eye open, traded warmth for distance, wore her grief like it was stitched into her coat. All of that. And not just for some cause.

She left Maya behind.

The thought hit like a hammer to the sternum.

Maya. His baby girl. His sweetheart, who barely fit in his arms anymore, yet so small she could tuck her frightened face under his chin when it thundered. He’d seen it. Seen the way Leela held her now, so different from all those months back—no fear, just pure maternal instinct. Even when she was dead on her feet, her touch was protective. Fierce.

You don’t leave that kind of love behind unless you got no goddamn choice. Unless whatever’s out there—the person, the reason—is worth the risk of not coming back.

He ran a hand down his face. Felt the rough scrape of beard under his fingers. Closed his eyes for a second. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Goddamn.”

Because no matter how many times he tried to tell himself she’d come for the Fireflies, for the math, for the cause—every time he looked at that bathroom door and heard her voice cracking around his name—he knew better.

She’d come for him.

A tangle of shame and wonder and raw, stupid hope in his chest made him feel like a little boy again. A dumb, dangerous feeling.

But his eyes slid back to the thin light under the bathroom door. The edge of her pack catching a sliver of glow. The sound of her voice still faint, repeating those words, again and again, as if she was willing herself into belief.

I am Leela.

Joel sat up.

His joints popped in protest, old aches coming to life as he rose slowly to his feet. The room tilted for a second—blood loss and no real sleep—but he steadied himself with a hand on the wall.

“Wipe that smile off your face, you little shit,” he hissed to Ellie.

“Whatta marshmallow,” Ellie mumbled, just watching him go, her smirk softening.

The door wasn’t fully closed. He nudged it open with two fingers.

The bathroom was dim and damp, smelling faintly of rust, infection and old mildew. A cracked mirror stretched above the sink, fractured down one side like a spiderweb frozen mid-snap.

Leela, hunched over the filthy porcelain basin, arms braced, hair falling around her face and body like a curtain. Her bare shoulders, under that black tanktop, rose and fell with shallow, controlled breaths. She hadn’t heard him yet. Or maybe she had and didn’t move, too far gone in whatever loop she was caught in.

Joel stepped in.

Quiet, like muscle memory. Like coming up behind her at the kitchen counter, when she was at the chopping board or scribbling on paper. In that quiet way he used to do, just to let her know he was there, he wanted her near, that he didn’t need her to talk.

He slid his hands around her waist.

Her body tensed.

Not a flinch exactly—but enough. A subtle stiffening beneath his palms that made his chest cave in a little. His heart fractured in that single instinctive reaction.

He didn’t pull away. Because as it had been established, he was selfish fucker. He stayed and didn’t say anything.

Just rested his forehead against the back of her head, where her hair smelled faintly of soap and smoke and salt. His eyes shut. He couldn’t bear the mirror. Couldn’t look up and see the condition of them—this makeshift version of a life that should’ve been warm, and home, and full of sweet nothings.

He’d had a picture in his head.

Them, side-by-side at a clean sink, still damp from the shower. Brushing their teeth together while Maya babbled from their bed outside, waiting to be put to sleep. Arguing about whether to fry the rice or save the eggs for pancakes. Leela nudging him with her elbow because he always hogged the mirror.

That was the image. The one he clung to.

Not this. Not her hands shaking just barely, gripping the sides of a stained sink as she tried to convince herself she still belonged to something greater than this broken world.

He didn’t speak at first. Just breathed her in—like maybe that alone could calm the blood in his veins. His hands were splayed over her powerful middle now, warm through the thin fabric of her shirt. She was too still. Not pulling away. Not leaning in.

So he moved slowly.

Pushed her all her thick, long hair gently over one shoulder, careful not to tug. It slipped between his fingers like threadbare silk. Then he bent forward, kissed the shell of her ear. Just once. Just enough.

“There’s a part of me that—I never wanted you to see that, darlin',” he whispered, the words nearly breaking in his throat.

She didn’t move.

Joel’s forehead pressed to the side of her head again. He closed his eyes. “That… thing. That man with the knife. That’s what’s left when I run outta reasons. When I think I gotta protect somethin’ I already lost.”

Silence buzzed in the air.

He wanted to tell her exactly that he’d do it all again to keep Ellie safe. That sometimes you didn’t get the choice to be gentle. That the world didn’t work in softness and she should wake the fuck up. But all of it sounded like a goddamn excuse, and worse—it sounded like the truth.

His voice faltered off. “If you hate me… I get it. I ain’t askin’ you to forget what I did. I just—”

God, what was he thinking? He wouldn't want her apologies anyway.

His chin lifted a little. “But I’m still me, Leela. Still Maya’s. Still yours, if there’s any part of you that wants that.”

There was no dramatic pause. No breath held in hope. He said it like a man naming his failures in the dark. Mum. Certain. Not because he thought it would change anything—but because it was true. And because she deserved to hear it out loud.

Maybe she was remembering what it meant to let something dangerous that close. Maybe this was the moment she realized she couldn’t love him. Maybe this was the moment he proved he didn’t deserve it.

He didn’t blame her.

Then he felt her shift. Just barely.

Her hand came up and back, platting into his hair. Her fingers scraped lightly at his scalp, a slow, grounding motion—not tender, not affectionate, not forgiving. Just there. Present. Real.

She didn’t say it’s okay. She’d never needed to wrap things in softness. Sadly, she knew what it meant to be ruined.

To be taken apart and put back together with pieces missing. She’d lived in the wreckage of her own skin, patched herself up with logic and reason, with equations and notebooks, trying to make sense of something that defied sense.

And still—he loved her. Not in spite of it. Not around it. Just through it. All the way through. So what if he’d split a man open like kindling? What if she’d been split first—by someone who’d never deserved to touch her in the first place?

She was here. She’d come. With her voice cracking in the dark and her hands braced on a sink like it was the only thing keeping her upright. She was still herself. Still trying.

Joel let out a breath against her neck.

And then, quiet—low and splintering—she said, “I’ve been dead before, Joel. This is not what kills me.”

The words lodged in his chest like a nail. No dramatics. No trembling voice. The truth. Her fingers kept moving, dragging slow circles in his hair.

And when she turned her head—just scarcely—he saw her in the mirror. Saw the red-rimmed eyes, the taut mouth, the exhaustion etched so deep into her face it looked like it might never fade.

She met his gaze in the cracked glass. A long moment passed.

There was a change, not in her body, not in the set of her jaw or the tremble of her breath, but in the way she looked at him. Like seeing a wound that hadn’t stopped bleeding and finally understanding why the bandages never worked. A clarity there he was familiar with.

Joel just watched her eyes, the way they softened and steeled in the same breath. The way grief and love could live in the same goddamn face.

He saw her swallow. Her throat worked once, twice, like the words weren’t forming—they were fighting their way up.

And then, without turning fully, she said, “It’s horrible. How grateful I am that you can become... that.”

He blinked. His heart gave a slow, brutal thud against his ribs.

“Because it means no one will ever touch her. Not Maya. Not while you’re breathing.”

And just like that, he had to bite the inside of his cheek. Hard. To keep from falling into whatever that was curling up inside him. All that shame and pride and an ache so old it had turned quiet.

Her head stayed dipped, his mouth just a breath away from her skin.

The silence between them wasn’t hollow anymore. It had mass. Weight. Like a room full of smoke that they’d both learned to breathe in.

Joel didn’t move, didn’t dare. His hand remained at her waist, palm flat, fingers barely curled. He could feel the heaves of her breathing—still tight, still not stable. But alive. Still with him.

He should’ve said something. He knew it. Should’ve said I’m sorry, even if it wasn’t enough. Should’ve said you can hate me, I’ll still kill for you. Should’ve said you can take Maya away, and I’ll still be at your back the rest of my life.

But every sentence that came to mind sounded like another wound. Another wrong turn.

So he stayed quiet. And waited. Let her have this moment to leave—if that’s what she needed. But then—

She turned. Just a little. Enough that her shoulder brushed against his chest. Enough that he saw her face not in the mirror, but right there—real and close. Red-rimmed eyes. Lips chapped from the cold, pale, parted just a bit.

There was no invitation. No demand. Just presence. And that—God help him—was what crushed him.

Joel raised his hand, slowly. Let his knuckles ghost across her jaw like he was scared to touch her too hard, like she might shatter.

She didn’t lean in. She didn’t lean away. She just stood there. Breathing still.

That was all the backing he needed.

The kiss he prompted was not soft. Not romantic like the hundred before. It was dry, cracked and laced with grief. His mouth moved over hers like he was memorizing the shape of her pain, and hers opened to him with something like surrender—not of will, anything but.

They didn’t move or deepen. Didn’t gasp or moan or pull or want or seek anything more.

They just connected. Two broken things, sealed at the seam for a single breath of repose in the storm.

Joel’s hand stayed on her cheek, rough thumb grazing the edge of her temple. His other hand, the one still resting at her waist, gripped just a little tighter, like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go now. Not after everything. Not after seeing the worst of each other and still not walking away.

He didn’t know if this meant anything, if it was the beginning of the end. Or just a flicker of what used to be.

But when they pulled apart—slow, wistful, just inches—her eyes opened again.

Clear. Tired. Still full of all the rage and grief and brilliance that made her who she was.

“You’re still in there, Joel,” she whispered. Not accusing. Not forgiving. Just observing. Like she was taking stock of a fire that wouldn’t quite die, even after the smoke had choked the sky.

Joel held her gaze for a moment, and then dropped it—couldn’t take the weight of it. He exhaled, slow and heavy, eyes closing. His voice came low and coarse, barely brushing the air between them.

“Don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

He leaned in, pressed a kiss just below her ear. A whisper of a thing. A thank you. An imprecise I’m sorry. A Jesus, what the hell are we now?

Outside, the wind pushed against the walls of the small bathroom like it wanted in. The fire crackled somewhere in the next room, Ellie’s shadow moving quietly near the doorway, always vigilant, giving them space.

Inside, Leela didn’t speak. But her fingers—still trembling—moved to cover his on her abdomen. Held them there. No tighter. No looser.

Just there.

Joel let the moment breathe, let the silence settle. His throat worked once before he spoke again, voice barely a rasp.

“When we get to California, whatever happens… I just…” He paused, brow furrowing. “You don’t gotta decide anything yet. I just need to know I’ll still get to see my little girl.”

A flicker passed through Leela’s eyes. She didn’t flinch or draw back, but she didn’t soften either.

She looked at him like she was trying to hold him in focus through a haze of old pain and newer fractures. Behind her gaze, where he lived, there it was—subtle, distant.

Her fingers didn’t move from his. But her voice, when it came, was quiet. Neutral. Like she was choosing every word as if it could tilt the precarious balance in this world.

“Let’s see what happens first.”

That was all. Not yes. Not no. Not never. But not enough either.

Joel’s jaw worked. He almost nodded—but didn’t. Almost pulled away—but couldn’t.

Instead, he kept his hand where it was, over her belly, where Maya used to sleep once, safe and tiny. Where Leela had once felt the flutter of her little feet and hands through her skin, long before she had her pretty name.

“You don’t gotta do it for me,” he said at last. “But she’s mine too. I need both of you.”

Leela didn’t argue. Her silence said she knew. Said she’d always known. But knowing didn’t always mean trusting.

Still, she kept his hand where it was.

X

DAY 7: CALIFORNIA INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY, PASADENA, CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES - APPROX. EIGHT-FOUR HOURS SOUTH OF JACKSON

The sun stretched long over the broken streets of Pasadena in the Golden State, just as much, casting amber behind a veil of smog. The quiet clip of hooves on cracked asphalt echoed like a heartbeat in a place long hollowed out. Joel rode just a pace ahead, his rifle slung low, boots scuffed from days on the road. Ellie was beside him, reins loose in her hands, a sliver of calm in her eyes. Behind her, Leela fidgeted with her hair again—first the braid, then a ponytail, then nothing, then the braid again.

She’d done it twice in the last hour.

Not out of vanity. Joel knew that. It was nerves. Restlessness. That same rhythm she used to have with a pencil—tap, scribble, flip a page, start again. Always thinking. Always fighting something unseen.

She hadn’t said much since sunrise. None of them had. The weight of what might be waiting ahead pulled the air taut between them.

“Do you think we could stay for some time when we get there?” Leela asked, not looking at either of them.

“Sure thing. I wanna see the beach, too,” Ellie replied without pause, smiling and all loyal, already craning her neck for the first sign of the Caltech buildings.

Joel said nothing. But his hands tightened just a little on the reins.

Stay. Stay for what?

See, if there were scientists there—real ones, still working on things like cures and vaccines—then it wasn’t just Leela they were walking into that place for.

It was Ellie. It was the blood in her veins. That cursed miracle pulsing just beneath her skin.

His mind was running ahead of him, tearing through what-if after what-if. What if they were here? What if they had the equipment, the knowledge? What if they looked at Ellie like she was the key again? What if they asked—no, expected—the same sacrifice?

And Joel—he knew himself too well by now. Knew the panic that twisted up in his gut and tried to claw its way out. He didn’t let it show. Not in his face or voice. But it made him nudge his horse forward just slightly, pace picking up, eyes scanning rooftops and blown-out cars and anything that might look like trouble or, God forbid, hope.

They crested a slight hill, and Caltech unfurled below.

Golden light skimmed the cracked concrete and broken signage like it was trying to remember what wonder looked like. Ivy crawled up the old physics building, curling over shattered windows, draping across the once-grand entrance like a shroud. Palm trees stood like sentinels over long-dry fountains.

Joel pulled his horse to a stop beside Ellie’s, her body swaying forward slightly with momentum before sitting back straight.

For a moment, no one spoke.

They were here.

This was it.

“This is where they're supposed to be,” Joel murmured, more to himself than to either of them.

Or what was left of it.

Buildings, sure. A few were still standing proud. Brick and steel and glass, scabbed over with vines and scorch marks and time. But no movement. No guards. No posted signs or perimeter watch. No sound beyond the dry creak of trees and the hum of wind through broken fencing.

Joel felt it like a gut punch before anyone said a word.

The front of the building looked like it had been blown out from the inside—glass scattered across the steps like a trail of brittle petals, black scorch marks clawing up the stone walls. Half the Caltech signage still hung above the arched entryway, its metal frame twisted, under layers of ash and grime.

Joel dismounted first. His boots crunched over the broken glass, rifle already in hand. Ellie hopped off behind him, lighter on her feet, but just as alert. Leela stayed on the horse a beat longer, her eyes locked on the faded lettering above the entry. ‘California Institute of Technology for Advanced Research.’

She whispered it aloud like it was something sacred. “Wow. We're here.”

Joel motioned for her to stay close. Light slanted in through fractured skylights above, catching on overturned desks and moldy file boxes. Drawers like mouths wide open. A bunk with a Firefly logo stamped on the wall above it—old, faded, forgotten. Emergency cots folded and stacked like they'd been waiting for orders that never came. A faded banner still hung across the far end of the lobby, reading proudly:

‘INNOVATION FOR THE NEXT CENTURY.’

Oh, what a big fucking joke.

You try to innovate, you end up like this. You pick up a gun, you get to live. The world they lived in now.

Now, what they hadn’t expected was the smell.

The moment they stepped inside the physics building, it hit them—thick, wet, and metallic. Like mold and meat. Old rot. The kind that stuck to your tongue. He knew what it was already. Joel raised a hand, signalled Ellie behind him. Leela paused just inside the threshold, her face blanching.

“Get back outside,” Joel said to her. “Don’t need you in here.”

But Leela didn’t move.

She stared down the hall like she could still pretend it was just dust and old desks and the smell of something dead not walking.

Until the first one came.

It staggered out from a lab at the far end, skin sloughing off in ribbons, yellowing mouth open in a wet click-click-click. Ellie didn’t hesitate—she dropped to one knee and put a bullet through its eye. But the goddamn Clicker wasn’t alone. From the shadows, they came dragging, stumbling, clicking—two, three, five of them—some already burst open with fungal bloom, their faces split by time and Cordyceps.

“Shit,” Joel muttered, rifle already up. “Leela—go, get out of here!”

She bolted off. He didn’t watch where.

The gunfire echoed in the narrow halls. Joel moved with brutal efficiency—tight shots, clean execution. Ellie flanked him, nimble and fast, clearing corners. They moved like they'd done this a hundred times. Well, because they had.

But Leela was new to it. She waited outside, pacing, clutching the straps of her bag so tightly her knuckles nearly bled. Her eyes flicked to the windows, to the flashes of movement inside.

She hadn’t come for this. To watch them both die at the end.

When the last echo faded, Joel emerged from the stairwell, blood on his sleeve and a tight grimace on his face. “All clear.”

Leela didn’t answer. She pushed past him, boots scraping on tile as she made her way deeper into the building. Joel wanted to hold her hand back, tuck him into his side.

“Maybe they were Fireflies?” Ellie muttered, nudging one corpse with the toe of her boot.

Joel didn’t respond. He didn’t want to think about it, even if he knew the signs.

This wasn’t an outpost.

It was an exodus.

He pushed the doors open into the next wing—a long hallway flanked by glass-walled rooms, some still scrawled with chemical equations and 3D renderings of gene splicing. Dust hung thick in the air, swirling in lazy spirals, disturbed only by their presence. The deeper they moved in, the clearer it became: this had been a research hub. State of the art. Once.

Now it was just dust and silence.

Ellie was the first to call out. “Helloooo? It's Dr Leela here with your math magic miracle! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

Her voice echoed down the empty walkway. And no answer.

“Shy buncha nerds,” she harrumphed.

“Ellie,” Joel sighed.

Leela drifted toward one of the labs as they moved up to the second floor, climbing over debris, her hand brushing against the edge of a metal table. There were still beakers here, clipboards thick with faded paper, broken monitors, glass casings. Her fingers hovered over them like she didn’t know whether to read or weep.

Joel had gotten used to failing so much, this didn't hurt anymore.. He’d brought her all this way. Let her believe.

Now, he stood in the doorway of the ruined lab like a man caught between two times—one where hope had still been breathing, and the one he was in now, where it lay stiff and cold on the floor.

Joel’s eyes were drawn, inevitably, to the skeleton, slumped against a bank of monitors, mold climbing up one arm like ivy.

It wasn’t the first dead body he’d seen. Not even the hundredth. But this one was different. There was something almost edifying in the way the figure was wilted—propped against the monitors like they’d died mid-thought, clinging to some last hope that didn’t pan out. What had they been hoping to see? A breakthrough? A miracle? A sign someone else had made it?

The bones were dressed in a lab coat, name badge still clipped to the collar. YAMADA. What was left of the face was caved in, probably from the gun still lying on the floor beside them. A personal choice, Joel figured. Easier than turning, for sure.

But it was the recorder nearby that made his stomach knot.

He watched Leela reach for it like she was reaching for her own fate. Slow, careful, fingers trembling despite all her control. She glanced back at him—asking for what? Permission? Support? For him to tell her this wasn’t what it looked like?

He gave her the nod because it was all he had.

And because he couldn’t lie to her anymore. Whatever that device held, bad or worse, he had her always. What were another hundred miles? Perhaps another boat, a storm in the ocean, another open city, another ten years on the road? He'd do it with her if she wanted to.

Leela pressed play.

As the recorder whirred to life and that ragged, weary voice filled the silence, Joel’s heart dropped to somewhere cold inside him. Every word was another nail in the coffin.

“This is Dr. Kichiro Yamada. March twenty-third, the time is four-twenty-four in the evening. If you’re hearing this, then you’re too late. Or maybe you’re lucky. Jury’s out.”

Joel stared at the monitors. The screens were dead, cracked, and flecked with grime. Whatever brilliance had once flickered there had gone out long ago. There were notes on the desk, too, curling with rainwater. He couldn’t read half of them, and didn’t understand the other half. But he recognized the desperation in the handwriting. Bold strokes turned frantic. Numbers blurring. Whole pages scratched out. A slow unraveling.

“We gave it everything. Years. Two whole decades. All of us. There were twenty-four of us here once. Distinguished faculty of professors, scholars and dedicated students—from aeronautics, biochemistry, theoretical physics to fucking art history—working toward a common purpose. Persevering in the face of extinction. Then we dwindled. Nine of us, then four. Then Dr. Connelly, now it's... just me. See, the world didn’t wait for us. Supplies dried up. People got scared. We had raiders come in once or twice, and butcher some of our best. Most of them left. Some went east, to survivor settlements. I stayed until the end. I made it this far.

Joel looked over at Ellie. She was still. Watching Leela. Watching him.

“To whoever finds this... you’re standing in the last Firefly outpost in California. Maybe the whole goddamn continent. Shit, I don't know anymore. We had data. We had hope. And then we had death. I’ve just managed to upload everything we had and researched to the central terminal. If you’ve got the brains to use it, maybe it won’t be for nothing. Help yourselves. Save yourselves.”

A long silence. He thought of how long they must’ve laboured in here, chasing answers. How much belief it took to type that much down.

“This place was supposed to save the world. We were supposed to make a difference. What a fucking waste.”

Click.

Joel let out a long-suffering sigh. Ellie hovered near the door, her jaw set, eyes wide, trying to take it all in, trying not to crumble.

Leela stood motionless, eyes fixed on the blank recorder. Her shoulders started to tremble, slow at first, then all at once—tight, pulled inward, trying to keep from flying apart.

She didn’t cry.

She just knelt down beside the desk, knees hitting the floor in a slow, mechanical motion, folding over her own legs like her body had given up on standing. Her hair—braided, unbraided, ponytailed, undone—hung limp down her back, as if it too had finally settled into stillness. No tears, no words. Just the quiet shape of someone who’d hoped too hard for too long.

Joel stood there, unsure if he’d made her kneel or if the world had.

He swallowed hard.

He’d brought Leela here. Not just her—her hope, her faith, her genius, all bundled into that same quiet determination she wore like armor. She had believed in this place. Believed in the people who’d once lived here. She’d believed him, maybe worst of all.

And now? Now it was just another tomb. Another place the world had forgotten how to care about.

Joel clenched his jaw. “Wasn't supposed to end like this,” he said softly. But the words felt hollow the moment they left his mouth.

And yet, somehow it always did.

The world didn’t care about minds like hers. It didn’t give a damn about brilliance or sacrifice or the people who tried to fix what was broken. It just… moved on. Swallowed the light whole. Buried the good with the bad and let it rot in the dark.

Behind him, Ellie spoke, her voice quieter than usual. “Hey, we should check out that terminal.”

Joel nodded once, not looking back. “Yeah.”

He moved slowly, boots scuffing against the floor. That terminal—an old monitor, half-sunken into the desk, still humming faintly—blinked as they approached. He expected nothing. Expected it to flicker out, dead and useless, like everything else.

But somehow, when he moved the mouse, it lit up.

“C'mere, baby,” he called out, trying to will what he had left into her. “Let's see what this is.”

Leela had already started typing. Her hands trembled, but she typed anyway—quick, practiced keystrokes, as if her muscles still remembered how to do this even when her heart didn’t.

Lines of data filled the screen. Pages and pages of it. He didn't know what the fuck it was. Research logs. Complex equations. Genetic markers, timestamps, decay models. Scans of buildings and servers. Plant growth charts. Vectors and resistance patterns, and computational models he didn’t understand, but recognized by the sheer significance of them.

She stared at the formulas like they were the names of the dead.

Joel knelt beside her, slow, as if any sudden movement might shatter her.

He didn’t reach for her. Not yet. Didn’t deserve to. Just stayed near, let his voice reach across the inches between them.

“You did what they couldn’t,” he said, hoarse. “You're a goddamn saviour, Leela. You did it all.”

Her eyes didn’t move from the screen. “They were supposed to be here.”

Joel glanced toward the body by the monitor, the fingers still curled like they’d meant to hit save and didn’t make it. “They left it behind for you,” he said. “They wanted it found. You found it.”

Leela turned to him, finally. Her eyes were dry—but there was nothing behind them. No fire. No fight. Just a dull, hollow ache where everything else had been scorched out.

“It’s not enough, Joel.”

“No,” he whispered. “It ain’t. But it’s all we got.”

And he couldn’t stay away any longer.

He reached out. Gently. Palms callused, hands unhurried.

This time, she let him pull her into his arms. She didn’t fall apart. Didn’t cry, or shudder, or whisper anything dramatic. She just leaned—slow, silent—against him, her face resting into his shoulder like the grief was too dense to lift her head anymore.

It wasn’t forgiveness she gave him. It wasn’t peace. It wasn’t even warmth. And for the first time in days, Joel didn’t feel guilt, or fear, or even that thick, choking regret.

Just the excruciating, quiet ache of being alive.

He turned his head, pressing his cheek to the top of her hair. She smelled like the road. Like leather and firewood. Like survival. Like the kind of person you meet once in a lifetime and never again.

He almost didn’t hear the footsteps—soft and measured.

Ellie, framed by the last of the sun bleeding in through the broken glass. She crossed the room slowly, past ruined dreams, past rusted lab equipment and flickering terminals, past the slumped skeleton and the shattered hope. She didn’t speak. Just knelt beside them, her shoulder bumping gently against Leela’s other side.

Joel looked at her just in time to see her hand reach out—hesitant, hovering for a second—then settle across Leela’s back.

Not in comfort or even empathy.

Recognition. Kinship. Guilt.

Leela was everything Ellie wasn’t—older, brilliant, composed—but in this moment? They were the same. Two people who gave their hearts to something that’s gone.

Ellie's fingers splayed across the jacket, tentative at first, then firmer. She didn’t look at either of them. Her face stayed turned, eyes down, jaw clenched. Simply being there.

Joel could see it in her—the way she held her breath, the way her lips were pressed into a thin, white line. That familiar cyclone behind her eyes. The echo of so many other losses.

He didn’t say a word.

Because in that lab, surrounded by failure and rot, the three of them formed something that had no name. Not victory, hope or even survival. Just austere, tangible proof that they were still here.

He looked at the recorder lying in Leela's palms like a gravestone, and as she hit rewind, that last line rang in his ears like a verdict:

“...What a fucking waste.”

Joel closed his eyes. He didn’t know if the voice was talking about the science, the building, the people, or the whole damn world.

But whatever it meant—however it was intended—it felt right now. And maybe all the brilliance in Leela’s head, all the years she’d clawed her way through loss and theory and impossibility—maybe even that had nowhere left to go.

He knew this one all too well. The one that told him some endings weren’t explosive or tragic or heroic.

No last stand. No meaning. Just a hush. A breath. A door that closed without ceremony.

Some endings just... stopped.

The storm comes, you crawl into shelter. Find something—someone—to hold onto. And when it's over, you are left to breathe in the quiet afterward.

Waiting for the next storm. The next door.

X

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[tinytownn]

road rage – pt. i

joel miller x f!reader

word count: 5.4k

summary: on a drive home after a late night shift, a tailgating truck hits you, sending you off the road. the driver—his looks catching you by surprise—offers you a ride home.

content: enemies(?? for like two pages) to lovers??, age gap, minor car crash??, subtle flirting, a lotttt of joel using sweetheart, joel trying not to be a creep lol, temptationnn, no use of y/n, pretty slow first chapter ngl

a/n: hello!! this is my first post on this account and on tumblr in general. i'm still getting used to everything, but i've just recently gotten back into writing after a few years so i'm just excited to be doing this again!! i am planning to make this a short series with maybe 3-5 parts?? this first chapter is pretty slow with just a little flirting, but things will definitely pick up as the story progresses. (also i pictured in game joel in this fic but obv it doesn't matter)

pt. ii pt. iii pt. iv

—

The cool air blowing through the vents did little to keep you awake, so you reached down to turn up the music. The seat gently vibrated in sync with the bass, almost lulling you to sleep instead of keeping you alert.

You shook your head. Only twenty more minutes.

Trees blurred in your peripheral vision, and the oncoming headlights cut through the thick night fog, almost blinding you. Silently cursing, you squinted as the combination of bright lights and loud music gave you a headache. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but as the people-pleaser you were, you had agreed to cover a shift for a friend. Which normally wouldn’t be too bad if it weren’t the worst shift possible– 3 PM to 11 PM.

Spending the entire day under the harsh fluorescent lights of the office had been miserable, but at least you avoided rush-hour traffic. Now, the highway was deserted, the pavement stretching endlessly ahead, and you took full advantage. The speedometer ticked upward—eighty, ninety—until it settled on a bold 100 mph. You straightened your back, gripping the wheel tighter.

This was the only good part of your night.

You, the open road, and the music moving in sync. Your foot pressed the gas pedal to the beat, the car swaying slightly as you danced along to the rhythm. For a brief moment, freedom rushed through your veins.

Then, your joy was cut short.

Blinding LED headlights filled your rearview mirror.

Despite your already reckless speed, the approaching truck was closing the distance fast, its lights growing brighter by the second. With a frustrated sigh, you flipped the switch on your mirror to dim the glare, but the relief was minimal. You pressed the gas just enough to hold a steady 90 mph, hoping the driver would back off.

They didn’t.

The truck inched closer, practically kissing your bumper. Your patience thinned.

"Where do you have to be right now?" you yelled, throwing your hands in the air before slamming them back onto the wheel.

You refused to speed up any further. You were already pushing legal limits, and there was an entirely open lane to your right. Why isn’t he just going around me? A quick glance in the mirror confirmed your suspicions—a middle-aged man, his expression unreadable.

"Go around me if you're that impatient, grandpa!"

But he didn’t. He just stayed there.

Your jaw tightened as the truck loomed behind you, headlights flooding the interior of your car. And then—just when you thought his lights couldn’t get any more obnoxious—they flickered.

Your irritation flared. Is he seriously flashing his brights at me?

Normally, you avoided road rage. You knew better than to test angry strangers in metal death machines. But today had been a day.

Burning coffee spilled on your chest that morning. The dreadful realization that you had to work this godforsaken shift. The mind-numbing hours spent under soul-sucking office lights. And now, this asshole riding your bumper.

Your nerves snapped.

On the third flicker of his brights, your foot slammed on the brake.

The jolt wasn’t enough to stop the car entirely, just a warning. A signal.

But the truck didn’t back off.

Instead, his brights stayed on—permanently.

Your car felt like the inside of a lightbulb, and the overwhelming glare made it hard to see the road. Your speed dropped slightly as you struggled to focus.

You have got to be kidding me…

This time, your foot hesitated over the brake. You weren’t sure how close he really was. The last thing you needed was an accident.

But fate had other plans.

A deafening horn blast rattled through the night.

The sudden noise startled you, and before you could stop yourself, your foot slammed down—

—on the brake.

Everything happened in an instant.

Your forehead hit the steering wheel, only to be snapped backward by the force of the deploying airbag. The nylon burned against your skin, suffocating and blinding you. Your tires screamed against the pavement as the car spun out of control. Your body strained against the seatbelt as you felt the car dip into the median. A sharp pain shot through your neck as your head slammed against the headrest.

"Fuck..." you groaned.

It was a minor crash, all things considered. But your car? Completely totaled.

The front bumper was crushed into the median railing. The back was crumpled—rammed in by the truck.

The truck.

Adrenaline masked the pain as you forced yourself to move. The car was a mess—your tote bag had spilled across the seats, its contents scattered. You fumbled with your seatbelt, fingers shaking, until—

Click.

You were free.

You sprang into action, anger seizing complete control. The car door slammed behind you as you stomped toward the man’s driver-side door.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? You could have killed us!”

You didn’t care that his door was closed—he was going to hear you.

To your surprise, the man opened the door, unbuckling his seatbelt as if nothing had happened. His truck sat parked on the shoulder, barely touched. A few scratches on the front bumper. No airbags deployed.

Meanwhile, your car was wrecked.

The stark contrast sent a fresh wave of rage through you. Your fist slammed against the hood of his truck—not even a dent.

“You could have just moved over.” 

His voice was calm. Unbothered.

The indifference made you freeze.

Eyes wide, you finally looked at him—really looked at him. He was older—dark hair streaked with gray, hands calloused and worn. His lips pressed into a firm line, tired eyes set deep beneath a hardened expression. He had an air of intimidation about him, the kind that came with experience rather than effort. And despite everything—despite the wreck, the rage still simmering in your chest—he was handsome. If you weren’t so pissed off, the way his unwavering gaze dragged over you might’ve made you falter—hell, maybe even blush.

You scoffed at his southern drawl, unimpressed. His voice carried the charm of a gentleman, but his actions were anything but.

“I was there first. You should have moved over.”

He huffed a laugh. “It’s called the fast lane, sweetheart. And I was the faster one.”

You clenched your jaw. “I was going twenty over. Is that not fast enough for you, old man?”

His expression hardened. His eyes dragged over you, then flicked to your totaled car.

“What, you just get your license a month ago? A little speed too much for ya?”

“I’ve been driving for over ten years, and I’ve never met anyone as obnoxious as you.”

“Double that and get back to me, sweetheart.”

The nickname made your eye twitch. The condescension, the complete lack of remorse—it was infuriating. The minutes ticked by, the night stretching darker as the two of you bickered on the side of the empty highway.

Finally, you yanked your phone from your back pocket, the glow illuminating your face as you scrolled to contacts. Turning the screen to him, you snapped, “Put your number in here. I’m getting my insurance card.”

With a grunt, the man took the phone, holding it at an absurd distance from his face. He extended a middle finger, jabbing the screen at a snail’s pace.

You crossed your arms. “Christ, you’re old…”

With the last of your patience slipping away, you turned to your car, lips pressing into a thin line as you took in the damage—worse than you remembered. You yanked open the glove box, rummaging through the mess before pulling out a small booklet of insurance papers.

The crash, the argument, the adrenaline—it had all faded, leaving behind a dull ache stretching from your neck to the back of your head. Each step back to the truck felt heavier than the last.

Joel handed your phone back without a word. He sat in the driver’s seat now, feet propped on the step bar, door wide open. Peering past him, you took in the state of his truck—well-worn, maybe just as old as him. The glove box hung open, spilling out crumpled papers, loose receipts, and junk strewn across the seats. Dirt encrusted the floors, stains lined the fabric, and the entire cab smelled faintly of sweat and sawdust. A typical work truck.

Glancing at your phone screen, you found his name entered stiffly, all caps, on the first line only.

JOEL MILLER.

A small grin tugged at your lips as you fixed the spacing before saving the contact. You sent him a message—just your name—and watched as his phone lit up in confirmation. 

Joel cleared his throat. “D’ya got anybody to get you home?”

Your eyes met his. The frustration still simmered, but his question forced you to acknowledge what you’d been avoiding.

His gaze flicked to your wrecked car. “That thing ain’t gettin’ you nowhere, and it’s not safe for a girl like you to be out here this late.”

You huffed. “A girl like me?”

You knew what he meant. You had already run through the worst-case scenarios in your head—alone, stranded, barely past midnight. Every woman’s worst nightmare.

But you weren’t about to let him have the satisfaction of thinking he was doing you a favor.

“Yeah,” Joel said, a playful tone lacing his words, “ones that like to start problems.”

You glanced past him into the truck once again—exactly the kind of scene you were warned to avoid. Cluttered, worn, the kind of place that set off alarms in the back of your mind. But your options were limited—this or the highway.

When you looked back at his face, the sharp edge of his anger had dulled. He no longer looked like the man who had run you off the road, but someone weighed down by exhaustion, just trying to get home—same as you. The toll of a long workweek clung to you both.

He exhaled sharply. “You got a ride or not?”

Your hesitation must’ve been obvious because he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “Look,” he muttered, flipping the screen toward you.

A blonde girl beamed back, clutching a trophy and soccer ball. 

Joel’s expression softened, a quiet, tired smile pulling at his lips.

“I got a daughter,” he said, voice quieter now. “I wouldn’t want her out here like this.”

Something in your chest eased. This was the first time you had seen him smile all night.

“Thank you.” You nodded. “Yeah- uh no, I don’t have a ride.”

Joel motioned toward your car. “I’ll clear a spot. Grab your stuff.”

With a grateful nod, you turned back to the wreck. You reached inside, sifting through the mess until you found the essentials—wallet, keys, and headphones. Tossing them into your bag, you made your way back to the truck.

Joel stood by the open passenger door, waiting.

You climbed in with a small nod of thanks. The cool air inside was a relief from the heavy night air. The seat hugged your body, and you wasted no time clicking the seatbelt into place—already well aware of Joel’s driving.

The truck dipped under his weight as he dropped into the driver’s seat, door slamming shut behind him.

“Where am I headed, kiddo?”

The engine rumbled to life, country music blasting through the speakers. Joel grimaced, quickly turning the volume down.

“Uh—just outside downtown, by the school- the highschool. Not the college. Just take exit fourteen and it’s pretty much straight until the river.”

Joel gave a short nod, seemingly satisfied with your poor, over-explained directions.

Silence settled between you, the earlier hostility replaced by something quieter. The shift was jarring. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the realization that this wreck wasn’t about reckless driving—it was about two overworked, pissed-off people taking their frustrations out on the wrong things.

Joel wasn’t the kind of man who let emotions get the best of him—he couldn’t afford to be. Not as a father. Most days, life’s inconveniences were just that. As long as Sarah was happy, everything else was just noise.

But today had pushed him too far.

Three months of work—scrapped in a single meeting. No discussion. No warning.  The new plans were a mess, the compromises were nonexistent, and the client was an insufferable pain in the ass. Joel had spent the entire day fighting for compromises that never came, his patience thinning with every rejection. Agreeing on the original plans had been difficult enough, and now this high-paying client was proving to be more trouble than he was worth.

The rest of Joel’s day was spent reviewing these so-called new plans, searching for compromises that might salvage at least some of the work already completed. But every suggestion he made was quickly rejected. The client wanted things done his way—no exceptions.

By the end of the day, frustration had Joel gripping the arms of his chair, clinging to the hope that at least one compromise might be accepted. But it wasn’t until eight o’clock—long past the time he should have been home—that the final rejection came. Even then, he persevered, spending the next few hours adjusting measurements and sketching out a rough plan to present the following morning. He just wanted this project to be over.

By the time he eventually left the office, his patience was gone.

The open road was supposed to be his escape. Just him, his truck, and the empty highway.

Then you got in his way.

He could’ve merged. Could’ve passed you and been done with it.

But the sight of your car in his lane, unaware, unbothered—it was the final straw.

He’d done this a hundred times before.

A little bumper-to-bumper game.

A little misplaced frustration.

He never meant for it to go this far.

But here you were, in his passenger seat. And your crumpled car was proof of just how wrong the night had gone.

And now, he had to get you home.

The low rumble of the engine and the faint hum of country music filled the quiet space between you. Joel drove at a far more reasonable pace now, nothing like the reckless tailgating from earlier. The road stretched ahead, lined by dense forest on either side, the scenery offering a welcome distraction as you gazed out the window.

"I'm sorry about your car."

The sudden break in silence made you jolt slightly in your seat. Your lips parted, but no words came out at first.

Sure, he was giving you a ride home, but that didn’t erase the mess he’d made of your night—or your car. You still had to deal with insurance, miss work, and somehow navigate the nightmare that was the current car market. The frustration bubbled up again, only to be met with the nagging reminder that your own childish stunt had played a part in this too.

The thought sent heat creeping up your neck. You huffed, crossing your arms. "Deserved. Partially– I think you gave me fucking whiplash."

His eyes met yours briefly, a flicker of compassion breaking through his stoic exterior.

As his gaze fell on the lock screen of his beloved daughter, guilt settled deep in his chest. If she had come home telling him a man had run her off the road—wrecking her car in the process—he knew the rage he would feel. He had been raised to be a gentleman, to respect women, and fatherhood had only reinforced those values. Your original outburst had been justified; after all, he had watched you crawl from the wreckage of your car, shaken but alive. Yet, his pride had held firm.

Now, faced with your unexpected kindness despite his wrongdoing, the weight of his indifference bore down even harder.

“My bones aren’t as brittle as yours, old man.” A smile spread across your face, the relief of a genuine conversation lifting the tension that had been weighing on you all day. “I think I’ll live.”

Joel rolled his eyes at the nickname.

“Speaking of,” you added, a playful gleam in your eyes, “what’s an old guy like you doing out so late?”

Your attempt at making small talk and a joke fell flat as Joel’s expression soured. The events of his shift replayed in his mind, only adding to the pit of worry in his stomach.

“Work,” he said simply.

“Me too,” you sighed. “It never gets better, does it?”

“Don’t think so.”

The conversation ended there, the soft melody of a country song filling the car as you bobbed your head to the beat. The thought of the day behind you brought a wave of exhaustion to both of you, the prospect of how you were going to get home creeping back into your mind.

You could take the bus?

Maybe call up a coworker or a friend?

Neither option was particularly appealing. With a sigh, you turned your attention back to the man next to you. In the short half hour you’d known him, your initial thoughts had changed drastically from his less-than-ideal first impression.

While the memory of your wrecked car still lingered, so did the reminder of your own fault in this situation. It was something best left to the insurance companies to handle, the previous anger dissipated.  The coming weeks of ridesharing and public transportation wouldn’t be ideal, but at least you had a ride home tonight.

Your eyes lingered on the graying man next to you. His eyes were fixed on the road, glancing occasionally at his speedometer. The tension in his jaw had faded, his face more relaxed, weighed down by the exhaustion that was evident in both of you. His hair was messy, and you briefly recalled him running a hand through it when he first exited the truck—probably a nervous habit that had turned into a kind of permanent bedhead.

Despite his somewhat rough exterior—soiled, calloused hands, mud-streaked clothes, weathered skin adorned with scars and sun-kissed freckles from years of hard labor—staring at him for too long made a warmth spread to your cheeks.

The attempt to distract yourself from your car had worked a little too well.

You quickly pulled your gaze away from his face—hopefully before he noticed—and turned your attention elsewhere. His short-sleeve, button-up work shirt clung to his arms, biceps flexing as they stretched the fabric. His hands, strong and capable, gripped the wheel with ease, barely needing to look at it as his focus remained ahead. You watched as he took the exit, smoothly navigating the almost circular turn, his gaze not shifting from the road. Without turning his head, he effortlessly merged, the awareness of his surroundings second nature—an instinct gained over decades behind the wheel.

“Fairview or Jackson?” Joel’s voice cut through your thoughts.

Heat crept up your face as you whipped your head to the side, eyes landing on the familiar split in the road. “Fairview—for another eight miles.”

You knew exhaustion was setting in from the way your mind raced. Your unblinking stare drifted back to Joel, taking in details that anger had blurred before. Maybe it was the proximity, the sleep deprivation, the whirlwind of emotions—or all of the above—that sent warmth trailing lower. You shifted uncomfortably, legs brushing against each other.

Anything to distract yourself.

“What do you do for work?” you blurted, wincing at how dumb you sounded.

Joel huffed a quiet laugh. “You sure you’re not concussed, kid? Might need to take you to the hospital.”

You groaned, slouching into the seat. “Just trying to make conversation…”

His amusement lingered as he adjusted his grip on the wheel. “Been in construction pretty much my whole life. Started right after high school. Had other plans, but…” He exhaled through his nose. “Had Sarah young, so I did what I had to. Hard work, but I’d do anything to provide for my girl.”

Your gaze flicked to his hands, catching the glint of a passing streetlamp. No ring. No tan line.

You shook your head. Why did that even matter?

This man had run you off the road. He was just driving you home, and after tonight, you’d never see him again. No reason to get caught up in things that didn’t concern you.

“What about you?” Joel asked. “What do you do for work?”

You blinked, surprised he’d bothered to ask. His eyes left the road for the first time that night, meeting yours expectantly.

“I work at a bank,” you scoffed. “Exciting, I know. Not a teller, just… office stuff. Behind-the-scenes.”

Joel smirked. “Can’t relate. I’m shit at math.”

The warmth in his voice sent your brain short-circuiting for a moment. His smile—subtle but real—stood out in the dim glow of the dashboard. The soft crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the creased lines on his forehead—despite the exhaustion in his face, he looked…warm.

You cleared your throat. “I am too.” You laughed. “I’m honestly shocked I haven’t tanked the place yet. Not that I’ll have much time to—I’ll probably get fired soon.”

Joel chuckled. “Talking like that, I can see why.”

You shot him a playful glare. “I’ll have you know, I’m actually good at my job.”

“You sure?” His eyes flicked to you, amused.

You nodded, lips curling into a smile. “I just don’t see my boss being too happy about me missing a few days until I can find a ride to work.”

Something shifted in Joel’s expression. His lips pressed into a thin line, eyes glazing over as he turned his attention back to the road.

He was thinking.

Then, simply—

“I can take you.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.” His grip tightened slightly on the wheel. “Unless you really wanna get fired..”

The initial temptation almost had you saying yes before your brain could fully process the offer. It was a kind gesture, but the thought of inconveniencing him—forcing him to carpool you to work every day—made you pause.

Then your eyes met his.

You should’ve known better. Should’ve recognized this for what it was—just a man doing the right thing, easing whatever moral strain the accident had put on him. But his stare held you captive, and for a moment, logic blurred.

Normally, you’d be panicking. Snapping at whoever was behind the wheel to keep their eyes on the road. But with Joel, you didn’t. Confidence radiated from him—not in a cocky or arrogant way, but the kind that came from experience, from years of knowing exactly what he was doing.

There was something in his gaze—something that mirrored what you felt deep in your stomach. A flicker of hesitation, a reluctance to let the night end. A reason to keep seeing each other.

He wanted to see you again too.

No. That was delusional.

The combination of exhaustion and your embarrassing need to get laid had clearly fried your brain. You were sitting here, crushing on a man at least twenty years your senior—someone’s father for god’s sake.

But you did need a ride to work.

You exhaled, glancing up at the moon before muttering, “Only if you’re sure. I don’t want to be a burden. I know it’s hard for someone your age to remember so many things.” The quip slipped out before you could stop yourself, a flimsy attempt to break the tension—at least, the tension you felt.

Joel turned slightly, failing to hide his grin. “Not more than I’ve been.” Then, after a beat, “Unless you keep it up with the jokes. Might find yourself in the same place as your car.” He paused. “Sweetheart.”

Your heart stuttered.

The nickname had driven you crazy earlier in the night—condescending, demeaning. But now?

Now it had you looking away, pressing your legs together in a weak attempt to ignore the heat spreading through you.

And Joel paused.

Why did he pause?

He’d said it so easily before, like it meant nothing. But now, there was something different in the way it left his mouth—like he almost caught it before it slipped out.

You swallowed, shifting in your seat. “The jokes come free with the ‘totaling my car’ deal.”

“Lucky me.” His voice was thick with sarcasm.

You hesitated for a second, then narrowed your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

Joel raised a brow. “What?”

“I don’t need a pity ride.”

His lips parted slightly before he shook his head, rubbing a hand over his jaw. Whatever ran through his mind, he wasn’t letting it slip.

He smirked, settling instead for, “Maybe I just wanna see if you’re always this annoying.” 

Your breath caught. The way his voice dipped—the way his eyes flicked to your face, searching for the smallest twitch of a smile—it made something coil tight in your stomach.

You didn’t fight the grin tugging at your lips.

“Or,” Joel continued, smirking, “maybe I’m not so convinced you don’t got that concussion.”

“Oh, hush.” You rolled your eyes, giving his arm a playful shove. 

The teasing had shifted, the edge of frustration softening into something lighter. You didn’t know where this boldness was coming from—flirting with a stranger like this—but he wasn’t stopping you. If anything…was he returning it?

You bit your lip, gaze flicking anywhere but him. Then, before you could think better of it— “I get run off the road by a handsome stranger and you expect me to play it cool?” 

Joel cleared his throat—definitely caught off guard.  

“That right?” 

His voice—low, steady, unreadable—sent a ripple of uncertainty through you. You shifted in your seat, suddenly aware of how small the space between you felt. Had you misread the moment? 

The air thickened. His gaze held steady, the weight of it pressing into you, testing you. 

You swallowed. Nodded. 

A beat passed. Then another. 

And finally, a smirk. “Guess you’ve made up your mind then.” 

Joel let the words settle before tilting his head, eyes still locked on you. “This handsome stranger gets to drive you to work ‘til you get a new car.” He threw your words back at you, mocking—but not unkind. You exhaled a laugh, the tension giving way to something else entirely.

You let out a nervous chuckle. “Oh, so now you’re deciding for me?”

He shook his head slightly. “Never said that.” He paused. “You just don't sound too opposed to the idea. Choice is all yours, honey.”

His voice had deepened just slightly at the last word, slow and deliberate.

Your pulse thrummed in your ears.

“And if I say no?” You challenged.

Joel chuckled lowly, sending a shiver up your spine. “You said it yourself—you’d be out of a job. And my company.”

You scoffed. “Can’t tell which one I’d be more grateful to miss out on.”

He smirked. “Better for me, sweetheart. You’re too much of a distraction anyway.”

Your breath hitched.

He adjusted his grip on the wheel, the tension thick in the space between you. His gaze flicked to you again, raking you up and down in a way that made your skin prickle with heat.

The truck jolted as he slowed, bringing the conversation to a halt. The school’s looming brick silhouette glowing under the buzzing street lamps, moths greedily swarming the light. The road, littered with potholes, sent a rough shudder through the truck as the tires fought for traction.

“Take this right,” you murmured. Joel turned down the music, his focus shifting, and you swallowed against the lump in your throat.

“It’s the third one on the left.”

He pulled into your driveway, cutting the headlights as the truck settled into park. The night air was thick and quiet, the world outside still.

Neither of you moved.

The truck rolled back slightly, settling into the incline, and for the first time all night, there was no tension, no urgency—just the unspoken weight of exhaustion pressing into the silence between you.

And still, neither of you seemed in a rush to break it.

You barely noticed the way Joel shifted in his seat, full of anticipation. His hands flexed around the wheel, the tension in his knuckles mirroring the unspoken energy hanging between you. Your mind raced through the events of the night, trying to make sense of how this even began—how a collision turned into something so unexpectedly charged.

Not that you were complaining.

You had at least a week of one-on-one time with Joel and that realization sent your heart stuttering against your ribs. This ride had already escalated in ways you hadn’t predicted, and now your thoughts wandered, imagining the possibilities of the next.

Maybe you were reading too much into it.

Maybe you weren’t.

Shaking yourself from the haze, you reached for the door handle. “I should get going.” The lump in your throat made it harder to get the words out, especially with the way Joel’s eyes flicked to yours, steady and unreadable.

You clutched your bag to your side, gripping it like an anchor, grounding yourself in the reality that—somehow—your subtle advances had gone far more successfully than you expected.

The overhead light flooded the car as the door clicked open, the night air brushing against your skin. Your fingers curled around the handle, your balance slightly off-kilter from the nerves running through your veins.

You barely had time to register the movement before warmth encased your wrist.

Joel’s hand.

Firm. Steady. Completely engulfing yours.

Your breath hitched.

“Already forgot about our deal?”

His voice was smooth, tinged with amusement.

Before you could process it, he gave a gentle tug, pulling you back into the seat just enough that your face was level with his again. You kept the door ajar, caught between the instinct to flee and the undeniable pull of his presence.

His eyes searched yours, taking in any flicker of hesitation, any nervous shift of your body. His fingers, still wrapped around your arm, traced the goosebumps rising beneath his touch.

He smirked at his effect on you.

But the amusement didn’t erase the conflict in his mind.

You had just met, and the circumstances weren’t exactly the most flattering on his part. He had hit your car. He–an older man–had insisted on driving you. And now, here you were—breathless, your full attention on him, hanging onto his every word.

It was dangerous.

Tempting.

And guilt-inducing.

He didn’t let go.

Joel swallowed, jaw tightening as he weighed the situation. Maybe this was just harmless flirting on your end. Maybe his immediate attraction to you had made him think otherwise. Maybe it was nothing more than a fleeting moment, a late-night illusion spun by exhaustion and circumstance.

Still, he wasn’t ready to let you go.

Not yet.

His voice came quieter this time, deliberate. “What time do you have work tomorrow?”

“Joel—”

“It’s not up for discussion, sweetheart.” His grip didn’t tighten, but the firmness in his voice left no room for argument. “What time?”

You sighed, knowing there was no use fighting him on this. “Eight.”

Joel clicked his tongue, considering. “I’ll be here at seven-thirty.”

You blinked. “Joel, don’t you have work too?” A bubbling anxiety began to brew endless questions in your mind. “How are you gonna-”

“Don’t worry about it. Just be outside.”

You gave him one last look, searching for any hesitation, any sign that this was some kind of moral obligation rather than something he actually wanted to do. But his gaze was unwavering, he seemed absolute.

Finally, you relented with a soft sigh. “Yeah, okay, whatever. I’ll see you at seven-thirty.”

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. His lips parted slightly as if he had something else to say—but instead, he just gave a slow nod.

“I’ll be here.”

The truck creaked as you lifted yourself from the seat, your shoes landing against the driveway with a soft thud. You adjusted your bag against your chest, the cool night air nipping at your skin.

Joel watched you, his hands still gripping the wheel, his knuckles still tight, as if holding himself back from saying more.

You hesitated, slowing your steps as you departed.

Say something. Anything. Don’t make this weird.

Before you could, his window rolled down. His tired, gruff voice cut through the silence.

“Get some sleep, kiddo.”

You whipped around, startled by the sudden shift in demeanor. He had spent the whole night teasing you—flustering you—but now, the words were softer. Almost… affectionate.

Your lips curled into a grin. “Don’t hit any more cars, old man!”

His chuckle followed you as you disappeared inside.

—

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part x)

summary: Joel lets an important decision run him over.

a/n: MDNI, smut, rated 18+ and It's Christmas in March! you are simply not ready for this chapter. seated? tissues? fingers at the ready? alright, let's go.

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

Here’s the thing about being a pillar hermit: people leave you alone until they don’t. They let you be—until moments like these, where the whole damn town is out, where everyone is watching, where people expect you to participate in something you don’t much care for.

Joel had always been like this—off to the side, out of the way, hands tucked in his pockets while the world spun around him. He didn’t dislike Christmas. Hell, he wasn’t that much of a grouch. He could appreciate the little things: the smell of pinecones in the air, the bright ribbons and ornaments draped around a jewelled tree, the crackle of a good fire, the steaming mugs, the soft hum of carols carried by the wind. He had good Christmases once. With Sarah. And then there were twenty years of nothing but ruined memories.

But this Christmas?

Well, this great Christmas marked the birth of his miraculous little ray of hope.

Maya. She was over by the tree, bundled up in two layers of coats on Joel's insistence, the little white bunny-ear beanie on Leela's insistence, bathed in the golden glow of the twinkling string lights, big, curious eyes reflecting the light like they were seeing magic for the first time. Tommy was crouched beside her, pointing out different ones, probably spinning some grand tale about the meaning behind each that made her giggle, her tiny fists wrapped in thick mittens, reaching for the lower ornaments. Joel’s heart did that stupid and fragile twist in his chest.

She was the best thing to ever happen to him. A love so profound, so damn big, he didn’t know how to hold it all sometimes.

And this morning had been one of those times.

Joel had barely finished his coffee before she was yanking at his pant leg, a determined little thing, dragging him outside, dragging him toward that swing he and Leela had built for her birthday, right under the big old oak in their yard.

Leela had painted flowers into it, just to make it look pretty, but Joel? He had been thinking about something else entirely. The kind of things fathers do. The quiet things. The ones no one notices—the ones meant to keep her safe. He’d spent hours carving the wooden seat just right, smoothing it over, free of splinters, making sure it was perfect.

Little feet thumping against the wood floor, her whole body vibrating with barely contained energy, her curls a wild mess from sleep, she had practically screeched it, beaming up at him, eyes wide and expectant—“Swing, Da-da!”

“She’s not gonna let you breathe until you do it,” Leela noted knowingly.

He'd laughed with her as he set his cup down. He scooped Maya up with ease, pressing a smacking kiss into her belly just to hear her squeal, her laughter bubbling out, wriggling in his arms.

“Alright, birthday girl. Your wish is my command. Go, get your jacket.”

None of that safety shit mattered because once Maya climbed up on that swing and he pulled her back, the little girl in front of him—his daughter—was nothing but delight. Carefree. Head tipped back, breathless, laughing. Joel had long since forgotten this kind of joy.

He had been gentle at first, keeping his hands right there, afraid to let go, afraid she’d slip. Joel chuckled, kneeling beside her, his fingers tightening around the ropes. “Hold on tight, bug. Can't let go.”

She hummed, her nose scrunching, her mittened hands gripping tight.

At first, he was cautious. Careful. He barely pulled her back, only giving her the softest push, his hands staying by her, just in case—but Maya wasn’t having that. She rocked her body forward, letting out an impatient, “Up, Da-da! Up!”

Joel huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Bossy little menace,” he muttered under his breath, but he was already pulling her back before she could whine again.

Then, he let go. And she went soaring like those birds she loved so much.

Not too high—he’d never let her go too high—but high enough that she tipped her head back, high enough that the wind kissed her soft curls, high enough that her giggle rang out in the crisp morning air, a song he didn't want to stop hearing.

He watched how her whole face lit up like a new lightbulb, watched the way her cheeks bunched under her eyes, how her little boots kicked out with each swing, how she laughed so loud, so bright.

She was his. His heart. His whole goddamn world.

Maya tipped her head back again, her little golden giggles turning breathless. “Da-da!”

He took a deep breath in, grinning.

And then he pushed her forward again. Again, again and again.

Until all he could hear was her laughter, all he could see was her so fragile and infinite at once, all he could feel was this. This big, big thing that definitely wasn't grief.

Now, standing here, it was that same feeling. That same terrible, wonderful thing inside him—so big, so damn big, he still didn’t know how to hold it all. But maybe he didn’t have to. Maybe it was okay to just feel it.

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

His gaze flicked past Maya and landed on the next best thing in his life.

Another pillar hermit, just like him, though Leela never quite knew it.

She stood with Maria, who was introducing her to some couples—faces Joel recognized but didn’t care to remember. And Leela, well… she was trying her best—her polite, careful best.

She was smiling, nodding, fielding whatever questions they threw at her, but he knew her shorthand by now. The subtle language of Leela-isms. The way she kept tapping the back of her left toe—nerves. The absent scratching at the top of her ear—overwhelmed. The way her eyes flicked to Maya every ten seconds—ready to get the hell away. She was forcing herself to be here.

She needed rescuing. And Joel was waiting with his charger, white horse at the ready.

He exhaled through his nose, pushed off the post he was leaning on, and made his way to her, feeling that all-too-familiar clench in his stomach. That pull. That ache. It happened every damn time since that night in bed heaven—like a part inside him just locked into place, a restless nerve finally settling. It was instinct now, the need to reach for her, to touch her, to keep her close.

Because this girl—this woman—had torn down every damn wall he had ever built to keep him safe. And he had never, not once, been so glad to be ruined.

And tonight? Goddamn. Tonight, that girl was trying to kill his soul.

She had listened to him. That little suggestion he had made, all casual-like, about those unholy leather cowgirl boots? The ones that gave her just enough height that she could tilt her chin up at him all playful, stubborn and cute? The ones that made those fine legs look long as hell, in the long gypsy-inspired dress, hugging the curve of her ass, the adorable swell of her thighs under her coats?

She was all his. Not in the way that meant ownership, no—Leela was too independent for that, too herself to be possessed. No, he needed her to belong. Like a home does to an owner.

He eventually flanked her side, letting his palm rest at the small of her back, and it took everything in him not to let it slide lower, not to give her a squeeze that said exactly what he was thinking.

“Howdy, darlin',” he murmured, voice dipping into something only she ever got to hear.

Leela shot him a look, and he knew—knew damn well—just how much that molasses-smooth drawl affected her. Hell, if he didn't use it on her at home, just when he wanted to get something his way. Very proud of it.

But she melted into him all the same, her slender palm pressing against his chest, a quiet reassurance, warm even through his jacket. “Hi, Joel.”

And then she rose onto the tips of her toes and pressed the softest kiss to his jaw. That? Yeah. That would undo him every time, even if he hated to flaunt.

“I was just talking to, um…” Leela glanced at the man beside her, struggling to recall his name.

“Greg,” Joel filled in, giving him a curt nod, his fingers hooking into the belt loop of his jeans. He saw the guy out on patrols, too.

The conversation went on, but Joel had stopped caring about Greg the second he noticed the shift—the way the conversation turned into something else. Looking between Leela and him, and his arm on her, and her hand on him.

And then, there it was. The thing people always noticed.

“So, how long have you two been together?” Greg asked, clearly dancing around something.

Leela glanced at Joel, as if waiting for him to answer. When he didn't, she went ahead. “A long time now. Right, Joel?”

“Over a year,” Joel fixed smoothly.

“Huh.” Greg nodded.

He smiled, though a little too amused, something Joel recognized before the man even opened his mouth. “Didn’t take you for a cradle robber, my man.”

Fucking what? The laugh that followed was casual and easy, but Joel felt Leela stiffen against him, confused more than anything. And that was what really did it. Because she didn’t get it—not in the way Greg meant it.

Joel’s gaze flicked up, controlled and unbothered, but there was something else underneath it—slow, mindful, dangerous. The kind of look that made a man rethink his next words.

Greg’s smile faltered just a little.

Joel tipped his head slightly, like he was genuinely considering the statement, then let out a low, thoughtful hum.

“That right?” His voice was calm. “Well, I guess that makes you the poor bastard dumb enough to say it to my face.”

Greg let out a short, uneasy chuckle, shifting on his feet. “Just messin’ with you—”

Joel’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Sure you were.”

He let the undeterred silence sit solemn between them just long enough before tilting his chin up, slipping a little smirk into his tone.

“You have a good Christmas now,” he wished well. Because he was gentleman on top of being a asshole. Or so he thought.

Then, with a gentle squeeze at Leela’s waist, he steered her away—leaving Greg standing there, watching, knowing damn well who had the last word.

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

She let him, followed without protest, but once they were far enough from the crowd, she looked up at him, brows drawn together in quiet confusion. “What was that all about? And what's a cradle-robber?”

Joel sighed, ran a hand down his face. Of course, she wouldn’t understand. Leela had never been on a real date, never had anyone whispering about what was ‘appropriate’ or not when it came to love. She had spent most of her early life just surviving, just trying to make it from one day to the next. Just like him. The idea that someone might see something wrong with what they had? It wouldn’t even occur to her. Precisely why she thought he hung the damn moon on her sky.

He stopped, turning to face her fully. His hands found her waist, thumbs tracing over her jacket. “Nothin’ worth wastin’ your time on.”

She studied him for a long moment, searching his face. “But it was about you, wasn’t it?”

Joel shook his head, one hand reaching up to brush her hair behind her ear. “People like to talk. Doesn’t mean they got any sense.”

He knew her well enough by now—knew that look. Knew she wouldn’t move on until she’d made sense of it, turned it over in her mind, figured out what it meant.

He exhaled and tipped his head toward the tree where Maya was still marveling at the lights. “C’mon. Walk with me.”

Leela followed easily, slipping into his space the way she always did, like it was second nature. And maybe it was. Maybe she had never really known anything else.

They walked in step, but then, finally—softly—she said, “Just so you know, I don’t mind that you’re older.”

Joel glanced down at her, a little caught off guard. “Yeah?”

She nodded, her breath curling in the cold air. “It’s… more familiar to me.”

His brows pulled together, and she must have seen the question in his face because she clarified, “I was raised by older people. My parents, my aunties and uncles… the few people who really looked out for me? They weren’t young.” She paused, glancing up at him. “You remind me of that. Of home. I feel safe.”

Safe. She found that in him. And she wasn’t saying it the way other people might, wasn’t calling him stable or dependable or anything that felt like a backhanded compliment. She didn’t just believe the words she said, but lived them.

Joel swallowed, the muscle in his jaw working. He wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t sure if he should say anything.

His hands flexed at her waist, gripping her just a little tighter, just enough that she might feel it through the layers. A silent answer. I got you. I always got you.

Only then—

“There’s my best girl! C'mere, come to auntie.”

Maria’s voice sliced clean through the moment, and just like that, it was gone.

Leela turned, her expression softening instantly, instinctively. And Joel—well, he exhaled like someone had cracked open a high window. Maybe he was grateful for the interruption. Possibly he wasn’t ready for what had just started.

A few feet away, Tommy was spooning Maya up, tossing her into the air just enough to make her squeal before catching her against his chest. She let out a high-pitched giggle, kicking her feet, nose twitching from the cold, mittens clutching onto her uncle’s coat.

“Kiss-mas, unca. Kiss-mas twee,” she chirped.

Tommy grinned, bouncing her once. “Yeah? Kissmas?”

Maya giggled, cheeks puffing out more steam.

“Alright, c’mon. Kiss-mas, I'll show you kiss-mas.” Tommy made a show of pressing a dramatic, smacking kiss to her cheek, loud enough that Maya shrieked in delight, kicking her feet in his arms.

Maria was standing beside them, arms crossed. “Y’know, if you rile her up too much, her daddy is gonna be the one stuck dealing with it.”

Joel arched a brow as they approached. “Damn right I am.”

Tommy turned back to Maya, brushing the snow off her coat. “You excited, peanut? It’s your birthday and Christmas. You got double the presents.”

Maya sucked in a breath, as if she was just now realizing. As if she understood every word Tommy had told her.

Joel chuckled, shaking his head. Baby girl was ridiculous.

Leela finally spoke, leaning in, playing along. “It’s all downhill from here, sweetheart. Next year you’re getting socks.”

Maria grinned, reaching out to tug on one of her tiny boots. “Mama’s just messin’ with you. I'll make sure you entire your terrible twos with a bang.”

Joel rolled his eyes. “Alright, alright. Let’s get this birthday girl inside before she freezes.”

Tommy pressed one last kiss to Maya’s curls before plopping her down onto her feet, letting her waddle toward Maria, arms stretched high, exactly like a baby bear.

“Leela!”

Joel heard the voice before he saw her.

A familiar call over the hum of the crowd, cutting across like a bullet through a fog. A name spoken in a voice he hadn’t heard in quite some time—every muscle in his body locked up.

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

He never thought he’d have that reaction to hearing her. Not Ellie. Not the kid he’d sworn to protect, the one he’d fought for, bled for, lied for. And yet, here he stood, rigid, his fingers curled into fists at his sides, his stomach pulling tight like a knot looped too thin.

Leela had turned, glancing through the parting bodies, a big grin blooming on her face. “Hi, sweetie. Over here.”

She pushed her way forward, shoulders squared with that defiant set he knew too well, wind in her short hair, face unreadable.

Joel felt himself stop breathing. It was like looking at a ghost now. A taller, older phantom. A little sharper around the edges, he realized so late. The baby fat in her face had hollowed out, and her eyes—God, her eyes—looked at him like they didn’t know him. Like she was seeing a version of him she couldn’t place.

For a moment, the world just stopped.

Then, Ellie’s gaze shifted. To the arm Joel had around Leela. To Leela, standing there with that confused tilt to her head, the one she got when she knew something was wrong but hadn’t put the pieces together yet.

Ellie’s mouth parted, like she wanted to say something but didn’t know where to start.

Joel felt his throat close up. “Ellie.”

X

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

Jackson’s winter wind pierced into Joel’s jacket that night, growing through the seams and biting at his skin like something flesh-eating. The sky was rife with the promise of snow, greying clouds roiling over the town. However, Jackson was still awake in its quiet way—candles flickering behind curtained windows, the faint hum of conversation drifting from the mess hall, boots crunching against frostbitten dirt.

Joel should’ve been heading home. But Ellie was waiting.

She sat hunched on the steps of her porch, hood up, arms folded tight across her chest. He knew that posture. Knew the stubborn set of her shoulders, the tension in her limbs like a wound coiled too tight. Not just stubbornness—something else. A truth held in too long, stagnant enough to choke on.

Joel slowed as he approached, hearing those vindictive words aimed at him, boots scuffing against the wood. He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, letting the frigid snows settle between them.

Ellie didn’t look up. Not at first.

“So you gonna tell her already?”

Her voice wasn’t sharp. Not yet. But there was an edge to it, dangerously close to fury, quiet and simmering.

Joel’s small smile tightened. “Tell her what, kiddo?”

A breath of laughter escaped her, humourless, cold as the wind slicing through the space between them. She shook her head.

“C’mon, man. Again with the bullshit?”

Joel barely had time to exhale before she turned, looking up at him, and there it was—that look. The one that saw straight through him. The one that didn’t need words to say I know exactly what you’re doing.

“How long were you planning on keeping this from her, huh?” she said. “Were you ever gonna tell her? Or were you just gonna let her—I dunno, let her live in the dark forever, like you did to me?”

The words landed like a strike to the ribs, but Joel didn’t flinch. Just breathed slowly through his nose. What could he say when she was looking at him like that? Like she already knew every goddamn thought running through his head. Like she’d seen the exact shape of the things he’d never say aloud.

She had every right to say what she’d said. But that didn’t mean he could let it go unchallenged.

“You don't know shit about this, kid.”

X

Snow still clung to the edges of Joel's new boots, leaving prints on the mat, but the second he crossed the threshold of the big, white house that now smelled of birthday cake and cinnamon, it was like stepping into something softer, something that held. Because, for once, he realized—he wasn’t leaving. This was his home.

His arms were full—Maya, slack-limbed and snoring against his shoulder, her tiny fingers curled into his shirt collar even in sleep. And Leela, tucked against his side, her hand warm within his jacket pocket.

It still hadn't fully sunk in. This house—this big, white house, the one he’d stepped into so many times before—was his now. Not a place he’d visit and have to leave before the night was over. No more boots set by the door only to be laced up again with that knot in his chest. No more catching glimpses of Leela through a window, of Maya’s tiny hands pressed against the glass, tearfully watching him go.

He got to stay. He got to wake up here. With the quiet creak of the floorboards beneath his feet and the knowledge that when he kissed Leela and Maya goodbye before heading back to patrol or another morning in the barracks, it would only be until he came home again.

Joel sighed, adjusting Maya in his arms as Leela reached past him to flick on the lights and lamps as they went in, the glow catching in her dark hair. “Baby girl out cold?” she asked, laughing under her breath.

“Like a rock,” Joel murmured, pressing a kiss to Maya’s temple. “A pretty cute rock.”

They had spent the whole afternoon celebrating Maya’s first birthday in the kitchen, and the remnants of the day clung like echoes of laughter and warmth—twinkle lights looped around the large island, the fraying, browning “Happy Birthday” banner Leela had strung between the cupboard handles, slightly askew now, edges curling where the tape didn’t quite hold.

And the cake—his cake. Tommy would have a field day if knew about Joel's little baking endeavour. Wouldn't let him live it down.

The half-eaten thing sat beneath the lights, pink frosting uneven, green letters smudged where he’d tried to fix his mistakes but only made them worse because his hands had never been made for finesse. He had busted his ass working on that cake— hours. Spreading, smoothing, wiping away, cursing, and starting over. Terrible.

But Maya hadn’t cared.

She’d smacked her tiny fist right into the centre, the second he’d put it down, giggling so hard she nearly tipped over the counter where he'd safely stationed her. And Joel—Jesus, he hadn’t even been mad. Just laughed, caught up in her sweet joy, snapping blurry Polaroids while Leela tried, through her own laughter, to salvage what was left of it.

“Maya, what did you do!” Leela gasped, half-laughing, half-scolding, already reaching for a towel.

Joel just stared for a second, his hours of effort reduced to a pink, squashed mess. Maya, unfazed, lifted her frosting-covered fist and squealed, “Da-da!”

He blinked, shaking his head with a huff of laughter. “Well, hell. Guess we ain’t needin’ a knife now.”

Leela let out a breathless laugh, nudging Joel’s arm. “Go on. You worked so hard on that cake, might as well capture the moment.”

Joel sighed, reaching for the Polaroid camera, but not before swiping a little frosting onto Maya’s nose. “Smile, sugar.”

She squealed, squirming.

The flash went off just as Leela threw her head back laughing, and Maya’s dimpled grin shone through the mess, knowing already that these would be the photos he’d keep close. Now, under the glow of the twinkle lights, the cake sat there, still dented, still messy, a perfect wreck of a memory.

And whilst in the living room—his gaze flicked over, quieting—Where there had once been blackboards stacked against the walls, books scattered across the coffee table, and notebooks stuffed with numbers and theories—now, all gone. Packed away.

It was so... empty. Not a trace of Leela's endless pursuit in evidence. If it weren't for the pencil stand and textbooks of Analysis in Euclidean Space and Ordinary Differential Equations on the mantlepiece, he wouldn't have known what Leela was really capable of.

A week ago, she'd done the purge herself. She’d sat cross-legged on the carpet, on purpose, flipping through each notebook, running her fingers over the faded scrawl of her father’s handwriting, the precise lines of logic and numbers her mother had etched into the pages. She’d held them to her chest, laughing softly at the curvy doodles and the scribbled notes left for her, the little photographs tucked between the pages—her parents, young and bright-eyed, caught in moments before the world had turned hostile.

Joel had sat on the staircase behind the living room wall that night, out of sight, listening to her sniffles, hands curled around his knees. He had let her press her forehead to her knees and cry through the quiet. This wasn’t a grief he had any part in. There was no fixing this, no way to take away the ache.

So he’d waited. Ready, if she needed him. She never called for him, never reached out—but he was there. Always. Even as she boxed it up, put a pin in it and sent it off.

And in the morning, when he woke up, it was to his home strongly scented of pine. In the place of numbers, a big Christmas tree stood by the wide windows, draped in ornaments and tinsel. Elegant, decorated like something straight out of a home magazine, all soft gold and deep red, twinkling lights woven through its branches. She’d strung the garland around in perfection that screamed Leela, hung the star at the top, and—most importantly—placed a single red stocking over the fireplace for Maya.

There weren’t any gifts beneath it—things were tight, and the world wasn’t what it used to be—but that didn’t matter. They had made do. They had done their best. And, goddamn it, it had been enough.

They had made it suffice for themselves, making sure her first birthday and Christmas were perfect. And Leela—she’d done all this. After everything, after the long, aching week of packing away the past, she’d still done this.

All for him.

She’d made his favorite lamb koftas, the ones he used to effuse about to her in passing, but she remembered. An overflowing casserole, those roast potatoes that he loved, a Christmas pudding so rich he swore he’d never eat again—only to go back for seconds and leave no leftovers. She’d done all that, while he’d figured old ham and ruined birthday cake would’ve been enough.

He’d said as much, somewhere between scraping the last of the pudding off his plate and leaning back with a groan, patting his stomach.

“You say that now. But you nearly cried eating those koftas,” Leela teased.

He snorted, tipping his head back. “I’m a simple man. Meat and love. That’s all I need.”

She laughed softly, leaned forward to brush a crumb from the corner of his mouth, and said, almost like it wasn’t anything at all—“Good. ‘Cause you’ve got both.”

Joel had made sure to capture everything and didn't leave anything out.

The camcorder had been rolling all through, his hands quick to snap photos, catching every moment, every laugh, every flicker of candlelight on Leela’s face as she smiled at their daughter. He’d flicked through the Polaroids already—some of them sat on the coffee table now, beside the two unfinished glasses of mulled wine sitting where Leela’s feet had been, curled up in his lap hours ago whilst his hands worked circles over her sore calves and aching heels. He had wanted to take care of her, needed to. After all the effort she had put in today, for them.

She had sighed when he’d started, a deep, bone-weary sound, the kind that told him just how much she had pushed herself today.

“Really, you didn’t have to go all out,” Joel murmured, his thumb depressing slow, steady strokes into her arch. As if this wasn't enough, he lifted to give her instep a kiss.

Leela hummed, eyes half-lidded as she set the glass down after a little sip. “I wanted to. It's my baby's first Christmas. Our first Christmas.”

“Still,” he huffed. “Shoulda sat down, let me help you more. Or you coulda just… let it be another day. No big deal.”

She cracked a tired smile. “You did plenty, Joel.” He really hadn't, but she held his gaze for a moment, searching. Then, gently, “You think I don’t want to do this for you?”

“What, be my wifey? Take up all my jobs around here?” Then, mumbled, “Should be callin’ me wifey.”

“Take care of you,” she snickered.

Joel worked his jaw, looking away. He didn’t know how to answer that without saying too much.

Leela shifted, pulling herself up, close enough that he could feel her breath against his cheek. “I love you,” she murmured, with a surety he could never say aloud. “And I love what we have together. That’s why.”

Joel let out a breath, nodding. Then, gruffly, a bare breath, still not used to hearing it—“Yeah, I um. Love you, too.” His fingers traced one last, slow pass over her ankle before he hauled her closer, tucking her in against his chest. He stroked a few fingers down her back. “But next year, you’re sittin’ your ass down, lettin’ me do the gruntwork.”

Leela smirked against his shirt. “We’ll see.”

And for all that Joel had ever wanted with her—the longing, the ache, the terrible, quiet craving—he never thought he’d get this. Not just the heat of her body beside his. Not just her palm clutching his when the night got too dark. But, this.

A rhythm. A routine. A system that ran like a slow-beating heart. Something sacred, lived-in. Something built—not struck like lightning, not born from a single moment—but grown, cultivated like a garden in drought, fed by every mundane minute. It was ivy creeping up the big, white house's walls—imperceptible until, before you knew it, the whole damn thing was covered.

It was normal. And, god help him, he loved it. The predictability. The predictability. The soft domesticity. The way she moved in sync with him, like they'd been together a lifetime. Like muscle memory.

He’d step into the shower last, warm water would run out halfway through, but he didn’t mind—he’d stand beneath it anyway, working out the aches in his back, the stubborn stiffness in his knees, and by the time he stepped out, shaking out his soaking hair, she’d be by the sink, brushing her teeth, a towel wrapped around her shoulders, her long hair damp, clinging to the curve of her spine.

And she'd hold out his towel for him, saying something to rile him up on purpose, like, “I think Maya prefers owls more than sparrows. You know what a group of owls is called, Joel? A parliament. They're so cool.”

Sighing, he tied the towel around his waist, rifling through the drawer for a Q-tip. He'd been feeling deaf as a post with this weather. “I told you, we're not getting an owl.”

She frowned around her toothbrush. “Dull.”

“If you want a pet that bad, get one that's big and furry. Eats all the leftovers. Sticks to its business.”

She reached up to pat his damp chest, toothbrush now hanging off her lips, muffling her words. “I already have one of those. He's quite handy, too.”

That earned her a sharp smack in the ass. “Wiseass.”

And he’d put Maya to bed—pressing one last kiss to her forehead, cheeks and palms, smoothing her curls back, tucking the blankets snug around her little body—he still couldn’t stop himself from doing that, even now, the same way he did the first night he had slept in their home—while Leela went through the house, turning out the lights one by one, checking the latches, rearranging things no one else would ever notice. It was her way of making peace with the night. Her version of prayer.

And sometimes, when the noise in her head got too loud, she settled into her own space—the basement, where her tools were, her projects, the half-assembled parts she liked to fidget with, or fixing up whatever had caught her interest that night—and he’d find her.

He never rushed her. Never told her to get up and come to bed. Just sat nearby, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the soft furrow of her brows as she worked, how a single curl escaped her braid, which she'd tuck behind her ear every now and then. If she muttered to herself, he listened. If she was quiet, he let her be. If she needed help, he'd be there, rolling up his sleeves.

And when she was finally done, he’d take her hand—always her left, where her knuckles were a little more sore, where he'd thoughtfully rub her ring finger and imagine a gold band resting—and walk her upstairs, one foot in front of the other, like he was guiding out of a storm.

Up to their space. Their bedroom. Amber-lit. Warm. Enormous but quiet. Soft shadows stretching long across the wooden floor. Hers in a way that made it his, too. Her notebooks were stacked neatly on her nightstand, pages folded at the corners. The book he’d been “reading” for the past weeks was on his, barely ten pages in. A jug of water beside her lamp, which he refilled every evening, without fail.

And now, watching her in the bedroom—seated at the vanity, running a brush through her hair—it hit him, like it always did—how easy it had been to fall into this life. How damn natural it felt. He was sure he'd been waiting, failing, outliving for this his whole, long life.

And how hard—how impossibly hard—it would be to let it go when the time came. When something came knocking again.

And yes, it already did.

Now, his love wasn’t loud. It was this, soft, unremarkable intimacy. The brushing of hair. The warmth of a towel passed to him. The sense of a playful baby curled between them in the morning.

And Joel knew—deep in his gut—that he’d claw through the earth to keep it. To keep them.

X

“We have a life together. A family, a baby, a future. I... It ain’t that simple right now for all this.”

“The hell it isn’t,” Ellie shot back, shoving up to her feet. Her breath curled in the air, hanging between them. “You know some people’d want to hear what she’s got to say. People who could actually do something with what she’s figured out. The right people.”

The right people. Those do-good fucking cunts.

Joel knew exactly who she meant. The Fireflies, or what was left of them. The idiot ones still searching for remnants of the old world, still clinging to the past like stubborn weeds, for answers to questions that didn’t matter anymore—not when the world had already moved on without them. People who hadn’t let go of the idea that something better could still exist.

Leela had never been one for fairy tales. But this was the closest thing she had to one. And she’d chase it, no matter the cost.

He could already see it playing out. The way she’d set out on some wild chase across the country, searching for ghosts in the ruins. The way she’d throw herself into danger, into unknown places, into hands that might not be as kind as she expected.

And for what? For a world that was already done for? For parents who weren’t here to see it? For something bigger than herself, because Leela never knew how to put herself first?

He couldn’t let that happen. Not as long as he breathes.

Joel folded his arms, gripping the thick fabric of his sleeves, ready to return like for like. “Enlighten me, kiddo. And how do you know they’re still out there?”

Ellie scoffed, shaking her head. “I hear things. You think I don’t listen?” She gestured vaguely toward the town. “Maria’s got scouts. People come through. Fucking Eugene. And maybe the whole world isn’t what it used to be, but not everyone’s given up trying to fix it.”

Joel let that sit in the cold air between them. But that didn’t mean it was real. And even if it was—

He sighed, running a rough hand over his beard. “Ellie, you don’t—”

“Don’t what?” she snapped. “Understand?” Her voice had teeth now, cruel, sharp ones. “I understand just fine. I'm not a kid anymore.”

Joel clenched his teeth. His patience was fraying, unraveling at the edges.

“You have to stop,” he muttered.

Ellie let out a breath, shaking her head. “Jesus. She deserves to know, Joel.”

His throat worked up. “And what if there’s nothin’ out there?” His voice was quiet now, but firm. “What if she goes searchin’ and doesn’t find a damn thing? Or worse—what if she does?”

Ellie stilled. Joel stepped forward, yielding the words into the space waiting between them.

“What if she finds the wrong people?” His voice was almost a growl. “You ever think about that? About what happens if it gets her helpless, in front of a gun? If she leaves everything good she’s got right here and doesn’t come back? Have you thought about Maya? Our kid who depends on her... delusional mama? Will you answer for her?”

His voice caught on those last words. The thought of them was objective in his throat, scraping raw on the way down.

Ellie’s jaw twitched, but she didn’t look away. “Whatever it is, that’s not your choice to make.”

Joel inhaled sharply through his nose.

Not his choice, yes. But wasn’t it? Hadn’t it always been? Hadn’t it always been him, standing between the people he loved and the things that would take them away? Hadn’t it always been his job to make those choices—ugly, unimaginable choices—because someone had to?

Hadn’t it always been him who paid the price?

Ellie took a slow step forward, voice quieter now but cutting deeper than anything she’d yelled. It dropped ten-tonne stones in his stomach.

“You did it to me. Not this time, Joel.”

X

Joel watched Leela in the mirror for a long moment, one hand braced against the frame, taking in the endless pull of the bristles through her dark strands, the way her mouth softened in concentration. How she winced when she smoothed over a particularly large snarl, and manoeuvred it in little pulses of the brush.

Then he stepped behind her, crossing the room, steeling his palms against the vanity, on either side of her, lips against the back of her head—

“Darlin’?” The word was muffled in her hair.

She hummed softly, big, dark eyes flicking up to meet his in the glass. And goddamn, she looked pretty. Undeserving of him. The golden light from the lamp traced over the delicate curve of her cheek, the slope of her nose, the deep, dusky gleam of her skin.

“Have I ever told you how beautiful you look?”

Her mouth curled, amused. She dragged the brush down again, glancing at him through the mirror. “Including now? Seventy-three times.”

Joel huffed a quiet laugh. “You keep count, dork?”

“I keep count of everything.” She spun on the leather stool, ticking her fingers off. “How many times you walk up the stairs in a day, times you kiss me, times you call Maya with endearments or her name, times you use the bathro—”

Joel groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ. Stop.”

She simply grinned at him, all innocent. “It’s a pattern. Symmetry. Helps with the theory.” A beat, then softer—“Well… helped.”

Joel eyed her. That sadness, the loss. The piece of her that was still grasping at things that had slipped through her fingers long ago. He wasn’t about to let that take root.

Then—clearing his throat—he shook his head, voice wry. “I was workin’ up to somethin’, and now I’m just creeped out.”

Leela tilted her head, curious. “Working up to what?”

He leaned in, voice dropping, little rougher, little lower. “Well—” His eyes flicked to her mouth. “I was gonna kiss you real hard.”

A flicker of something crossed her face—delight, fondness, maybe a little bit of shyness. That part he loved. Her lips parted slightly, nevertheless.

His smirk deepened. “How many of those am I at today?”

She let out a quiet, breathy laugh, gaze lowering. “Seven.”

“Hm. I can do better.”

Joel reached for her, fingers curling under her chin, tilting her face up as he kissed her—incredibly soft lips brushing his, building and deep, taking his time, savouring the sweetness of her. She sighed into him, her fingers grazing against the explosive pulse on his wrist, slipping up into his hair, her body melting just a little.

Then—just as she did—he moved.

With a swift movement, he shifted, dipping down, hands gripping firm before he hoisted her up, throwing her over his shoulder like she weighed no more than a feather.

“Oh—Joel!” She yelped and earned himself a swat at his back along with a girlish giggle. “Put me down!”

Joel just grinned, gripping the back of her thighs as he carried her toward their bed. “No can do. Seven kisses, my ass. I'll make that seventy tonight.”

She was laughing. Laughing like she couldn’t help it, like it just spilled out of her, like it bubbled up from somewhere deep, warm, and real.

And shit, Joel thought—if this was his life now, if this was what he got to end his days with—then he was the luckiest son of a bitch alive.

Leela was still giggling her head off when he set her down on the bed, mattress dipping with her weight, her legs hanging a little off the edge.

Joel stood over her for a beat, his large hands dwarfing her thighs, squeezing into the warm, smooth skin. His heart was thudding that fierce, familiar rhythm—like it always did when he was close to her. Just like this.

Christ, she was unfairly beautiful. Her freshly combed hair tumbled wild over her shoulders, her nightdress slipping a little at the straps as if knowing what was coming, teasing the soft swell of her collarbones. And her legs—bare beneath the hem—were parted just enough to accommodate his broad form and step between them.

He did, dropping down to his knees, like a man come to confess, knowing damn well he was about to sin a hundred times more.

And from here—from this angle—he could see everything. His whole world condensed to that space between her legs. The way her nightdress pooled over her lap, the black fabric of her panties peeking out just beneath it, the little white bow at the waistband that always drove him insane.

Leela only hummed, slender fingers buried into his hair, combing through the damp, silver-brown curls, another reminder of how too fucking old he was for her. Joel exhaled, tilting his head into her touch. Her fingertips dragged lazily over his scalp, nails scratching just enough to make his skin prickle.

God, he loved that. The way she touched him, she was allowed to now. Like she wanted to. Like she owned him. Because hell if she didn’t, every damn broken shard, every scar, every weary, blood-worn inch.

He let his eyes slip shut under her touch, sinking into it, jaw flexing slightly with the effort it took not to simply fall apart in her hands. She noticed. Of course she did.

Her mouth curved knowingly. “You want to…? I thought today is a godly day and all that.”

Joel huffed, eyes blinking back open. “You know what the Bible says?”

Leela smoothed his hair back from his face. “What does it say, Joel?”

His hands squeezed her thighs. “To be fruitful and multiply.” He let his lips ghost over her knee, just barely touching. “From one godless person to another—I say we fuck seven ways til Sunday and call it worship. Just like the big man intended.”

Leela laughed, hands hiding her face, and Joel felt it like sunlight cracking through old stone.

She wasn’t always like this with him—so easy, so light. It had taken time, so much time, to bring her here, to let her settle into herself with him, to let her know she didn’t owe him a damn thing. Not her body, not her trust, not her affection. That he’d still want her, still love her, no matter what her body could or couldn’t do.

But now? Now she sat before him, knees fallen open, fingers tangled in his hair, looking down at him with fondness. His, in the way someone chooses to stay.

He ran his hands down, slow, tracing the gentle slope of her calves, the dips and hollows of her knees, until he reached her feet. He rolled her socks off one by one, tossing them over his shoulder.

Then he groaned. Because right there, around the delicate bones of her ankles, were those thin gold chain anklets. Wrapped around the bones of her ankles like they were made to live there.

He swallowed, fingers trailing over the fine metal, his thumb rubbing slow circles over the bone. “The shit you do to me.”

Leela bit her lip to fend off a smile, fingers playing in his hair. “I make you very, very happy?”

“Absolutely. And,” he pointed to the goddamn rock-hard monument in her name, right between his legs, “there's your proof.”

Leela’s laugh was still in the air when Joel pushed her knees up, folding her into the mattress, urging her onto her back. He gave those pretty gold anklets a kiss.

She didn’t just let him. She rose onto her elbows, watching him, that playful little grin still tugging at her lips.

Joel let his hands slide up her thighs, tracing a path over warm, bare skin before pulling back just long enough to grab the back of his shirt. Then, in one motion, he yanked it over his head. Didn’t care where the damn thing landed.

When he looked down again—her lips had parted, awed, curious, fingers already reaching for him.

He knew where she was going before she even touched him.

Knew the exact path her hands would take—starting from the thick, angry scar slashed deep into his torso, the one that never quite faded, the one that should’ve killed him all those years ago. Her cautious fingers traced along the pale, ragged edge of it, weightless, lingering—because she knew. Knew how close he came to never having this. Her.

Then—down. Lower. His stomach caved as her touch skimmed over the soft plane just below his ribs, down to where the trail of little tufts of hair disappeared beneath his waistband.

“Still got a thing against underwear?” she whispered, mocking.

“Knock it off. You have your patterns, I have mine.”

Joel wasn’t sure what had him losing his breath first—her touch, maybe it was the way she looked at him right now, lips parted, waiting, as if she already knew exactly what this was doing to him. Just a whisper of pressure before she hooked one single finger into his waistband—one. Didn’t even tug, just held him there, wanting permission.

Joel exhaled hard through his nose, lips twitching slightly, instinct kicking in before he could even think about it.

“My turn first, darlin’.” His voice was collected, low despite the heat winding through his blood. “I wanna take a nice look at my stakes tonight. You mind?”

A hesitation—just a beat. And, slowly, she shook her head.

Hands sliding back the hem of her nightdress, he dipped his head to claim his said stakes, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh.

He took his time; he was about to taste every last bit of her tonight. Let his hands smooth over her hips, his thumbs skimming under the elastic of her panties, catching at the sides. The fabric worn soft against her skin, and he dragged it down, inch by inch—savouring the reveal of her, the friction, the soft unveiling of something that was already his.

And then he leaned down, eyes never leaving hers—flattening his tongue right into her belly button, teasing, hot, wet, possessing, before rolling it there like he was stamping himself into her, telling her exactly what the fuck she was in for.

Her head fell back, exposing her throat, as his stubble scraped at her, the delicate skin of her hipbones fluttering.

Joel knew it before he could venture downward, awaiting what was fit for a king.

The hesitance. The way her body reacted before her mind caught up, old ghosts whispering, instincts catching up—the quick snap of her knees closing, her fingers curling into the sheets, like she could hide, like she should.

Like she expected him to pull back, turn away, confirm whatever she’d already convinced herself was true.

“It's all ruined, Joel,” she whispered, too quiet, barely cupping his cheek. “It really isn't worth it. Just come up here and kiss me.”

A firm reminder of the patience he had to hold, no matter how much his control slipped past him, replacing it with something hot and aching and furious, because—who the fuck put that in her head? Who made her think that the resilience of her body, the proof of what it had endured, made her less than?

Who made her believe that change was a goddamn loss instead of something earned?

Although he knew what she saw now when she looked in the mirror. Knew the way her fingers traced over her own skin with careful, detached curiosity—like she was separate from herself, like she was still trying to understand what had happened to her.

So, he had to be careful now. Temper himself. Had to remind himself to slow down, hold back, not push, not snap with the heat—even though every part of him wanted to touch, to hold, to make her feel what he saw.

He ran his hands over her thighs, slowly warming her back into him, into this moment. Let her feel him. Let her know he was still here.

“Let me in, sweetheart.” His voice rough, full of something he didn’t have the words for but needed her to feel. Reassurance. A truth. “'S'okay, I promise.”

She was quiet. Fingers still tight in the sheets, body torn between wanting and fearing.

And Joel hated it. Hated that she was waiting for something bad to happen, for him to hesitate, to pull away, to confirm whatever bullshit lies had been inside her, planted deep and rotting.

And the marks left behind? The softening, the lines that claimed her, the change, the things she thought had broken her?

That was proof. Proof that she’d survived something brutal and still held onto love. That she’d carried something beautiful—someone—through pain and blood and numbness and came out the other side still standing. Hell, Joel had never been prouder of anyone in his whole miserable life.

So he did what he always did when words failed him—he showed her.

He spread her open again—took his time, no rush, no pressure, his fingers dimpling into the flesh of her thighs, easing, coaxing, waiting.

And she let him. Her breath wavered, shaky—but she let him.

So, he took her in. Saw everything he called his now. Jesus, and he wanted everything.

He dragged a hand slowly over the soft heat of her, his palm molding to her curves, his thumb brushing carefully along her folds—warm, wet, waiting for him. Felt the little stuttered breath as he traced his fingers along the slit, that dewy, sensitive nub of her clit, anticipating like the mother of pearl, parting through the folds, and he treated it like a man committing scripture to memory.

All his. He'd burn the fucking world, the goddamn galaxy, twice over for this.

He curled his fingers into the soft crease, just enough to feel her reflexively dig her feet into the mattress, anklets clinking, to feel her shiver and melt, just a little, into his fingertips.

And then he looked up at her from above her hips. Held her in place with nothing but his eyes, voice rough, gaze burning.

“Ain’t a damn thing ruined, darlin'.” His fingers flexed, his grip tightening, close to worship. “All I see is you.”

All he ever fucking wanted.

She brushed her thumb across his chin. “Joel.” As if that was the only word she could make out from her lips right then.

“Jus’ look at you,” he murmured, like gravel soaked in honey. “Fuckin’ made for me. Starvin’ me all this time.”

Joel didn’t rush a goddamn thing, as was his catchphrase for life these days. Didn’t tease. Didn’t press fleeting kisses or featherlight touches—no, he gave her everything.

Firm, unrelenting, deep.

He wasn’t fumbling, wasn’t searching—he knew exactly what he was doing, exactly what she needed. He’d learned the way her breath hitched when he latched his lips there, on the pearly bud—where she was warm, where she was soft, where she trembled at the first graze of his tongue.

Surrounded her with his mouth, covered her with the heat of him, and Leela broke beneath it. Shivered with his name on her lips, her breath catching, her thighs tensing just a little before she softened, liquefied for him.

God, that sound—that soft, choked little whine. Like she didn’t know whether to hold on or fall apart.

It hit him low, somewhere in his gut, aching, wanting, that had his own hips going off on a tangent, grinding right into the mattress beneath him. Fucking embarrassing, but he couldn't help himself. One-track mind here, and she was all of it.

He kingered this time, slower, mouth dragging over slick, sensitive skin, his nose brushing the hollow of her hip, right down to her warm slit, as he breathed her in, that scent, let himself sink. Wasn't news, but he was fucking done for.

And when his tongue flicked out—light, teasing, just enough to make her breath stutter—he felt her body jerk, spine curving toward him, soft, shaking, helpless as her elbows buckled, trying to hold herself together, trying to brace against what she already knew was coming.

“Joel—” She sounded ravaged already—close to a whimper, pleading.

“‘M right here, baby, ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he murmured over a mouthful. His fingers dimpled over her perfect ass, holding her close, spreading warmth in their wake.

Like hell he was about to fucking let up.

She was trusting him. Letting him touch her, take her apart piece by piece with every lave of his tongue, every twist of his fingers, breath by breath. He wasn’t about to let her regret it.

And then—he felt it. That quiet, beautiful surrender. Her body arching toward him, not just allowing, but asking. Needing. Her fingers carding through his locks—not to push, not to pull, just to hold.

And fuck, he wanted this for her. Needed her to have it.

So he gave it all to her.

He had the work cut out for his mouth, relentless, coaxing, toying. Soft when she cried, firm when she begged. He mapped her with lips and tongue and teeth, bit, rolled, traced her open with his fingers, worked her under, spreading out her soaked folds, wringing out every last breathy moan from her throat, every sweet little gasp, every sweet, desperate, whispered Joel. Music to his fucking ears.

And when his fingers traced down, teasing, ring and middle fingers easing inside—pressing, curling, giving her just enough, just right—

“Oh, my god—Joel—” and some nonsensical sounds for which there was no right spelling, which made him chuckle right into her.

She choked on the words, hands flying to clutch his shoulders, nails digging into healed wounds, breaking skin, breaking him. Good. Let her. Let her take a chunk of his flesh. Sink right in and pluck out his heart, bloody and beating. Take a piece of me, sweetheart. It’s yours.

A wicked little thrill curled in his gut when she whined his name, echoing off the walls. “Mm,” Joel hummed right into her, tongue working her through the vibrations, rasping, “there she is… That’s my good girl. Let me hear you, baby.”

Her body was shaking, her glistening thighs trembling, toned stomach tensing, hips rolling idly into the convex slope of his nose—chasing it, taking it. And he was simply watching her, an avid fanatic, drinking her in.

She was so close. He could feel it in the way she clenched around his fingers, suckering him in, in the way she tasted so much sweeter, in the way her voice went soft and shattered, in the way she whispered his name, over and over, a prayer for him, like she was half-lost, falling apart.

Yes. He wanted this for her. Wanted her to have this, to take it, to know—that he was here, that she was safe, that this was hers. All of it. Him.

So he pushed her higher, higher, dragged her right to the edge, pushed himself in, in, in, unstopping—until she crashed.

“There's my girl,” he rumbled, unfathomable. “There you go, baby.”

Held her up, took her in, eased her apart, let her come hard against his mouth, his hands, all over him. Let her shatter—hard, helpless, fucking beautiful—until she was unraveling all over him, gasping, crying out, tears in her eyes, curling around him.

“Joel!”

And he didn’t stop. Not yet.

So licked it through, sealed it with a kiss, worked her open, dragging her down, down, down—until she rode out every last tremor on his tongue, his fingers, sure hold of his hands. Tasted her, lapped her up, let the sweetness linger, soaked his nose and beard.

When she finally sagged back against the sheets—loose-limbed, trembling—he pressed one last, lingering kiss to the inside of her thigh.

He lifted his head, and looked up at her—past her swollen lips, stomach tensing and caving, sweating, wrecked, absolutely fucking ruined—Joel swore he’d never seen anything more perfect in his life.

Leela stared unseeingly back at him, blinking the wetness from her lashes. Joel grinned at that. Smug, slow, feeling too damn good about himself.

“Wow... that was...” She trailed off, breathless. Then she blinked again, locked eyes with him. “I don't know what that was.”

Joel chuckled, pressing his mouth to her thigh again, scratching his beard against sensitive skin, loving the way she twitched beneath him.

“Somethin’ good, I’m hopin’. You happy?”

She let out a weak, disbelieving laugh—then gasped as her gaze landed on the state of him.

His hair was a mess, thick curls sticking up where she’d yanked at them. His shoulders bore the sharp crescent moons of her nails, blood beading in little spots where she'd really lost herself.

Her eyes went wide. “I did that?”

Joel looked down at himself, at the evidence of her all over him—his skin, his lips, his stubble, his fucking soul.

“Technically,” he mused, meeting her gaze, making her squirm a little, “I did you.” That grin of his was pure sin. “Mark me up all you want, darlin'. Next time, plant those pretty nails right on my neck, I want the whole fuckin' town to know.”

Leela was still blinking at him, looking stunned, lips parted like she was trying to find words but couldn’t quite pin them down. Her chest rose and fell in sharp little breaths, the aftershocks still working through her limbs, loose and boneless beneath him.

She swallowed hard. Then—

“I liked feeling that. Felt so... liberating,” she admitted, almost in awe, like she was holding some shimmering thing in her hands and turning it over in the light.

His fingers traced the sharp dip of her waist, a promise to himself. “Get used to it, then,” he murmured. “Plan on givin’ you plenty more of that.”

Leela let out a contented little sigh, stretching her arms over her head, her ribs shifting beneath his touch. That lazy smirk curled at her lips, all pleasure and mischief.

“Don’t wanna overwork my machine,” she teased, with the comfort she only let herself have with him.

Joel smirked right back, tilting his head over her thigh, watching her through the low burn of hunger—the kind that never really left him, not when it came to her.

“Nah,” he muttered, dipping down, dragging his mouth over the taut skin of her belly, letting his teeth scrape against muscle, feeling the shudder ripple through her. “You promised to fix me up. Hundred-and-twenty years guarantee, remember?”

Leela quieted a laugh, sighing as he nipped at her side, her fingers sliding lazily into his hair again. “Might’ve exaggerated the warranty terms.”

Joel grunted into her skin. “Figures. You rich girls are all charm and no fine print.”

She hummed, running her nails over the back of his neck, aimless. “Don’t lump me in with your admirers.”

“You ain’t in the same class,” he said without hesitation, lifting his head to look at her. “They’re just noise. You’re the whole damn signal.”

Leela closed her eyes, her smile too soft. “God help me.”

“Don’t need god, baby,” he rasped, mouthing against her hip. “You’ve got me.”

X

“You took away my choice. And now you’re doing it to her. I won't let it happen.”

Joel hated when Ellie did this. When she carved him open with words and left him standing there, raw and exposed, with nothing to hold onto. When she infected the space with silence, the kind that didn’t just sit in the air but sank into his bones, into the spaces between his goddamn heartbeats.

Ellie exhaled, eyes burning, breath curling white in the cold air. Her fingers twitched at her sides like she wanted to ball them into fists but hadn’t quite committed. “You always say it’s about protecting people,” she murmured. “But maybe it’s just about you. About what you can’t handle. About how you're too fucking scared to admit it.”

Joel clenched his jaw so tight it ached. It would’ve been easier if she’d just screamed at him. If she’d thrown a punch. Cursed him out. Told him she hated him.

Instead, she looked at him with those sharp, unforgiving eyes and waited. Waited for him to give her something real, to use against him.

Joel swallowed, his voice rough. “It ain’t like that.”

Ellie’s eyes flashed, a cold, sharp flicker. “Okay, what the fuck else is it, Joel?”

His jaw flexed, the muscle jumping. But the words wouldn’t come.

Because what the fuck else was it like? That was the goddamn problem.

It was too much and not enough all at once. It was him waking up every morning with the gnawing fear that something would take this life, his love, all of it away from them, that all this peace was just borrowed time. It was the ghost of what almost happened to Ellie still sitting in his ribs, a wound that never really closed, and he never bothered to check. It was looking at Leela and seeing someone else teetering on the edge of a choice she didn’t fully understand—one that could swallow her whole, just like it would’ve swallowed Ellie.

It was knowing that if he let it happen—if he stood by and watched—he wouldn’t survive it.

Joel sighed, like he could push it all down. “It’s just different.”

Ellie let out a sharp, breathless laugh. “Bullshit.”

His eyes snapped to hers, and something in his expression must’ve shifted, because she stilled. The fight was nonetheless in her, but she was really watching him now.

He wet his lips. His mouth was dry. “I ain’t doin’ this to hurt her.”

Ellie’s face flickered, something cracking just beneath the surface. “Yeah?”

Joel nodded once, firm. “Yeah.”

She tilted her head, voice dropping quieter. “And when you lied to me?”

The ground might as well have been yanked out from under him.

Joel felt it in his gut, the way his stomach twisted all that time back, the way his hands twitched at his sides under her stare. The brutal memory slammed into him, relentless.

Salt Lake City. The cold, sterile hum of machines. The blinding white of hospital lights. The dripping consequence of innocent blood on his hands. The drive back. The silence in that goddamn car. Ellie looking at him, uncertain—Swear to me. And him, looking right back, the lie already fixed in his throat.

Joel’s mouth opened, then shut. There was no answer he could give her. Not one that wouldn’t taste like ash on his tongue.

Ellie sighed, shifting. “You know what this fucking means to her,” she muttered. “You know, better than anyone else, how long she’s worked for this. How much she’s lost for it.”

Her voice wavered slightly. But she caught it, swallowing it down, steadying herself.

“If you take this from her—if you make that choice for her...”

Joel’s hands flexed at his sides, then curled back into fists. Whatever was at the end of that sentence, should she finish it, was a bomb to his nerves. And he wasn't ready for the explosion.

Ellie wasn’t angry anymore. No—this wasn’t just anger. This was something old. Something that had never left her, no matter how much time had passed.

She wasn’t fighting for Leela. Not just for her.

She was fighting for herself. For the girl she used to be. The one who had woken up in the backseat of a sedan, stitches still fresh, lungs surging with breath she hadn’t agreed to keep. The one who had been fed a lie, one meant to protect her, but a lie all the same.

The one who had never gotten to decide.

Joel swallowed hard, his throat working against the lump rising there. This was fucking agony.

He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t the same. That this was different. That he wasn’t making this choice out of selfishness, but love—a love so deep it bordered on terror. That he wasn’t trying to take anything from Leela—he was trying to keep her safe, keep them safe, because for the first time in years, he had something he couldn’t bear to lose.

But he knew it wouldn’t matter. Not to Ellie. Not after what he’d done.

She’d already made up her mind. And maybe the worst part—the part that chewed at him—was that she had every right to.

Ellie wasn’t waiting for an answer. She took a slow step forward, eyes locked onto his, and there was no hesitation in her voice when she said, “If you won’t tell her, I will.”

He took a step forward before he even realized he was moving. “Ellie.” His voice was low, edged with warning. “Don’t even think about it.”

She didn’t back down. Didn’t even blink. “Try and stop me.”

Joel clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached. His nails pressed deep into his palms, fists tightening like he could squeeze the fear right out of them.

Yeah, she goddamn meant it. Stubborn kid.

Ellie had always been a storm—a force too wild to be controlled, only barely tempered by the years between them. She was his unfortunate mirror. But this? This was her line in the sand.

She wouldn’t ask again. She’d do it. She’d tell Leela everything. She’d make sure she knew exactly what Joel had been trying to keep from her. She’d rip open the truth and let the chips fall where they fucking may.

And Leela—she would leave him. Leela would walk right out of Jackson, surrender herself to death for bullshit science, just like Ellie almost had. Just like Sarah would’ve, if she’d lived long enough to grow up and push against him like this. Just like every goddamn person Joel had ever loved. And maybe Leela wouldn’t come back.

And fuck—maybe the kid was right. Maybe he was a coward, or selfish, or just too goddamn scared of losing the people he loved to ever let them make their own choices.

But wasn’t that what love was? Protecting them? Keeping them safe, no matter what it costs? Even if it meant they’d never forgive him when he made the hard choices for them.

X

Leela's little giggles carried through the warmth in the glow, squirming under Joel, fingers threading into his hair, gripping without thought.

And that sound—he fucking loved that sound. He grinned against her skin, bit again, firmer this time, just to hear it again, to feel that little flash of light and joy in her, like she was finally letting herself be wanted. Letting herself be held.

And then he climbed, nosing up her ribs, her sternum, pressing his mouth over her heart, sensing it hammering against his lips, wild and unhidden.

Her hands smoothed over him, like testing the strings of a guitar, gliding through his curls, down his jaw, tracing the rough plane of his throat, over his shoulders, his chest. Touching him the way she knew he liked, the way that made him feel like something more than a man with rough hands and too many ghosts.

“Joel?” His name, soft, uncertain. Almost shy.

He lifted his head, finding her eyes, finding the way she watched him, the way she wet her lips.

She smoothed a hand down his chest, fingertips feather-light, following the rise and fall of his breath, tracing each ridge, each scar, committing them to memory. And then, quieter—hesitant, but knowing.

“Do you want to—um—put it inside?”

Christ above. That should’ve been an innocent few words. Put it inside me. Something to smirk at, something to tease her over. But God, the way she said it—soft, like she wasn’t sure she should be saying it at all, but wanted to. The way her lips parted, how her voice went quiet, how her fingers dragged over his ribs, winding into the fuzz there, down, down, trailing heat in their wake.

She reached for her nightdress, carefully plucked the buttons open, so much more sexier when she did it, lifted herself up a little, yanked it over her head and draped it aside.

His stomach tightened, his cock twitched, already aching from just looking at her like this—glistening everywhere, a dusky miracle, warm and ready, legs parted beneath him, wet and waiting.

Joel nodded—too fast, too eager, but he didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Not when it came to her.

“Sure, honey. Yeah,” he rasped, voice rough, barely there, already fumbling with unbuttoning his fly. His hands were shaking, actually shaking, Christ, but he got it undone, got his zipper down, freed himself.

Hot, hard, already leaking against her stomach.

Leela’s breath caught, a small, instinctive sound in the back of her throat. Her lashes fluttered as her gaze flickered downward, wide-eyed, her lips parting, breath turning shallow.

“Please,” he tried, hoping she would take the hint.

She hesitated for just a second before her fingers wound around him—delicate, cautious, still learning him, still getting used to the stiffness and heat of him in her grasp.

Joel sucked in a sharp breath, his hips jerking into her fist, completely out of his control. The touch wasn’t even tight, wasn’t even sure, but fuck, it was his goddamn girl, and that did it for him. His fingers tightened against her waist, digging in, as if grounding himself in her, in this moment, in the softness of her skin around him.

And then she looked up at him—a little sceptical, but wanting him anyway. Wanting him.

That hit him deep. That did something worse than arousal, worse than need. It twisted through his ribs like a fish hook, unaware and sharp, leaving him breathless.

He leaned in, urging their foreheads together, drinking her in like she was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

“You with me?” A plea as much as a question.

Leela nodded, her nose stroking his, breaths soft. “Always.”

And that was all he needed.

He kissed her then—deep, slow, sinking into her like he could crawl inside, like he could get closer than skin, closer than breath. His hands roamed over her, memorizing her like a man starved, like she was holy, transient, and he had to push her into his hands, his mouth, his memory before the moment slipped away.

She was all his warmth beneath him, quiet sighs and tremors, fingers tracing slow, aching patterns over his back and shoulders, waiting for him.

And Christ, he wanted to give her everything.

Joel settled between her legs, powerful thighs bearing up hers that bracketed his hips, and the heat of her—the sheer, impossible heat of her—made his head spin, made his pulse hammer in his throat, made his grip tighten against her like she might evaporate if he wasn’t careful.

The last shreds of restraint in him frayed, pulled apart by the way she looked at him, by the way she breathed him in.

His heart was a battering ram in his chest, slamming against his ribs, a rhythm only she could pull from him.

He wanted to remember this. Not just the way she felt beneath him, soft and warm and willing, but the way she looked at him—like she trusted him, like she wanted him, not just in this way but in a way he didn’t know how to name.

His hand slipped between their bodies, guiding himself, the other cradling her face, thumb sweeping slow over her cheek, tracing the corner of her mouth.

Joel clenched his jaw, swallowed thickly, and let himself memorize her. Because he had to remember this. He didn't know when he'd do this again.

And then—he pushed in.

Gradually. Painstaking. Inch by inch. Sinking into her. Into that breathtaking heat, that unbelievable tightness, into all of her.

A gasp tore from Leela’s throat, sharp and caught, her nails biting into his back, dragging up, her whole body tensing beneath him.

Joel groaned, rough, broken, the sound shuddering from deep in his chest.

His forehead dropped to hers, breath uneven, harsh, like he’d just been knocked off his damn feet. Because, no, not even after a decade into this would he get used to it.

He felt everything. The heat, the softness, the cushioning stretch around him, the way her body clung to him, wrapped around him, pulling him in. Taking him in, welcoming him in.

“Goddamnit, baby…” His voice came out strained, barely there, just breath and heat.

Leela shuddered, exhaling in a stuttering breath against his lips.

Her fingers curled into his hair, gripping tight, and he could feel her trembling beneath him, every little hitch in her breath sending him to a free fall. But she didn’t pull away.

No—she arched into him instead, drawn to him, pressing herself closer, holding onto him like she needed him just as much as he needed her.

Joel clenched his jaw, forced himself to still, to breathe, to let her adjust. His hands soothed over her, one stroking slow along her hip, the other slipping into her hair, cradling her, holding her.

Yeah, he wasn’t some young buck anymore. And Christ, he felt it now. Felt it in the deep-set aches in his joints, the dull protest in his bad knee, the slow burn in his lower back where years of hard labour and harder living had left their mark. Felt it in the way his breath came harder, rougher, how his body was slower to catch up to the fire in his blood.

It wasn’t new. Wasn’t something he complained about—because what was the use? His body wasn’t what it used to be. That was just a fact.

And Leela—well, she was younger. Not some girl, not by a long shot, but still, there were nights he glanced at her beside him, and caught himself wondering—what the hell was she doing with him? With a man who hurt more than he moved, whose reflexes weren’t what they used to be, whose hands bore the years in thick, rough calluses.

Joel didn’t know how to explain it—what was happening to him in that moment. What was settling deep in his chest like a slow, burning ember, lighting him up from the inside in a way that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with her.

No person on this shitty planet deserved any of what she did for him.

The way Leela moved beneath him, not with urgency, but with a kind of quiet knowing—like she understood him down to the marrow.

It wasn’t just the way she adjusted her body so his weight wouldn’t bear down too hard on his back, accommodating him to rest on her, or how her legs curled tighter around him, drawing him in, deeper, to give his knees something solid to press into. It was how she didn’t make it a conversation, or a concern, or some goddamn mercy.

She simply… let him be. Let him be a man with age in his bones, with pain in him and knots in his shoulders, and still, still, looked at him like he was the only man she wanted. He was enough for her, making her feel this.

More than the fucking, this felt a lot more like love.

Joel grinned a lazy one, nipping a kiss to her jaw, murmuring against her skin. “How’d you know?”

Leela’s fingers curled against the back of his neck, threading into the softer curls there. “I just felt it.”

Of course, she did. She always did.

Joel groaned against her throat, his thrusts growing deeper, surer, like he was trying to carve himself into her, leave something of himself behind. He wanted to thank her in the only way he knew how.

He kept to the tempo. Circle, push, circle, push.

Until Leela gasped, nails biting into his back, her body rising to meet his. Her breath was uneven, her voice the barest whisper.

“Joel—!”

Right there, yeah. He found that sweet spot. He breathed her in with a victorious grin, nose tracing against her shoulder, low and ragged, his chest pressing to hers, his hands wandering in adoring sweeps—over her hips, her waist, the curve of her spine.

“Wanna give you everything. Everything, take everything,” he said, the words rough and meant only for her.

At that exact spot. Circle, push, circle, push, circle, push.

Because he knew what it took for her to open up like this. Knew what kind of ghosts she’d had to stare down just to let someone in—to let him in. She wasn’t a woman who gave herself lightly. She didn’t owe him this. She didn’t give because she was afraid of being alone or needed something to fill a space.

Joel—God help him—he felt like his heart couldn’t hold all of it.

His lips brushed against her cheek, the bridge of her nose, slow, reverent, until their mouths met, and he kissed her—tongue roaming, teeth knocking, like he was trying to pour something real into the space between them.

“Feel so good,” he murmured into her mouth, voice frayed, like barbed wire catching on skin. “So damn good, baby. You don’t even know.”

A gentle pull at his curls and an echoing moan had him reeling. He groaned, forehead pressing to hers, sweat beading at his brow, spine screaming at the strain—but he didn’t pull away. Not yet. Not when she felt like this, sounded like that.

Circle, push, circle, push, circle, push, push, push—

Joel could feel her getting close. Best damn thing in his life, that's for sure.

He could feel it in the way her breath hitched, in the little shudders that ran through her body, in how she clenched around him—tight, fluttering, like she was right there, teetering on the edge. This might just be it.

And this time, this time, there was no pulling back. No hesitation. No slipping out of reach like before—where her body had tensed and her eyes had gone glassy and distant, that wall confusedly sliding back into place, shutting him out without a word.

No, tonight was different.

Tonight, she stayed with him. Held onto him. Let him see her.

And Joel felt his own climax building—not just in himself, the tight, coiled tension in his spine—but in her.

He slowed, deepened his thrusts, each one thick with ache and purpose, his breath coming hard and uneven, gruff voice encouraging. “You gonna come for me, baby? You feel that?”

Leela nodded, fast, her mouth falling open, a whine catching in her throat. Her hands were in his hair, holding him close, her thighs locked around his hips, skin slick, hot, quivering.

“Say it f'me, now. Need that smartass head of yours to know. Tell me.”

She started in a whisper. “I'm gonna—” one greedy slam of his hips and she cried out, “gonna come!”

“Yeah, you are. Gonna make a mess all over me.” Joel gritted his teeth, a fresh wave of heat breaking over him. He was sweating hard now, the kind of sweat that came with effort, with strain, with love like this—not frantic, not desperate, but fierce. Devoted. He had this in the bag.

A bead of sweat slid down his temple, another dripping from his jaw, splashing hot against the swell of her pulsing breasts. God, so fucking sexy. Unfairly sexy.

She gasped—not from discomfort, but from how deeply he filled her, how close she was, how it all felt.

Her body arched, and he felt the tension spiral tight—so tight—under his hands.

“Thaaat’s it,” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear, “come on, let go f'me. Such a good girl.”

The air between them was thick, the rhythm of their bodies like a heartbeat, their skin slapping softly, wet and warm and intimate, it felt too surreal. The sounds were bare, natural—Leela’s tiny gasps, Joel’s deep grunts, the slick slide of skin on skin, the creak of the bedsprings beneath them.

“You’re doin’ so good,” Joel rasped, his hand cradling her cheek, thumb brushing under her eye, “that’s it, darlin'. I got you. Come on.”

And then—she broke.

“Joel!”

Her body seized around him, back arching, a high, wrecked whimper tearing from her throat—raw and real and so damn incredible it hit him like a freight train. Joel felt her come apart underneath him, clenching, fluttering, her limbs trembling, thighs tightening, fingers digging into his back like she didn’t know how else to stay tethered to the earth.

Her release hit hard around him, rolling through her in wave after wave, hips jerking, breath catching, chest pushed tight to his. And Jesus, she held on. Clung to him like she wasn’t afraid anymore.

All it took was that. Joel was undone.

The way she came for him, the way she gave him that—trusted him with that—a broken, breathless sound ripped from his chest as he followed her over the edge, everything tightening—his thighs, his spine, the aching stretch of his lower back—and he spilled into her, wrung all of him out, deep, full, trembling like a man who hadn’t known softness in years. He held her close, rested his forehead to hers, breaths harsh, the kind of release that didn’t just steal his strength—it stripped him down to the bone.

There was no disappointment this time. No silence. No turning away. No false promises.

Just Leela, breathless and dazed beneath him, her arms still around his neck, her heart thudding wildly against his chest.

Joel stayed there, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his skin, his hand smoothing down the side of her thigh. He couldn't let go; if he did, he’d lose the one good thing he still had. Within him, he felt raw, scraped clean. As if something old had finally broken open and something new had taken its place.

He was feeling the burn right in his bones, alright. Worth it. Every slow ache, every deep pull of soreness? Worth it.

How was this time much better than the first? Maybe it was how he knew the terrain of her body, all the dips, the curves, the valleys. Maybe this was the way it was going to be, the next one always besting the first. Good, he could use a bit of that excitement from time to time.

“Goddamn,” he mumbled. “That's my girl.”

And she smiled—barely there, exhausted and dazed and flawless. One of those little Leela-smiles that barely tugged at her mouth but said everything.

Her eyes blinked open slowly, gaze hazy and warm. She didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

For the first time in too many years, Joel didn’t feel like he was chasing something he couldn’t hold. He didn’t feel like he was trying to fix what had already broken. He didn’t feel like he was failing someone.

He felt like he’d given her a new reality. And she'd taken it. Held it. Come apart with it.

Her thumb lingered at the edge of his mouth, tracing over the rough bristle of his beard. Joel let her, watching her through half-lidded eyes, too damn comfortable—too damn content—to move just yet.

Then, deliberately, he dipped his head and caught her thumb between his teeth. Just a little pressure, just enough to make her giggle.

Leela shifted beneath him, her fingers still trailing over his jaw, drifting down the column of his throat, tracing absent-minded shapes into his damp skin.

Then, her gaze flicked downward. He watched her, half-lidded, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips as her brows lifted just a little. He could practically see the realization dawn on her face, could feel the way her body tensed just slightly beneath him.

“Why are you still inside?” she whispered.

“Wanna keep feelin' you. Best nook in the world.”

“Nook!”

And then—she dropped her head back and laughed. A real big laugh, one that could've woken Maya right up. Breathless and unfiltered, shaking both of them right where he still was—deep inside her, buried in the heat they’d made together.

Joel propped himself up on an elbow, watching her with the kind of fond disbelief that had been sneaking up on him more and more lately. The kind that made him feel like he was standing too close to the sun, and somehow, it wasn’t burning him alive.

Her laughter fizzled into breathless stupor, and she reached down between them, fingers grazing her own skin, the slick mess he’d left inside her. She was flushed and glowing and completely disarmed—this beautiful, brilliant creature half-dazed from how thoroughly he’d loved her.

“I am so wet,” she giggled, almost amazed—like she was taking inventory, like she was cataloging the sensation, her big science brain working even now. Marveling at her own body, her own pleasure—his doing.

Joel huffed a laugh, watching her hand linger where he was still seated inside her. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmured, hoarse. “That’s ‘cause I filled you right up. Feel that?”

He slid his hand over hers, guided it lower, toward that soft pressure, until she felt exactly where they were joined—her swollen, sensitive folds stretched around him, the sticky heat dripping out around his length.

“I’d be worried if you weren’t,” he added, lips brushing her jaw, his voice dark and a little smug now, all gravel and honey. “Felt you take every drop. My girl.”

She shivered.

He was still hard, still inside her, and now he rolled his hips just once—willful, greedy as fuck—letting her feel the way she squeezed around him, the aftershocks still rippling through her.

Leela moaned, body twitching with oversensitivity, but her eyes fluttered open—glassine, gentle and loving. And fuck if he didn’t want to sink back into her all over again.

He liked this quiet after with her. The comedown. The afterglow. Oh yeah, he was luxuriating. It wasn't silence—not really—but that comfortable kind of quiet, where everything was still warm, where he could just be with her, where their breath was still slowing together, tangled up in something that felt more real than anything he had words for.

Leela turned her head, sighing, meeting his gaze, brow furrowing slightly.

She was thinking. And fuck. Joel knew that look.

That faraway gleam in her eye, the way her mouth twisted like she was mid-thesis. It meant she was about to crack the entire moment open with some clinical, over-intelligent monologue that would have his brain short-circuiting—turning this molten, messy, perfect aftermath into a goddamn science lecture.

And he just couldn’t have that. Not now. Not when he was still inside her. Not when she was glowing and flushed and breathing like that.

So he cut her off the only way he knew how—his mouth, slow and unhurried, trailing down the delicate column of her throat, dragging over the heat of her skin, still damp with sweat. Let his mouth roam over her breast, tongue flicking lazily, tasting the salt on her skin, leaving a wet track, the warmth still lingering there, and he groaned against her. Possessive. Content. Still hungry.

“Oh, Christ, you’re gonna start talkin’,” he muttered, words muffled by the perfect weight of her in his mouth.

She ignored him, playing with his curls absently. “You know what? I think I finally understand the physiological means at play—”

Joel growled, deep in his throat, rolling his tongue around her nipple. “Don’t do it,” he warned.

She kept going. Of course she did. “Listen, it’s not just blood flow, Joel. Amazing, right? It’s the whole nervous system—my body registers stimuli—”

He bit her.

Not hard. Just enough to make her yelp. Just enough to leave a little mark. A love bite. A warning. She swatted at his head, already giggling as she squirmed beneath him.

He grinned against her skin, running his tongue over the spot in apology, soothing the mark. “Thought I told you to knock it off.”

Leela huffed, exasperated but smiling, palm flat against his chest like she might push him off of her. But no, never. Not really.

Joel caught her wrist, slow and firm, and pinned it to the mattress beside her head. Brought his mouth back to hers, hovering just above.

“Next time you start talkin’ again,” he rasped, brushing the words against her lips, “I’m gonna make sure you can’t get a single word out. Just like this.”

He dipped his hips, just enough to remind her he was still there, thick and deep, still throbbing inside her.

“Sounds fair to you, smartass?”

And the look in her eyes when she nodded? Had him grinning like a damn fool. Another open-mouthed kiss to the underside of her breast before he was going easy on her, pulling out of her and back, bracing himself above her again.

Leela let out a contented sigh, stretching like a purring cat beneath him, and he just took a second to look at her. All sprawled out. All soft, spent, smelling of him and filled with his come. Why would he ever move when his view was this good?

But he should probably move. Should probably clean her up, maybe get some more food in his system. He was utterly sapped, but when he felt her curious fingers drifting, absently over his shoulder, his back, tracing back up to his jaw, the trail of hair down his chest, stroked across his ribs then—

“Don’t start with me,” he murmured, preemptively, because he knew that look in her eye.

Leela blinked, all too innocent. “What?”

“At least let me grab somethin’ to eat before we get to the clinic.”

Leela propped herself up on her elbows, anxious eyes flicking over his face. “Oh my god. Did I send you into cardiac arrest? Was it that intense?”

Joel snorted, rolling onto his back beside her with a tired grunt, relieving the pangs up his spine. “Figure of speech. I’m not dyin’ with ‘killed in orgasm’ on my epitaph.”

Leela dropped her head against his shoulder, shaking with laughter again. She exhaled against his chest, still grinning. “Why do you talk about death so much after...?”

Joel groaned. “I do not—”

“You do.”

Joel sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Christ.”

Leela lifted her head off him, her fingers skimming absently over the scar on his stomach, delineating a slow, thoughtful path on the uneven edges.

Joel shot her a look. “Leela.”

She blinked up at him, all naïveté, though her fingers were still moving.

“I just think it’s fascinating,” she mused. “Is it because of the endorphin drop? Or maybe it’s more of a psychological—”

Joel rolled them, pinning her beneath him again with a huff, pressing his forehead against hers. If she wanted a third, she was getting a third. It was Christmas, he'd give her a fourth and fifth, too, and face all the consequences in the morning.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, dropping an unhurried kiss to her lips. “Now, you've really done it.”

X

“You don’t have to lose this, Joel.”

Ellie saw it in his eyes. All of it.

Saw the way his shoulders had gone tight, the way that darkness, so raw, dashed behind his eyes. The way his whole body coiled like he was bracing for a blow he couldn’t take.

And for a second—just a second—she softened. The anger didn’t vanish, not completely, but it damped the edges. Beneath the frustration, the hurt, the sheer stubbornness of it all, there was understanding.

Because for as much as she wanted to push against him, for as much as she wanted to be right—she still fucking cared about his ass. About him. About the life he’d built here. About every step he'd taken to give himself that. And she knew he cared, too. Too much. That was the problem.

Ellie exhaled, her breath curling in the cold. The space between them stretched, thin and brittle, like the ice that formed along the edges of the rooftops in winter—one wrong move and it would crack, and there’d be no stopping the fall.

She tipped her head slightly, studying him. Like she was trying to see inside his head, figure out how the gears turned, how the walls had been built so damn high.

His jaw clenched. The muscles ticked, the tension burning through him like a slow, smoldering fire. “Kid, I don’t need you to—”

She shook her head, cutting him off before he could finish. “No, I know. You think if she finds out, she’ll leave you.” Her voice wasn’t unkind. Just certain. “And maybe she will. But maybe she won’t.” She hesitated. “You don’t know that.”

Joel swallowed hard, his throat working against the lump rising there. His hands flexed at his sides, clenching and unclenching, like they needed something to hold onto. Like they were looking for a fight, but there was no fight to be had.

His voice came out rough, hoarse. Quiet. Like he was afraid saying it too loud would make it real. “And if she gets herself... killed?”

Ellie’s gaze flickered.

There it was. Not just the stubbornness. Not just the fear of repeating the past.

The grief. The bone-deep, gut-wrenching terror of watching someone else die for something they believed in. Joel had been here before. She knew that. She also knew it didn’t change the truth.

Ellie let out a slow breath, shoulders shifting with it. When she spoke, her voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t even particularly strong. But the firmness couldn't be denied.

“Then you trust her to make the right call.”

Joel’s pulse thundered in his ears.

Trust. That was what she was asking for. Not just for Leela. For him. To trust that if he let go—even just a little—the world wouldn’t fall apart. That not every choice had to be his.

He couldn’t breathe.

Because the truth was, he didn’t trust it. He didn’t trust himself.

He knew what happened when you let go. When you left things in someone else’s hands. The Fireflies had proven that. Salt Lake had proven that. He’d come too close to losing Ellie—to losing everything—and he couldn’t. God, he couldn’t ever.

Fear had constructed a home inside him a long time ago, and he’d let it stay. Let it bow into his bones, let it keep him moving, keep him surviving, keep him from making the kind of mistakes that got people killed.

This was not about survival. It was about choices. And he was stealing it from her.

His hands flexed at his sides, fingers curling, uncurling. His breaths came quick, his whole body was coiled, taut, like something about to snap.

Ellie studied him a moment longer. And then—quietly—she gave him an out.

“You tell her, Joel. I don't care when, but you're gonna tell her before I do.”

She didn’t say it cruelly. Didn’t wield it like a weapon. Just a fact.

A choice. A small, simple one. But a choice, all the same.

She turned for her door before he could answer, before he could say a damn thing at her, leaving him there—standing in the cold, alone. Watching the space between them widen

Pushing him away. Again, again, and again.

X

Joel felt every damn inch of last night in his body.

His back ached, deep and determined. His thighs burned like he’d run halfway across Texas. And his arms—hell, they’d felt strong enough to hold up the whole damn world last night, but now? Large. Leaden. Like he’d spent the night hauling lumber instead of ploughing his girl down into the mattress and making her moan.

Still worth it.

He pushed a hand into his eyes, scrubbing sleep out before Leela's aggravated exclamation pierced the stillness like an ill-timed cuckoo clock.

“No, no, no—don't make me wake Daddy up!”

Joel winced, pinching the bridge of his nose. But still, that stupid smile bloomed on his lips.

Maya had her own shrill objection in return. “No, Mama!”

“Then get in here and finish your breakfast right now.”

Oh yeah, their baby girl had definitely slunk off into the blackberry brambles outside the kitchen door. It hadn't taken him too long for them to sprout once he set them in the beds a few months ago, especially after he found out it was Maya's favourite snack.

Joel eventually forced himself upright, taking longer than he wanted to admit, shoving the covers off with a grunt, rolling his complaining shoulders until his back gave a nice, satisfying crack. That was how he knew he was sleeping better. Real sleep—the kind he hadn’t had in decades. His ears didn’t ring, and he didn’t have to sit there for ten full minutes, waiting for the will to drag himself up.

It still felt strange, some mornings. Waking up without the usual dread clawing at his throat. That didn’t mean he took it for granted.

Eventually, he hauled himself into the shower, knees popping, let the water beat down on him, sadly washing away all the sex, sweat and Leela off him. He dragged on something half-decent, and while combing a rough hand through his damp hair, he crossed the room, caught movement outside his window.

Maya, right where he thought she'd be. That little menace. Out in the yard, barefoot in the snowed down grass, thoughtfully picking at the blackberry bushes like she wasn’t covered in scrapes from doing the same thing yesterday. He knew those nasty thorns. Knew her damn stubborn streak even better. And, sure as the sun, before he could even get the window open to warn her—

“How many times do I gotta tell you? Wait for me. Honey, you’re gonna get—”

“Ow!”

Joel sighed, hanging his head. “—hurt. Goddamnit.”

But she didn’t cry. Didn’t run inside calling for her mama. Just sucked at her scratched-up fingers, picked the thorns off her jacket sleeves, and went back to stuffing her mouth with berries—ripe, unripe, no difference at all to her.

Leela was gonna have her ass if she came in covered in scratches again. And he was going to be the one to clean her up.

Joel shut the window and took off downstairs, shaking his head. And nearly swerved right into the wall at the kitchen entrance. Because—damn.

Would he ever get over this? Over her?

Leela stood at the stove on the island, in front of a sizzling griddle of bacon, dark hair twisted up in a towel, skin fresh and bare, scented with lemons.

The nightdress she wore today from her usual rotation was soft grey, thin-strapped, slipping from the curve of her shoulder. Matched his shirt, the one he’d buttoned on this morning without thinking. And her face—

Jesus, there were a thousand ways to love her, but this? This was the one that got him in the gut. When she was just that sleepy, persistent, clever girl. Stripped of all the careful edges she carried through the day. When she was still shower-warm, soft with sleep, her face stark and beautiful in the morning quiet. He was a lucky, lucky bastard.

She glanced up and caught him staring. A slow, lazy, heart-breaking grin. Her voice warm as honey, came out with, “Good morning, Joel.”

Joel exhaled through his nose, smiling. “Mornin’.”

He made it to her side, hands finding her hips, pressing close, pressing in, letting his nose graze against the damp skin of her nape before kissing the spot, slow and deep. He saw her skin prickle up when he did, bowing his neck to hide a smile.

“What's our number now, hm? Five? Six? Damn near broke me last night.”

Leela bit her lip, trying to hide a smirk.

“And I said I'd fix you,” she said, flat, not an ounce of sympathy in her voice. Casually flipped the bacon over. “See? I'm fixing you a big, fat breakfast.”

Joel gave her ass a playful squeeze. “So wifed up for Daddy.”

He leaned in again, lips brushing the sensitive skin just beneath her ear. But then—she whipped the spatula up between them, blocking his next move, eyebrows arched. “Joel.”

He deadpanned. “Leela.”

She smacked his chest lightly with the spatula. “Hands off, please.”

Joel hummed, letting his teeth scrape lightly along the shell of her ear. “You loved my hands last night.”

She turned back to the stove. “I love not burning breakfast.”

Joel reached past her and plucked the spatula from her fingers. “I got this,” he murmured, tugging her even closer. “You just take it easy.”

Leela glanced him up and down, assessing. Gave him one last suspicious peek before backing away. Joel shook his head, grinning to himself as he took over the stove, the sound of bacon sizzling beneath his hand.

She smothered a laugh, already reaching for the coffee pot. “Look at that—Joel Miller making something that isn’t coffee for once.”

He huffed, shaking his head. “You’ve been around Tommy way too much. Sounding like that little fucker.”

Not that Joel was showing off. But—yeah. He was. Look, he'd been practising for weeks just to impress her.

He cracked two eggs, smooth and clean, and whisked them up quick with a fork. Salted them good, peppered them up. Poured them into the pan, waited just long enough for the edges to set, then, wrist flick—cue the flip. Boom. Scraped them right onto her plate, firm, perfectly golden, just the way she liked them. Unlike the way he liked them—over-easy, yolk spilling out over the toast.

Leela, however, unimpressed, lifted a brow.

Joel leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, chin ticking up. Go on. Say it.

She just smirked, cutting into the eggs. “Do you want a medal for making eggs?”

He reached up to brush a thumb over her bottom lip. “A gold one to bite on.”

She rolled her eyes. But the corner of her mouth twitched, betraying her.

Joel turned away, glancing out the screen door behind him. A fresh dusting of snow was still coming down in slow, lazy drifts.

Maya was still tangled in the blackberry brambles, completely ignoring the fresh scratches blooming on her wrists and a tiny cut on her cheek. She was in deep, reaching further, wincing every now and then, but never stopping. Stubborn little thing.

“Maya, get your peanut butt in here before you freeze,” he called.

She turned to look at him, grinning wide, cheeks puffed out, berry-stained. “Mmmmno.”

Joel clicked his tongue. “Mm. Fine.” He reached for the screen door lock and latched it shut. “Stay the hell outside.”

For a second, she just blinked at him, unbothered. But then—realization. Her little fingers flexed in the air, and suddenly she was moving. She ran to the deck, curls bouncing, using all her might to clamber up the three little steps, baby boots thunking, hands full of berries.

“Da-da?” she called like she'd just been betrayed.

Joel ignored her, reaching for the coffee pot instead. Poured himself a slow cup, breathed deep, and let the steam curl up in ribbons into the morning air.

“Da-da!” Maya exclaimed. Then, for backup—“Mama, mama!”

Joel barely glanced up. “Mama's on my side. You got yourself into this, baby girl. Shoulda listened to me.”

Joel hid his smirk behind the rim of his mug, watching from the corner of his eye as Maya tiptoed, huffing and whining, arms stretched high, teeny arms attempting to stretch for the knob. Not a single bit of regret.

“Oh, Joel, open the door. Poor thing,” Leela murmured to him.

He pointed at her from his mug-holding hand. “Don't fall for that. It's what she wants. Goddamn spoilt for trouble.”

But he was weak. Weak and pathetic. But it was about to happen, like the countless other times before.

Maya had made a calculated decision: push Daddy’s patience right up to the edge. Dangle her toes over the line, and make eye contact while doing it. Then—the grand fucking finale.

A full-bodied, betrayed-to-their-core meltdown. Bottom lip trembling, berries angrily tossed to the wooden boards, brows screwing together, a cry pulling straight from her little belly. She was a genius little manipulator. Joel could practically see the gears turning in her head—how long she could hold out, how fast she could weaponize those big, Bambi-brown eyes.

And, she won. Every single time.

Joel sighed, already defeated, and set his coffee down. He reached for the lock, slow, resisting, but really? He was already gone.

The second he nudged the door open, Maya barreled inside, practically collapsing against his legs, her whole little body shaking with the effort of her Oscar-worthy sobs.

She clung to his jeans, damp little fingers curling into the fabric like she’d just narrowly survived the harshest winter known to man.

“Da-da,” she wept, mouth wide, tears wetting her cheeks, dramatic as hell.

Joel sighed, rubbing a rough palm over his face before scooping her up. “C’mere.”

The second she landed in his arms, Maya melted. Like the tragedy of the last thirty seconds had never even happened.

She sank into him, berry-stained mouth pressing into his collarbone, curls tickling his neck, those sticky little hands smushing his face between them, kneading at his scruff and cheeks like he was made of playdough.

Joel sighed, tilting his head back against the fridge. “You’re playin’ me every time, baby girl.”

Maya beamed up at him, all wet cheeks and gap-toothed triumph. It was disgusting, the absolute glee. She hadn’t just won—she’d obliterated him.

Leela, across the kitchen, was no help whatsoever. Just sipped her coffee real slow, entirely too pleased.

Joel sent her a look over Maya’s head. Fix this.

Leela arched a brow. You fix it.

Joel huffed, shaking his head, but pulled Maya closer anyway, pressing a grumbling kiss to her curls. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t even say it.”

Leela smirked, the corner of her mouth twitching up as she lifted her cup to her lips. “Didn’t have to.”

Soon enough, he'd ushered himself to the breakfast nook, settling back, bench creaking softly beneath him. The cushion had lost some of its firmness, the corners curling, fabric rubbed raw from the times Maya had clambered across it in her little socks, chasing sparrows like a puppy.

Leela paddled close behind, carrying her breakfast and Maya's, baby girl at her feet, clutching her dress, face wiped clean now, and coughing a little from the cold.

Joel shifted, noticing that cough, rubbing a hand over his thigh. “Heater’s kickin’ on kinda slow again.”

Leela set the bowls down, gave him a look. “You mean the one you said didn’t need fixing?”

“Didn’t need fixin’ last week,” he muttered.

Grabbing his fork, ready to dig into his plate, piled high with a nice strip of sausage, two still-warm eggs, bacon crispy the way he liked ot, and a slice of sourdough toast, butter melting into the notches.

An arm outstretched behind Leela, he took in his surroundings.

His kitchen ahead, he singled out as the best space in the house.

Leela's favourite room, even if she spent half her time holed up in that damn basement of hers. He loved how neat she kept it, how it spoke of her quiet rituals and the neatness that came from knowing where everything was. Labelled jars and boxes stacked just right in her lazy cursive scrawl, the intricate little mushroom motif on the backsplash tile, the clean knives slotted in by height, the copper pots and pans hanging scratched and gleaming from the rack above the island.

And his favourite—the wall of ceramic cups, all different colours and shapes, none of which she ever used, but kept up there like some kind of shrine. Collecting dust in their cubical brackets.

He had his own, though. A deep green mug, wide enough to sit firm in his palm, heavy enough to make him feel like he had a real grip in the mornings. She always made sure it was there for him, even if she never said it outright. Just like how she never touched his coffee spoon when she was rearranging the drawers, or how she was working on fixing up that old, fancy cappuccino machine for him.

Their things sat together now. His mug was next to hers on the rack, the dark red one with the tiny chip at the rim, the one she never let go of. His plate stacked alongside hers—hers finer, older, precious, from a set that had belonged to her mother.

Maya’s, though, had their own space. Lined up tidy and sterile, like Leela wanted to keep them untouched by the rest of the house. Kid-sized bowls and ceramic cups, all in soft, neutral colours, because Maya didn’t like anything too bright.

His plate sat untouched. The coffee had gone lukewarm. But he couldn’t take his eyes off them—his girls.

Leela sat across from him, knees drawn close under the table, her nightdress brushing her thighs. Her face was turned down toward Maya, and her hands moved steadily—one curled around a little ceramic bowl, the other bringing a tiny silver spoon up to Maya’s mouth.

Blended porridge. A morning essential for baby girl. With blackberries smashed into near-purple. He winced internally—so many seeds. Maybe he shouldn't have planted those things, it could hurt her little stomach. But Maya took it all. Obedient for once, chewing thoughtfully, her sticky fingers tapping against the wood of the table as she babbled to her mama between bites.

She was pointing to her scratches. “Ow—... mm-mean be-lli-es, Mama. See, see. Ow.”

“I know, baby,” Leela murmured, brushing a thumb across Maya’s cheek where a thorn scratch had already crusted over. “You were so brave. But you’ve got to wait for da-da.”

“Wait fo' da-da,” Maya repeated dutifully, even as she reached for another bite.

Joel grinned into his mug.

He wanted to take a picture. Not with a camera—Christ, no. That’d be too easy. He wanted to etch it with a chisel. Burn it straight into his soul. Freeze this one sliver of morning like amber, hold it somewhere eternal, so even when time came clawing, when the world turned crueller—this would still be there. Untouched.

The light was soft, pouring in through the frost-laced window, silvering everything it touched. It kissed the slope of Leela’s cheekbone, caught the copper in her lashes. And Maya—God, Maya. Her curls were lit like a halo, tiny nails still carrying the stains of her berry mischiefs, lips sticky as she babbled away.

The record player crackled from the living room, some funky rap tune threading through the air, not to his taste. Yet, everything felt warm. Real. Good.

It was so much. Too much.

And he knew, with that dull ache behind his ribs, that it wouldn’t last forever. Mornings like this—soft, slow, untouched by worry—were the rarest kind. The kind the world didn’t let a man keep. So he held onto it. White-knuckled.

He watched as Leela licked the corner of her thumb and gently wiped a smear of berry from Maya’s chin. Watched as Maya leaned into the touch, eyes half-lidded, content as a cat in the sun. No resistance. No fear. Just easy love.

Joel leaned back slightly, coffee cooling between his fingers, the other hand resting low over his stomach—where the echo of last night still thrummed. Her. All her. He would die for that trust if he had to.

“Eat your food, Daddy,” Leela warned, not looking up, voice lilting with that dry affection she saved just for him. “You’ll be a shell of a man by noon.”

Joel grunted, winking when that little honeyed nickname hit him. “You sucked the life outta me, girl. Least you could do is let me sit here and suffer.”

Leela huffed a sigh, but her smile lingered, tucked in the corner of her mouth like a secret.

He finally dug in, scooping a forkful of still-warm eggs, letting the bite settle on his tongue. The bacon was perfect—salty, crisp, just the way he liked it. Maya was halfway through her toast, now telling her mother some long, winding tale about a squirrel she saw yesterday, and Leela listened with full attention, humming at the right parts, dabbing honey from the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

Joel soaked it all in, and he didn’t want to move.

Didn’t want to breathe too deep, like the air might shift and knock it all loose—the quiet, the sweetness, the warmth bleeding in through the windows.

But Joel wasn’t the kind of man who got to stay still for long, was he?

Eventually, he set the mug down carefully, as if the sound of it touching the table might wake the morning from whatever fragile spell it was under. Then he pushed up from the bench with a grunt, his hand bracing the table as his knees cracked under him.

“Joel? Want me to get something for you?” she asked, confused.

He waved her off. “Nah, carry on, sweetheart. I'll be right back, gonna check on this damn heater.”

She smiled at him, knowing. “I'll do it later, Joel. Come, sit, relax.”

He swallowed, shaking his head. “I got this.”

He crossed behind Leela, brushing her shoulder as he passed—just enough to feel the slope of her bones under his palm—and slipped down the hall, heading for the closet under the stairs.

The latch always stuck, just a little. Had to lift it from the bottom and pull at a slant. He didn’t turn on the light. Just let the shadows welcome him in.

The pack was right where he’d left it, tucked behind the empty storage crate of Christmas stuff they hadn’t gotten around to putting back in the attic. He dragged it out, careful not to let the canvas scrape the walls or alert Leela to check on him.

It was already half-packed. It had been for weeks now.

He crouched, fingers moving over the supplies like a checklist he’d memorized. Water tabs, ammo, and the last map Tommy drew for him. Flashlight. Spare batteries. A couple of cans of rations to last him a few weeks.

Joel lingered, fished in the side pouch for the small tin of oil he used for the revolver. Checked it, capped it, slipped it back.

It wasn’t that he wanted to leave. But he didn’t know what waited for him in LA. Didn’t know if there was anything real left to hope for at all.

And if it went bad… he wouldn’t let it come back here. Wouldn’t let it bleed into his house. Into Leela’s clean little kitchen, or the sound of Maya’s laugh echoing down the hallway.

He tugged the zipper closed and stood. Paused, just for a second. Just to look around. The light from the kitchen reached a little down the hall, spilling across the hardwood. He could hear Leela’s laughing voice, trying to follow the lyrics to the rap song while Maya jabbered along with her.

He squeezed his palm to the wall, breathing in, breathing deep, breathing through, breathing out. He rubbed at the space near his heart, feeling that invisible crack, soothing it.

No turning back now.

Then he turned, and quietly tucked the bag back into place.

X

Joel hadn’t slept. Hadn’t even laid down. There was no use pretending.

Behind his shaking shoulders, the house was still.

That rare kind of stillness that only came in the dark hours before dawn, when even the wind didn’t stir and the world felt like it was holding its breath, suspended, waiting for someone to move first.

Joel didn't.

He stood by the front door, dressed head to toe, gear strapped and jacket zipped. Boots laced tight. Holsters fitted snug, a silent verdict. His pack was full—every inch packed with supplies he might need, every pocket loaded with things he couldn’t risk forgetting. His rifle was slung across it, waiting.

He wasn’t.

His hand flexed at his side, then curled into a fist. He looked at it like it belonged to someone else. Now, if he picked it up, he wouldn’t be Joel anymore. Just a man on a mission. Just another ghost on the road.

He should’ve been gone already, nearly an hour ago. Hell, he told himself he’d leave before the light even touched the windows. He’d promised himself it’d be clean. Sharp. One quick motion. No dragging feet. No second thoughts. No lingering.

But his boots didn’t move.

Instead, he turned—slow, heavy-footed, drawing himself down the hallway, deeper into the house. Like his body was already mourning something his mind refused to name.

He didn’t need to count doors and stairs. His feet knew where to go. He’d walked this very path a hundred times—midnight walks with a bottle in one hand and a wailing baby in the other. The boards beneath his feet creaked like they remembered him.

The nursery door sat half-open, the smallest sliver of the blue blush of pre-dawn bleeding out from the crack beneath. He paused just outside, staring at the grain of the wood like it might rise up and stop him.

His hand hovered over the doorknob for a long time. Too long. Like the wood was hot. Like if he opened it, he wouldn’t be able to walk back out.

Then, with a soft creak, he pushed it open.

The room was quiet but not silent. The hush of the old white noise machine whirred low, and the radiator let out the occasional soft ping, heating the small space with its familiar rhythm, the faint scent of powder and old baby soap. Warm. Lived-in. Gentle.

And in the center of it, curled on her side beneath a blanket patterned with little stars, was Maya.

Joel's heart cracked wide open, giving a low throb.

She was chaos and peace, both at once—one sock halfway off, curls sticking up in every direction, her pacifier lost somewhere on the mattress. Her tiny hand was balled into a fist near her face, her mouth slightly open as she breathed in soft, fluttery snores.

His little miracle.

He stepped in quiet, like the floor itself was sacred, like the air around her might shatter if he breathed too loud. He crouched beside the crib, elbows resting on the railing, just watching her.

A full year of her. Not enough time, not nearly enough. A whole year of firsts and fumbling through fatherhood again. Every moment—her first laugh, her first steps, the first time she reached for him—etched into him like blotches.

And now he might miss the rest.

He wouldn’t see her walk to school with her funny backpack. Wouldn’t hear her say daddy like she really meant it. Wouldn’t see her sing, or scowl like her mama, or run barefoot through the summer grass without holding his hand.

And just like that, the consequences came crashing down.

All the things she’d never know.

If he didn’t come back… she wouldn’t remember him. Not really.

She’d grow up with photos from the Polaroids, old videos on the camcorder. Stories Leela would try to tell—how he always smelled like cedar and flannel, how he was the best singer in Jackson, how he played her favourite ‘comma, comma’ song every night on the porch, soft and slow, until she was giggling her head off on his lap.

Maybe she'd even recall the scratch of his beard when he kissed her cheek goodnight. The feel of his calloused thumb brushing her palm as she fell asleep. Remember how he had brushed her teeth with the gentlest fingers, even when she hated it, or how she liked to hold the clippers when he trimmed her tiny nails, so she felt like she was helping.

But not him. Not the way he knew her.

Not the way he knew how she loved the blackberry brambles behind the house. How she'd squeal and wiggle when he pretended to eat her fingers. How she'd copy everything he did—from the way he wiped his mouth after a sip of beer to the way he said goddammit when he stubbed his toe.

She'd grow up. Learn to read. Learn to argue. Learn to sing. Maybe pick up a guitar like he always swore he’d teach her. And she'd be brilliant. Smartass like her mama. Strong like her too.

And maybe… maybe she’d find bits of him in the quiet moments. In her love of old country songs. In the way she counted the stars. In the way she looked at her hands and wondered where she came from.

He reached down, brushing her tiny fist with his fingertip. None of that would be him.

Her palm twitched, then curled her fingers around his in a soft, instinctive squeeze. Still asleep.

Joel closed his eyes when he felt them sting. “Hey now,” he murmured, barely a whisper. “Don’t do that.”

He leaned down, nose brushing her cheek, and pressed the gentlest kiss to her skin.

She made a tiny noise in her throat, face scrunching as she rolled away, curling into her blanket again.

Goddamn it all. Goddamn this world. Already, his baby girl had carved a place so deep into his soul he couldn’t tell where she ended and he began.

He wiped at his face with the heel of his hand, stifling a chesty cough, then reached down and gently tucked her foot back under the blanket.

“Be nice to your mama ‘til I get back,” he whispered, voice thick, broken down to gravel. His throat closed around the rest. The part he couldn’t say. If I don’t come back.

He went on quietly, breaking. “You hear me? Be good, baby girl.”

He slowly stood back up, bones aching from more than just age, shoulders screaming beneath the weight he hadn’t even picked up yet.

Back at the door, he paused. Turned for one last look. Maya, curled up safe. Unknowing. A piece of his heart he couldn’t take with him.

He stepped back into the hall and turned his eyes toward their bedroom.

The door was wide open. It was worse, somehow. If she’d closed it, maybe it would’ve hurt less. Of all the times he despised open doors...

Leela. His partner. His wife. The smartest goddamn person he’d ever known. And she didn’t even know he was leaving. Didn’t know that he was taking her work—the most beautiful thing she’d ever made, apart from their daughter—and walking it straight into the fire.

Yet there she was—sound asleep on her side, arm resting in the warm, empty space he should’ve been. Her braid trailed over the pillow, thick and unraveled, like a line drawn he couldn't cross. The curve of her waist beneath the blankets rose and fell with every slow breath. Her hand twitched, like it always did when she was dreaming.

He didn’t go in. He didn’t kiss her goodbye.

It was too much. Too cruel.

If he kissed her now, he wouldn’t leave. If she opened her eyes, if she asked him to stay, he’d give up everything. Just to crumble and crawl back under those sheets and pretend the world or these fucking Firefly shits in LA didn’t exist. Pretend the world hadn’t started turning again, like it always did—hungry, relentless, cruel.

The responsibility of the decision sat in his chest like a millstone.

He couldn’t tell Leela.

Because if he did, she’d go. She’d insist. Perhaps, fight back. She’d kiss Maya goodbye and pull her braid back, swing on a measly backpack, and look him in the eye and say, “If there’s a chance to make the world better, I’m going.”

And he’d never stop her. Couldn’t stop her.

So he didn’t give her the choice in the first place.

He’d take the burden instead. The road. The fire. The chance of death. Whatever waited in LA.

If the Fireflies were even real. If this wasn’t just another cruel lie—bait strung up on rusted faith. If all of this wasn’t just another fucking false hope strung up like bait.

But Joel had already seen the ending. He'd already stood in that surgery ward, gun in his hand, red lights flashing, Ellie bleeding somewhere behind a locked door while surgeons prepared to carve hope out of her brain.

He wasn’t doing it again. He couldn’t.

That’s why he didn’t tell Leela.

Why he packed the notebook in secret. Wrapped it in cloth and slid it between rations and bullets, behind the photo of Maya with jam on her cheeks.

Because this wasn’t just numbers. It was her life's work. Her mind. Her goddamn heart, her family's legacy, scrawled in ink—proof that she’d cracked something open the world had long given up on. Proof that she could change everything.

He didn’t know what was left anymore. All he knew was that he couldn’t let the two people he loved most take that risk.

So it would be him. Not Ellie. Not Leela. Him.

If someone was going to carry that discovery to L.A.—risk being gutted, betrayed, used—it was going to be him.

Not the girl he’d once saved. Not the woman he loved. Not his baby girl.

Because they deserved to live. Deserved to wake up in warm beds. To feed Maya mashed pears and read her books, and braid her hair. Deserved time and softness and mornings without fear.

The man who started it. The man who lied to keep Ellie safe. The man who couldn’t bear to see that look on Leela’s face if she had to choose between her family and her fight.

He’d choose for her.

If Leela found out—if it broke her, if she hated him for it, if she never forgave him—so be it. At least she’d be alive.

Accepting that, however half-hearted, Joel stepped out, easing the door shut behind him until it clicked. He stood in the hallway for a second, just breathing deep. Eyes on the wood.

Then he bent down, shouldered the pack, swung the rifle into place.

And without another sound, with the first breath of dawn just starting to warm the sky, Joel Miller walked out into the dark, leaving behind the only thing that ever made him believe the world might still be good.

X

Leela darling,

I’m sorry. I had to go. It’s something I need to do. NOT you.

I took the notebooks and the recorder. I know you’d want to be the one to carry it. I know you’d try but I can’t let you. Not with Maya. Not after everything.

I - I lo - I wanted to find the right -I wish things were -Don't hate -I

This isn't about not trusting you. It’s about loving you too goddamn much to let you die.

If I don't make it back - If I die - If -

I can’t risk you. Not again. I’d rather it be me. So let me do this for you.

Please keep our baby girl safe. I’ll find my way back to you in a bit. I promise. I love you.

—J

X

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[wheresarizona]

Learning to Live Part 35

summary: It’s your wedding night, and you’re finally alone with your husband in the privacy of your hotel suite. Not that you care much about privacy when things get hot and heavy on the balcony.

pairing: Javier Peña/f!reader

rating: E (18+!! No y/n, alternating POV, explicit smut, age gap (about ten years), two extremely horny newlyweds, Husband Javier Peña, dirty talk, oral sex (f + m receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected p in v (wrap it up!), creampie(s), rough sex, loud balcony sex, exhibitionism, romantic bathtub sex, BREEDING KINK (so much), praise kink, marriage kink, love kink, ring kink, drinking, being buzzed, love confessions, body worship, body insecurity (and Javier making you feel better), cuteness aggression, relationship insecurity, romantic comedy, domestic bliss, Javier with kids, a new POV)

word count: 20k+

a/n: Hey! I hope you remember me. Lmao Let me just say the last six months have been literal hell, and my life is still in shambles. On a positive note, I’m no longer working 60-80 hours a week, and I now have time to write. A couple of notes about this chapter. It takes place in January of 1999. With inflation, $150 in 1999 would be $300 today. A big thanks to @devineconjuring for betaing! Also, thank you to @juletheghoul for checking out my Spanish. Thank you for reading!

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs feed me. I’d love to know what you thought!

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The San Agustín de Laredo Historic District, located downtown along the banks of the Rio Grande River, was where the original city of Laredo was established in 1755. The area had many buildings dating back to the 1800s, like the district’s namesake, San Agustín Cathedral—a place you were familiar with as it happened to be the church Chucho and many members of your new family attended and was where he married your mother-in-law some forty-plus years ago.

La Posada was the fanciest hotel in town since it offered room service and had valet parking. It was just down and across the old, narrow brick road from your family’s church. The tall, white bell tower could even be seen looming high in the sky from the hotel’s entrance.

The inn, opened in 1961, had its own rich history as it occupied the original high school building that was constructed back in 1916 and was surrounded by some 19th-century structures—one was a former convent, and another was the Capitol building for the short-lived Republic of the Rio Grande. Most of the buildings in the area showed Spanish and Mexican influences, including the hotel, with its rounded arches at entryways and windows, thick stucco coating the outer walls, and many balconies, courtyards, columns, and elaborately carved doors.

Javi could’ve rented you a regular room at La Posada or even something at the Motel 6 off the highway, and you would’ve been happy as a clam. Your dear, sweet, wonderful husband, however, didn’t think either of those options was good enough for you and somehow managed to book the ever-elusive Presidential Suite; this was the room that a person with any kind of notoriety stayed in when they were passing through the Rio Grande Valley—think B-list celebrities, like Matthew McConaughey, or campaigning politicians.

Most of the hotel was only two stories high, but one stretch had a third level dedicated to a few luxury suites, including where you were staying. Through the double doors of your one-bedroom accommodations was a small entryway that led to the living room featuring a built-in bar—a shelf with a variety of liquors, a countertop with different kinds of glasses, and a cocktail shaker—a sitting area with an entertainment system, and French doors that opened to a private balcony that had views of Mexico across the river. There was a kitchenette, a four-person dining table, and a half bath. Through another set of double doors, the bedroom had a massive two-postered king-size bed, an en suite containing an oversized whirlpool tub, and a shower that could easily fit two people. Every room had beamed ceilings, the wall connected to another suite was made of brick, the color scheme of everything stuck to earthy tones that complemented the exposed beams and wooden furniture, and the art on the walls depicted beautiful river scenery.

No matter how many times you asked, your husband refused to reveal how much two nights in such splendor put him back.

And here you were in the bedroom, you and Javi stripped of your formal attire on the bed that he had the forethought to put a towel down on to keep things from getting too messy. You could not stop yourself from loudly moaning at how good it was; your husband had you in heaven with how he was filling you up, and you were finally at the point of feeling stuffed.

He was beside you, so close your bodies touched. “Yeah?” Javi purred. "You like that? You want more?"

You had to swallow before you could speak, shaking your head as you replied, “God, it’s so good, but I don’t want to get sick.”

“Okay, baby.” He kissed your cheek. “Relax while I clean up.”

Your husband carefully took the paper plate that you had practically licked clean of every crumb of wedding cake and the plastic fork you’d been using. Sitting crisscross on the mattress, you were dressed the same as Javier in nothing but a big, white, fluffy, hotel-provided bathrobe. On the towel in front of you were two more sets of dirtied plates and utensils from the leftovers the two of you ate, which Javi picked up as he got off the bed, heading out of the room to the small kitchen to dispose of them.

Earlier, when your husband revealed the surprise that you’d be staying in this suite for two nights, he told you all of the places in the room he planned to fuck you. From those promises, you imagined that he would toss you onto the bed upon arriving here and have his way with you. What actually happened was you got to the door, and Javi made you laugh when he lifted you over his shoulder like a caveman and carried you across the rented room’s threshold. He did throw you onto the big bed, where the two of you made out for some minutes. It just didn’t go any further because your sweetheart of a husband was aware you were hungry, and that made his biggest priority getting you comfortable and feeding you. So, the first thing he did was strip you out of your dress, the man unable to keep himself from taking a couple of minutes to admire the lacy thong you’d been wearing before he got you naked and had you join him in the shower. Aside from some groping and a little kissing, there was hardly any fooling around since he was so focused on taking care of you, which was sweet.

After that, Javi heated up some of the food from your wedding that the Murphys were kind enough to drop off prior to your arrival since they were staying at the same hotel, and the two of you had a little feast on the bed. Now you were nice and full, but not overly so that you felt sick, just enough that you were relaxed and a little sleepy—a food coma, if you will.

Many pillows were on the bed, and you moved some behind you to prop yourself up and lie back on. You grabbed your almost-empty complimentary bottle of water from the mattress beside you, unscrewed the cap, and took a drink.

“Cielito?” your husband called from the other room. “Do you want anything else to drink?”

The options included the bottle of champagne the hotel gifted you to celebrate your marriage, something from the living room bar, tap water, or the two of you could trek to the floor below to raid the vending machine in nothing but your robes and the slippers that were with them when you got there.

His question made you smile as you re-capped your water, stretching your arm to set the bottle on the bedside table. “No, babe,” you answered loud enough for him to hear. “I’m good—get back in here!”

He returned seconds later, his knees sinking into the mattress as he crawled onto it, smiling. Javi made his way over to you, and when he was at your left side, he wormed his arm behind your back, the other over your front to hold you close, his head nestled on your robe-covered chest. After getting comfortable, he sighed happily, closing his eyes with a little smile on his lips.

“Javi?”

“Yes, mi esposa (my wife)?”

The title made your spine tingle.

“God, I’ll never tire of you calling me that.”

“Good, ‘cause I’ll never tire of calling you it, my beautiful wife.” He quickly kissed over your heart, then rested his head on you again. “What were you gonna ask?”

“Oh, right. I know we should be having the dirtiest, nastiest sex known to man right now—” Javi snorted. “—but, since we just ate, are you cool with us hanging out for a little bit while the food digests?”

“Are you okay with cuddling, or am I hurting your stomach?” He lifted his arm off your belly.

“Cuddling sounds wonderful.” You lowered his arm back to where it was, resting your palm on his wrist.

“Okay.” He nuzzled you with his face. “Would you, uh, want to play with my hair…?”

“You can bet your cute little ass I do.” That made him chuckle. Your fingers pressed into his hair, playing with the soft strands and lightly scratching at his scalp, which earned you a noise from the back of his throat that came close to a purr.

“How was your day?” you asked.

“Fucking amazing. How about yours?”

“Fucking amazing, though talk about our bad sex luck—which reminds me, thank god your dad does his laundry on Saturdays. When we return the Mustang, I need you to distract him while I disinfect his laundry room.”

Javi groaned at the reminder of hearing his cousin and your best friend Robyn fucking in said room. “I don't wanna think about that.”

“And you think I do? I just don’t want our father coming across a condom wrapper, or god forbid a used condom, when he goes to do his chores. You know as well as I do that he’d tell his sisters, and it’d be the chisme (gossip) everyone is talking about Sunday at tía María’s.”

Your hand was still on his head, curling strands of his hair absentmindedly around your pointer finger.

“Los chismosos (The gossipers),” he grumbled. “Hold on, why do we care if he finds evidence someone fucked in there?”

“Um, because they’ll all assume it was us, and I do not feel like announcing to our entire family that I exclusively get rawed and creampied.”

“Why would you announce that…?”

“Do you want everyone to think we’re horny newlyweds who fucked in a laundry room because they couldn’t keep it in their pants until they got home?”

“We are horny newlyweds who couldn’t keep it in their pants until they got home. We almost did fuck in that laundry room.”

“Sure, except if we had, we wouldn’t have left behind any evidence. We’re not sloppy, thank you very much. I mean, I know a lot about Robyn’s sex life—like a lot—but I don’t know how discreet she is. So, we’ll need to make sure nothing was left behind.”

“I say, if they’re gonna be rude and leave shit behind, we just throw them under the bus…”

Your hand stopped moving in his hair.

“You mean the woman who convinced me to let you fuck my ass?” you asked. “The woman who’s held down the fort while you and I fooled around on my lunch countless times? The woman who covered while I got you off in an on-call room at the hospital? The woman who has had our backs so many times I’ve lost count? That’s the woman you wish to throw under a bus?”

There was a pause, and you heard him gulp.

“I’ll tell Pop that I think one of the Mustang’s tires is low on air,” he replied, “so he has to go with me outside while you take care of the crime scene.”

His response had you smiling. “Thank you,” you said, leaning forward to kiss his head.

You resumed playing with his hair.

“No need to thank me. You, uh, had some good points.”

“I know I did.”

“I haven’t had a chance to see your nails.” His hand moved to grab yours that’d been on his wrist, bringing it up to his face to look at your white-tipped fingernails. “Look at those, they’re fucking gorgeous.”

“Thank you. It’s a French manicure, and I thought they’d look really good with my dresses.”

“They’re perfect.” He kissed the back of your hand and continued holding it when his arm relaxed over your stomach again.

For a minute, it was quiet as you both lay there, your fingers slipping through the soft brown waves on his head in comfortable silence.

“Did I tell you what Olivia said before they left?” Javi asked.

“Um, I don’t think so?”

“She confused the fuck out of me—she thinks I play baseball.”

“What?”

“She gave me a pep talk…?” he said it like a question.

“A pep talk? About what?”

“Something about how she knows I secretly play baseball and that I shouldn’t be embarrassed I’m bad at it because I’ll get better the more I practice. To be honest, it was adorable, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I don’t play.”

“That is extremely random. Why would she think you play baseball?”

“I have no fucking clue. I’ve been thinking back on my conversations with her, and I don’t think we’ve ever talked about baseball.”

“Maybe she misremembered something or misunderstood something her parents said? No clue why Steve and Connie would be talking about you and baseball, though.”

“I don’t know, either. They’re both aware I’m a swimmer and played some soccer.”

“True. Who knows where Olivia got the idea.” You shrugged a shoulder.

“Yeah…”

“It’s gonna bother the fuck out of you until you figure it out, isn’t it?”

“A little.”

“We’ll ask Steve and Connie tomorrow at dinner, Detective Peña.” The Murphys were flying home the following evening, and the plan was to have an early dinner at the hotel restaurant before they left.

“Okay, Mrs. Detective Peña.”

“Oh my god!” you gasped. “I am Mrs. Detective Peña now!” you replied excitedly.

“Yes, you are.” The smile was evident in his voice. “You’re my wife.”

“Yes, I am, and you are my husband.”

“The best fucking thing anyone has called me.”

His response had you smiling.

It sometimes caught you off guard how much Javier loved you since the love you felt for him ran so deep that it consumed every fiber of your being. It didn’t seem possible that anyone could love you the same, not when your heart was more his than yours, yet Javi did. His devotion knew no bounds, and he saw you for everything you were and loved you despite it all—to him, you were perfection. No one would ever love you more, and you would never love anyone else more because he was yours, and you were his; fate, destiny, the writing in the stars led you to each other, and now your lives were so intertwined that his heart was your heart, his hands were your hands, his smile was your smile, he belonged to you as you belonged to him.

Enough time had passed for the food in your stomach to settle, and now you could acknowledge the want burning low in your belly, making your pussy drip with arousal. Something about how happy Javi was that he vowed to spend the rest of his existence with you was such a big turn-on that it was time for things to heat up so you could give him the sloppiest blow job to show your appreciation—except, you wanted it to be spicier than usual.

“My wonderful, perfect husband?”

“Yes, my wonderful, perfect wife?”

“You know what we should do right now?”

“Depends—has your food digested?”

“Yep.”

Javi jostled you as he moved his arm from under your back, rising up on it in order to meet your eyes, his plush lips smirking under his perfectly trimmed mustache. “In that case, have the dirtiest, nastiest sex known to man?” And it became evident you’d been together a while when he wiggled his eyebrows at you as you’d done to him many times before.

“You’re such a dork,” you giggled, playfully pushing his shoulder.

“That isn’t a no,” he pointed out.

“No, it’s not.” You shook your head. “But I was thinking we could get some fresh air out on the balcony.” It was your turn to wag your brows at him. Javi chuckled, giving you a big smile.

“Champagne?” he asked. “Or should I get out the salt and limes for tequila?”

“The room came with salt and limes…?”

“No—I brought the salt, limes, and our bottle of tequila from the apartment.”

He also brought you both overnight bags and somehow smuggled your toiletries out of his dad’s house–you’d taken them to Chucho’s the prior night when you stayed over, and you were pretty sure it was Connie who did the smuggling. She probably had Steve deliver your little bag with the food before he returned to their room, which Javi assured you was on the other side of the hotel and out of hearing range to your suite.

Your eyes rounded. “Because you knew I’d need liquid courage to fuck around outside?”

He gave you a look like the answer was obvious. “Yeah?”

“That is so unbelievably romantic. Horny, but romantic.” Grabbing a handful of his robe, you pulled him forward as you leaned toward him, slotting your lips with his, kissing him; he smelled like the floral rose petal-scented shampoo he used in the shower, and he tasted sweet from the bites of wedding cake you shared with him.

When you broke apart, you were both smiling.

“You get the goods,” you told him, “and I’ll meet you outside—I gotta pee really quick.”

“Okay,” he replied and pecked you on the nose.

The bathroom was on the other side of the room, which meant you had to go around the bed after you got off of it, Javi following you and smacking your ass. There wasn’t much of a smack with the thick robe in the way, but it still made you giggle. He headed for the bedroom door, and as you continued your journey to the en suite, something shiny on his bedside table caught your attention and made you frown.

“Babe?”

He hadn’t left the room yet, standing at the doorway.

“Yeah?”

“Does the gun have to hang out on your table, or can we put it in a drawer or something?” It was Chucho’s small revolver that he kept in the Mustang. Your husband didn’t want to risk it being stolen, so he brought it up to the room.

“Put it in the drawer.”

“Is it safe to touch…?” Unlike Javi, you did not have a lot of experience with firearms aside from treating many gunshot wounds when you worked in a big city emergency room.

“Would I ask you to touch it if it wasn’t safe?”

“No…”

“Exactly. The safety’s on.”

“That’s good,” you replied and moved closer. “I was worried about you shooting your cute little butt off when you shoved it in the back of your pants.” It was bewildering when he got out of the car and casually tucked the gun into the waistband of his slacks.

A huff of air left his nose. “Fifteen years with the DEA, and I never shot myself in the ass.”

Opening the drawer, the only thing in it was a bible. You carefully picked up the revolver by its grip with two fingers like an old, smelly sock and set it atop the book. “Yeah,” you replied, “‘cause you had the sexy tac-vest-thingy with the holster on the front.”

“I didn’t always wear a tac-vest...”

“What?” you replied, shutting the drawer and spinning around to face him. His fluffy, white robe reached down to mid-thigh on him, and it was tied closed, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the doorframe. “So, you’d wear a holster on your hip?” you asked.

You thought back to the pictures you’d seen of your husband in Colombia, trying to remember if he was wearing a holster in any of them.

His expression turned guilty. “No…”

The realization hit you. “A butt gun, Javier? You’d just walk around with a gun at your ass? That is not safe.”

One of his eyebrows rose. “The safety was on?”

“Okay? But even with the safety on, it’s still dangerous. I had so many people come through my ER because they didn’t properly holster their weapons. One dude had it in the front of his waistband, and when he went to pull it out, it accidentally discharged into his thigh and hit his femoral artery—dead on arrival.” Javi grimaced. “And don’t get me started on all of the butts I had to look at and treat because they carried like you and weren’t as lucky. Do you think I enjoy looking at strangers' butts?”

“I mean…”

“Us checking out bootylicious babes in San Antonio and Miami does not count, Javier. These butts I had to look at for work were mostly men’s butts, and I can tell you right now, they were not anywhere close to how cute yours is, and dear god, were a lot of them hairy—which, I am so thankful you are not a super hairy guy, and I really do appreciate that you trim your pubes.”

“It’s the least I can do.” He shrugged.

Your eyes lowered to his crotch, picturing what the white garment covered, your mouth watering at the thought of blowing him. Javi cleared his throat to get your attention, your eyes snapping up to his that sparkled in adoration.

“What were we talking about?” you asked.

Javi snorted. “You were getting on my ass about how I carry a gun.”

“Oh, yes—stop being dumb and protect what little ass you have.”

Javier was not going to reveal that there was a gun in the back of his waistband most of the time they went horseback riding.

“I’ll start using a holster,” he said. “But, if we’re going out on Pop’s land, you can’t complain if you see me carrying; I know guns make you uncomfortable, but our safety is more important.”

“Okay.” Her shoulders shrugged.

His eyebrows pulled together—he was expecting more resistance. “Really?”

“Yeah? You told me about all of the dangerous animals out there, and I’ll feel safer if you’re packing—that’s packing as in a gun on your person, not the big dick in your pants.” She winked at him, and Javier huffed in amusement.

“Thank you for the clarification. You’re taking this a lot better than I expected…”

She walked up to him with a grin and threw her arms around his neck, Javier immediately pulling her into him. “It’s marriage, baby,” she said. “We gotta compromise sometimes.”

“Yeah?” He smiled, his head moving forward to rub the tip of her nose with his. He whispered, “Does that mean you’ll let me teach you how to shoot?” Something she’s always refused.

“I don’t know—will it make you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Then fine, you can teach me.”

He pulled back to look at her. “Really?”

“Yes, because I am an amazing wife who loves my husband dearly.”

He grinned. “You’re a fucking incredible wife whose husband loves you more than anything.”

Javier didn’t give her a chance to respond; his lips crushed into hers, kissing her tenderly, hoping she could feel how happy she made him.

She really was a fucking incredible wife.

When they parted, he gave her another smack on the ass and told her to hurry, his wife giggling as they went their separate ways.

The balcony was covered, with a beamed ceiling overhead and walls on either end to offer some semblance of privacy—the railing was made of wrought iron, the vertical bars twisting like vines into delicate loops and swirls. The only furniture out there was a wooden bistro table situated against the stucco-coated wall with two armless chairs on both sides facing the river. The outdoor light was too bright, and Javier thought it would bring too much attention to them, so he settled on what light filtered out from the living room through the French doors’ windows and the brightness of the moon in the clear sky, illuminating the space in a gentle glow.

He was sitting back in one of the chairs, his legs slightly spread and his arm resting on the table beside him. On the tabletop was the half-drunk bottle of tequila, ziplock bag of cut-up lime wedges, and salt shaker he brought from their apartment, along with a shot glass he grabbed from their rented room’s bar that he washed himself to ensure it was clean.

The night air was cool and a little crisp as he looked out toward the Rio Grande, where, in the distance, he could see the lights of Nuevo Laredo across the way in Mexico. For some unknown reason—maybe being outside or how emotional the day was—Javier was craving a cigarette; even after quitting almost two years ago, he still felt the itch for nicotine here and there, and he’d done pretty well not giving in to the temptation, mainly because there was someone in his life now who distracted him from it. The French doors opened, and immediately, his head was turning in their direction to see his wife coming out.

His beautiful distraction.

He couldn’t keep himself from smiling even if he tried. She looked so comfortable in her robe that matched his, her face lighting up when her eyes landed on him. Her expression took him back to the first time he saw that beaming smile after she handed him the perfect tomato: that was the moment she pulled him in and made him want to know more about the sweet woman who was easily excitable over fresh produce. It was like meeting the sun—bright, warm, happy, and he wanted to bask in her rays and see that smile every day for the rest of his life. Better yet, he wanted to be the reason for that smile, and now he was proud to say he was.

Only a couple of minutes had passed since the last time he saw her, and when she made it over to him, she asked, “Is this seat taken?” She nodded at his knee closest to her, and without waiting for his answer, she sat down on his thigh with her legs between his and her arms around his neck, Javier pulling her closer.

His head was tilted up to look at her, his hand reaching to cradle her face in his palm, staring her in the eyes, smiling.

“I’ve got something else you can sit on,” he said.

“Javier,” she gasped. Her fingers went to his forehead, brushing stray strands of his hair off of it. “I’m gonna need a shot first, maybe two—actually, two for sure, no more than three because, as we know, one shot, two shot, three shot, four-the-love-of-god-stop-crying.”

He chuckled. “Two shots then, pero, quiero que mi esposa me bese primero (but, I want my wife to kiss me first).”

“Cualquier cosa por mi esposo (Anything for my husband).”

Javier couldn’t get enough of her calling him that.

He pulled her down until their lips were a hair's breadth apart. “Dilo otra vez (Say it again),” he rasped.

“Cualquier cosa por mi esposo (Anything for my husband),” she whispered.

“¿Quién soy yo (Who am I)?”

“Mi esposo (My husband).”

“Sí, chingados que soy (Yes, I fucking am),” he growled, pressing his mouth to hers.

The kiss was anything but chaste with how Javier plunged his tongue between her perfect lips to tangle with hers. His heartbeat sped up, the blood pumping through his heated body and traveling to his hardening cock. He moved his hand from her face down to her bare knee, tracing his fingertips up under her robe over the soft skin of her thigh to her ass to squeeze a handful of it.

There wasn’t the same pent-up need like their kiss in the Mustang when he parked them in the field. This one was instead full of promise for their night ahead, making the anticipation swell that they could now take their time and truly enjoy each other since they already dealt with the sexual frustration of being cockblocked multiple times when they were frantic in the car.

Javier savored the feeling of her mouth on his, how their tongues intertwined, and the sweet taste of her lips. He savored her moans and her fingers combing up through the hair from the nape of his neck to the back of his head, where she clutched it tight in her fists; sparks danced along his spine and collected at the base of it, feeding the fire of his arousal that had him half-hard already and wanting to touch more of his wife’s body.

His wife. His beautiful, smart, sexy, amazing wife.

They kissed until they were breathless, both panting when they separated. He nibbled on her chin, his mouth blazing a path along the underside of her jaw until he was at the taut skin of her neck, nipping and kissing down the column of it.

“Oh, god,” she gasped when he sucked at her pulse point, and it made him smile. She lightly tugged his head back by the hair to make him look at her. “Shots.”

“Yeah?” He squeezed her ass.

“Fuck yes.”

“Okay, baby. Ladies first.”

He got his arm out from behind her back, his other hand leaving her ass as his upper body twisted slightly toward the table to grab the bottle of tequila, unscrewing the cap and pouring the liquor into the clear shot glass. Then he opened the bag of limes and picked up the salt shaker, his attention returning to her.

“Where do you want the salt?” Usually, a pinch was licked off the hand between the thumb and forefinger, but he had other ideas for his turn.

She worked open the tie on his robe and pushed it away to reveal his chest, his arm going back behind her again to give her room. “Here,” she said, bending her head to lave at his nipple with her tongue.

“Fuck,” Javier breathed, swallowing hard—it looked like she had the same idea.

While she sprinkled the salt on him, he took a lime wedge out of the bag and gently bit the rind, holding it between his teeth.

Cielito set the shaker down to grab the shot glass and raised it. “Fuck the leather, fuck the lace, here’s to the one who sits on your face!”

The only reason he didn’t laugh was because immediately after she spoke, her face dipped down to suck the salt off his nipple—the shock of pleasure had the muscles in his thighs tensing. She quickly drank the tequila, her face pinching at the burn before she bit the lime out of his mouth.

The glass was back on the table, his wife setting the remnants of the fruit she sucked the juice from next to it.

“Woo!” she exclaimed. “One down, one to go.” She untied her robe and opened it, Javier’s eyes lowering to her bare tits.

His hand moved on its own accord, skating his large palm up her stomach to fondle her breast. He could hear her say something but didn’t make out the words. Her smaller hand came into view, and the snapping of her fingers ended his trance—he looked up at her. “Sorry?” he said.

She smiled. “I asked where you want the salt.”

“I think you know where I want the salt.” His tongue swiped along his bottom lip at the thought of getting his mouth on her tits.

“That’s why the robe is open.” She winked. “My guess was boobies or neck, and I see you’ve chosen the boobies, a tit for tit.”

“Don’t you mean a ‘tit for tat’?”

“No.” She shook her head. “A tit for tit works better in this situation.”

“I am so in love with you.”

“Good, ‘cause I am so in love with you.”

He took her breast into his palm and leaned his head forward, sucking her stiff nipple into his mouth. Her breath caught in her throat, the fingers on one of her hands going into his hair. Javier came off of her with a wet pop, her skin shining with his saliva. He shook some salt onto her, then poured himself a shot as she got a lime wedge.

“I expect a good toast,” she said. “No, ‘salud.’ Give me something raunchy that you and your guy friends would say in college, or you and Steve in Colombia.”

His eyebrow lifted. “Something raunchy Steve would say? The guy who doesn’t like us kissing in front of his kids?”

“Okay, you know what. The moment I said Steve, I realized the raunchiest thing he’d say before you guys drank would be cheers or bottoms up if he was feeling a bit scandalous. There’s gotta be shit you and your friends in college would say, though.”

He picked up the tiny glass that looked even smaller in his hand compared to hers and took a moment to think about what he could say. He’d never been much into toasting, and in college, they usually drank to getting laid or winning a swim meet. There was something he overheard years ago, down in Colombia, that an American tourist said that stuck with him. He just had to remember the wording…

She had the lime ready for him between her teeth, and he lifted the shot. “Here’s to love, here’s to honor; if you can’t come in her, come on her!”

Cielito was doing her best not to laugh. He sucked the salt off of her breast and shot back the tequila, the mineral lessening the initial burn—it was smooth with a sweetness of flavors, picking up vanilla and caramel and a hint of something oaky that was washed away by the sourness of the lime when he bit into it. The glass went back onto the table, along with used rind.

He looked at his wife. “How was that?” he asked, his hand around her back, squeezing her hip.

“Very good. I loved the play on words.”

“How are you feeling?”

She smiled at him. “Fucking amazing. Ready for round two?”

Javier mirrored her expression. “Where do you want the salt?”

This time, she salted his neck, and when she raised the glass, she said, “To us: may all of our ups and downs be in bed!”

Once again, he didn’t have a chance to chuckle before her tongue was licking up the sensitive skin of his neck, his eyes closing at how good it felt. The alcohol was warm in his belly, and he knew it’d take one more shot before he felt any of its effects—his wife would be feeling it any minute now.

For his turn, he chose her neck as well—a ‘tit for tit.’ He lifted the shot glass, keeping his gaze on hers, another lime wedge in her mouth for him. “To my wife, who I love more than anything. You are my forever and have made me the happiest man in the entire fucking world. This isn’t the best day of my life—it’s only one of them because I know there are many more ahead of us. Te amo, mi Cielito (I love you, my Cielito).”

Her eyes were misty, and he went through the steps—lick, drink, suck—she leaned his way, and he closed the distance, his tongue licking up the salty trail on her throat before he drank the tequila, then sucked the lime from between her lips. The moment her mouth was empty, she said, “Javier, how dare you say something so sweet when my toasts were gross.”

He spit the rind out onto the table with the others, the glass going bottom-up beside them. His hand went to the back of her neck, pulling her toward him. “I meant it all,” he replied, smashing his lips to hers.

His mouth muffled her moan—taking advantage of her parted lips, he licked inside, tasting the lime and sweet hints of tequila, their tongues dancing together as they had countless times before. His free hand gravitated to her tits, roughly palming one, then the other, pinching and rolling each of her pebbled nipples with his fingers.

Javier loved her breathy sounds.

The alcohol’s warmth was spreading through his body, his dick hard and throbbing, barely covered by his robe. His wife gave as good as she got, and she made him groan when she freed his length and wrapped her fingers around him, slowly pumping him up and down.

It was starting to heat up, and there was a list of things he wanted to do, but first, he needed to ensure she was comfortable. He detached his lips from hers, kissing the edge of her mouth, his nose bumping into hers.

“You good?” he asked. “Or another shot?”

“I’m good,” you answered and kissed his plush lips.

The booze had you feeling warm and tamped down your nerves. You were good, you were more than good, your cunt weeping with your need for him.

With the way your husband had been obsessing about eating your pussy all night, you knew that was the first thing he’d want to do, and you were curious to find out what he planned—was he going to sit you in the chair and get on his knees for you? Bend you over the railing and eat you out from the back? Or put you in the position he had you in earlier when you were interrupted, with your back against the wall and him kneeling at your feet? It was honestly a toss-up on what he would choose. Luckily, he didn’t make you wait long.

Javi’s mouth broke away from yours, grabbing your hand that was on him, ordering you, “Up.” You didn’t waste any time, rising to stand in front of him. He grunted as he got up with you, the seat creaking from his movements; he was so close to you that your bodies touched, your palm still in his—he tugged it to make you face him and have you chest to chest.

His eyes were dark with lust when they met yours. “I fucking need you,” he rasped, and suddenly those big mitts of his were framing your face, his lips finding yours. This kiss was fervent, urgent, his need evident as he turned you away from the table and backed you up into the wall beside the chair.

From how passionately he claimed your lips, it seemed his words had a double meaning: he needed you physically at this moment and needed you always in his life. He needed you in every way there was, and wasn’t it the same for you with him? You needed him in every way there was, too. Not only that, but you weren’t sure you’d be able to breathe without him; would your heartbeat cease without him? These were questions you never wanted to learn the answers to.

With your robed back pressed to the stucco wall, it was apparent he wanted to finish what he started earlier, and you were happy to oblige. The glow from the lights in the living room trickling out through the French doors’s windows, along with the moonlight, softly lit the balcony. Thankfully, it wasn’t bright enough for anyone to make out what was going on if they happened to look, and that, added with the tequila, eased any worries you had.

Your robe was untied, Javi shoving it open to reveal your entire naked front, the cool air causing goosebumps to prickle on your warm skin, your nipples to tighten. He kissed you hard one last time and then began his journey down your body. Earlier, when you arrived at the room, your husband was so focused on taking care of you that he didn’t get a chance to take his time to admire your bare figure—something you could tell he wanted to do badly when he was undressing you. Now, he could, the man worshiping you with his lips and hands, kissing and touching every bit of flesh he came into contact with; his palms mapped out your belly and hips, his mouth trailing down your neck to your chest, Javier whispering into your skin as he went, “You’re beautiful… you’re so fucking beautiful… I’m so lucky… fuck, I love you.”

He took your breasts into his hands, his head lowering to suck one of your pebbled buds into his mouth. The pleasure had you gasping and needing to touch him, your palms sliding under his robe to hold onto his waist. His teeth grazed over your stiff peak before he lightly bit it and tugged, making you loudly moan his name; he let it go and moved to the other, enveloping it in the warmth of his mouth, giving it the same attention.

Arousal was coating your inner thighs, the anticipation welling up inside of you—you wanted Javi’s face buried in your pussy as much as he wanted to do it.

Once he gave your tits an ample amount of attention, leaving your nipples and the skin around them glossy with spit, he continued making his way down the front of your body. As he lowered, so did his lips, his kisses all over your stomach imbued with his words of love. “So beautiful… I can’t wait to see you pregnant… you’re gonna look so good with my baby inside you… I love you so fucking much… you make me so happy.”

Even after all this time you’ve been together with Javi, it was still hard to accept that he truly found you beautiful. You knew he meant everything he said, but there were parts of your body you hated, parts that you could still recall word-for-word the negative comments your mother made about them, parts that were far from perfect that you couldn’t believe anyone would ever love. Except, there was someone who did love them—Javi. He genuinely loved every part of you, and he loved them all so reverently and with such conviction—like if he loved them enough, you would, too.

Maybe that would happen; maybe he’d help you break through the years of insecurity, and you would learn to love your imperfections—only time would tell. For now, you were finally to a point where you believed your husband when he told you how beautiful you were, and with his excitement over eventually seeing you pregnant, he’d helped calm your fears about the changes your body would go through.

He kneeled in front of you, grabbing handfuls of your ass while he placed a kiss on your mound. He put your leg over his shoulder to open you up, his fingers spreading apart your lower lips where you knew he could see how wet you were for him.

“Finally,” he whispered, and that was all the warning you got before Javi dove in face first, the flat of his tongue licking up your slit. He had you biting your lip and curling your fingers into the soft strands of his hair, making you keen when he started lapping at your perky little clit.

“Oh, god,” you breathed.

No one ate pussy like Javier—it was like he was starving for it, the rumbling groans he made as he dragged his mouth all over your cunt, wanting to taste every bit of your essence while inhaling your musk. His words vibrated against your cunt, “You taste so fucking good.”

“You’re too good at this,” you panted. The back of your head hit the wall, your eyes closing, moans falling unbidden from your lips as the first signs of your orgasm took shape low in your belly. “I’m so lucky,” you continued. “I can’t fucking believe I get this for the rest of my life.”

For only a second, he paused. “Any time you want it,” he roughly replied. “Fucking love this pussy.” He then sucked on his ring and middle fingers to soak them in saliva. You whined his name when he pushed them into your sopping cunt. There was a slight stretch, Javi putting his mouth back to work, licking and sucking at your sensitive skin. His come—still inside you from earlier in the Mustang—and your arousal had his thick digits moving easily in and out of you, your hips grinding against his face and hand.

“Just like that,” you said. “Oh, god, don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

Your limbs were beginning to tremble as the pleasure built inside of you, and you cried out as his fingertips rubbed that one spot only he could find—that only seemed to encourage him. He growled into your pussy and doubled down, hitting nirvana every time he pumped his fingers, his mouth focusing on your clit, alternating between sucking it between his lips and flicking his tongue along it side to side, over and over again.

“Oh my fucking god, I love you,” you told him in your blissful haze. “I fucking love you, Javier Peña.”

He hummed something that sounded a lot like, “I love you, too.”

The muscles in your stomach started tightening, the liquor in your system keeping you relaxed as you stood there on the balcony with your tits out, getting your pussy eaten by your new husband. It didn’t take much more to have you cresting, euphoria exploding out from your core as you came, gasping Javi’s name. He loudly groaned, saying, with his face in your cunt, “Good girl.” He replaced his fingers with his tongue, licking up your come and what remained of his inside you while you rode out your high.

Your body went lax, and you slumped; your heart was pounding in your chest, your breaths panting from your lungs. When Javi got his fill, he carefully removed your leg from his shoulder and rose back up onto his feet with a pained sound from his achy knees. He gently kissed your chin, then one side of your mouth, and the other—his lips were wet, and you could smell yourself on him. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close, his hard cock pressing into your belly. This was when his mouth met yours to properly kiss you, tasting yourself on his lips and tongue, hugging him in return, the skin on his back warm under your palms.

Between the tequila and orgasm, you felt amazing, and you wanted your husband to feel the same. You ended the kiss, your hands moving to hold his face as you looked at him—his eyes were closed, his mustache and lower half of his face glistening with your juices, a happy little smile on his lips. He looked so unbelievably adorable that you gave in to the impulse and squished his cheeks to the point his shiny lips pursed—it made you grin.

“You are so fucking cute,” you said. “Even when you look like a goldfish, you’re a capital C, Ca-Utie. Ugh, it’s illegal how goddamn adorable you are.”

His eyes opened. “You done?” he asked, sounding a little funny.

“Obsessing about how cute you are? Never. Like, you’re so cute.” A thought caught you off guard that had your eyes widening, the alcohol in your system amplifying the doubts. “You’re too cute,” you whispered. Letting go of his face, you continued, “Why would you want to be with someone like me? Do you like me?” you asked. “As more than a friend? Like, romantically?” You chewed on your lip.

His eyebrows pulled together, and he squinted, clearly confused. “I married you…” he said slowly.

“Yeah, but did you marry me because you love me or because we’re best friends?”

“Am I married to Steve…?”

“No, but he was already married when you met, and polygamy is illegal.”

“Cielito, mi amor, I married you because I love you, and you’re wearing the proof of that on your finger.”

“Friendship rings exist.”

“I sure as fuck didn’t give Steve my mother’s ring because we’re friends. I love you as more than a friend—wait.” His eyes rounded. Quietly, he asked, “Do you love me as just a friend or more than a friend?”

“How can you ask me that? I definitely love you as more than a friend!”

“You asked me first, and it fucked with my head!”

“I’m sorry, I needed to double-check.”

“I needed to double-check, too.”

“Well, I love you so much that I want to have your babies—” You poked him in the chest. “—and I can tell you right now, I don’t want to have Robyn’s babies. I mean, unless it was like a surrogate situation.”

That made him smile, his hands rubbing up and down your covered arms. “I want you to have my babies, too.”

“Then that settles it. We love each other as more than friends, but you’re still my best friend.”

“You’re still my best friend.”

“I won’t tell Steve.”

“I won’t tell Robyn.”

He leaned in to kiss you sweetly, the two of you smiling when you broke apart.

“Javi?”

“Yes, Cielito?”

“We’re a couple of dumbasses.”

An amused breath left him. “It’s a good thing we married each other, then.”

“True. Dumbasses need to stick together. Now,” you gripped the open edges of his robe and turned you both, pressing him back into the wall hard enough that he grunted. “It’s time for me to blow your popsicle, Mr. Peña.” Something you said you wanted to do earlier, but he told you could happen later.

“Mi cuerpo es tu cuerpo, Mrs. Peña (My body is your body, Mrs. Peña). You can do any-fucking-thing you want to me.”

You grinned. “I love when you tell me that.” You leaned in to give him one last lingering kiss.

It was your turn to make him feel good, and you began by kissing down his body, starting at his jaw and moving lower and lower, down his gorgeous neck, his chest, his soft belly, crouching when you made it to the happy trail of hair below his belly button that you followed until you were face to face with his hard cock. It looked even better than you imagined earlier–long, thick, and with that slight curve that felt so fucking good when he was inside you, the tip flushed and shiny with precum. The tile beneath you was unforgiving when you kneeled on it, raising your arms above your head to drag your fingernails down his stomach and through the curls, Javi’s head falling back against the wall with a soft moan.

You spat in the palm of your dominant hand, wrapping your fingers around his shaft—it was hot and hard, Javi twitching in your grip as you started languidly pumping him.

Looking up at your husband through your lashes, you said, “Hey, babe?”

His face tilted down at you.

“Yes, mi amor?”

“What do you call a nurse with dirty knees?”

His eyebrows pulled together. “What?”

“A head nurse.”

He went from chuckling to groaning loudly when the flat of your tongue licked up his length from root to tip, swirling it around the sensitive edges at the head. You reveled in how his eyes squeezed shut, and his mouth fell open, loving the salty tang of his precum as you took him into your mouth, continuing to stroke what didn’t fit. His big hands found their home in your hair, moving with your bobbing head as you hollowed your cheeks, taking more and more of him until he was hitting the back of your throat.

His rough voice came from above, “That’s it, baby—it feels so fucking good.”

That only egged you on. It could be said that you were an expert at blowing your husband. You knew all the things that made him tick and what would really get him going, like when your head rose off of him, gathering a wad of saliva on your tongue that you let drip onto the tip of him.

“Yes,” he gasped. “Spit on it.”

More saliva fell, slicking up the movements of your hand stroking him. You ducked your head, sucking one of his balls into your mouth.

His fingers tightened in your hair. “Fuck,” he groaned, and the way he said that word had your cunt clenching. You tongued at the thin skin of his sack, then gently sucked his other ball, your palm on his dick twisting on every upstroke to slide along the underside of the head.

The muscles in his thighs were tensed as you licked up his shaft to take him back into your mouth. His hips just barely rocked as his dick slid further and further along your palate until you were swallowing around him, his cock sliding into the tight space of your throat. Your nose pressed into the neatly trimmed curls at the base of him, smelling the soap he washed with in the shower.

“Christ, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he rasped. Tears collected in the corners of your eyes as saliva dripped down his length, your hands clutching his thighs. You looked up, meeting his dark gaze, seeing the clear love and desire he had for you. “So pretty with my dick down your throat.” His palm caressed your cheek. “That’s my good girl making me feel so fucking good—fuck, I love you.”

This was why you genuinely loved giving Javi head—he was always so vocal, and when he praised you, it made you drip for him. Arousal was hot in your belly. It always turned you on to hear and see the effect you were having on him. You swallowed around his thick cock, causing your throat to squeeze him—his body shivered, and you watched it travel down from his shoulders to his hips.

“Shit,” he moaned.

The glow of the moon and what light reached the balcony from the living room softly illuminated the man above you, and you couldn’t think of a prettier sight than your husband struggling to keep from coming, as he was right then. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he looked at you with pleading eyes. “I don’t wanna come like this.” The words came out scratchy like sandpaper. “Can I fuck you? Please, Cielito?”

He didn’t need to ask twice. Immediately, you came off of him, strings of spit and precum keeping you connected. Staring up at him under your eyelashes, you answered hoarsely, “Yes. Fuck me, Papí.”

That had Javi helping you stand. When you were finally up on your feet, his large hands framed your face as he kissed you hard. He didn’t care that your chin was wet with spit or your cheeks had tear marks; he kissed you as if his life depended on it and slowly started walking you backward toward the railing.

He spoke between kisses, his mouth pressed to yours, muffling his words, “Estoy tan feliz de que seas mi esposa (I’m so happy that you are my wife)… Estoy tan feliz de poder pasar el resto de mi vida contigo (I’m so happy I get to spend the rest of my life with you)... Estoy tan feliz de que algún día seas la madre de mis hijos (I’m so happy that one day you will be the mother of my children)... Este es el día más feliz de mi vida (This is the happiest day of my life).”

Suddenly, your husband spun you, his palm smoothing up the cotton covering your back to signal you to bend toward the railing. The top of it reached the middle of your ribs, so you weren’t bent at the waist—you were leaning onto it, crossing your arms atop the metal, and popping out your ass with a widened stance to give him more room. He gripped your hips and pressed his throbbing cock into your backside. Javi leaned into you. “Feel how hard I am? That’s all you, my beautiful wife.”

Arousal swirled in your belly, the beat of your heart pulsing between your legs.

You turned your head, looking at him behind you. “You should feel how wet I am. It’s all you, my handsome husband,” you replied, wiggling your butt.

He smiled and kissed your shoulder blade. “I love you so fucking much.”

“I love you, too.”

It seemed he had enough talking. Javi straightened himself and flipped up the bottom of your robe to bare you, the cool air chilling the wetness at the crux of your thighs. He grunted as he crouched down behind you, squeezing handfuls of your ass. His teeth lightly sank into the meat of your inner thigh for only a moment, and it was like dousing gasoline on the flames in your core.

His hands spread open your asscheeks. “So fucking pretty,” he purred. A second later, a rumbling groan came from his throat as he licked up through your slit from your clit to your entrance before spitting on the skin between your two holes—you felt the warm wad of saliva dripping down to your already-soaked opening.

He smacked your ass, the cheek jiggling as he rose back up on his feet. “You gotta keep quiet, baby,” he whispered. One of his hands held your waist while the other slid his dick through your arousal and his spit to wet himself. He bent at the waist to rasp into your ear, “Don’t wanna draw attention to us—unless you want everyone to know how good your husband fucks you.” He squeezed your hip as he notched the fat head of his cock at your entrance.

Your robe was open, your nipples tingling when a breeze hit your bare skin. The alcohol made you brave as you looked at him over your shoulder again with a smile, your hand going up behind you to touch his smooth cheek.

“I want the entire world to know how good my husband fucks me. Give it to me, Papí.”

A shiver moved down Javier’s spine, his cock jerking in his hand.

This woman was going to be the death of him.

“Scream for me, baby,” he replied, turning his head to kiss the center of her palm.

He started pressing himself into the tight clutch of her pussy, her inner walls hugging his thick length as he fed it inside her inch by inch—her arm fell back onto the railing, and they both moaned, Javier’s eyes closing, his jaw going slack at how good she felt around him, all hot and wet. His hips met the softness of her ass, and he looked down to watch as he slowly pulled out, his dick glistening under what little light there was.

“I love how wet you get for me,” he said. “All nice and soaked for your husband.”

He couldn’t get enough of being called that: her husband.

The quickie in the car scratched the itch; still, Javier had been looking forward all-fucking-day to the moment when he got to take his time and properly fuck his wife. Gripping her waist, he pushed back in, Cielito’s head falling onto the cushion of her arms with a breathy “Yes” that riled him up. She wanted everyone to know how good her husband fucks her, and he was more than happy to oblige.

He started moving in and out of her, keeping most of himself inside for her to feel every ridge and pulsing vein as he reacquainted her cunt with the familiar shape of him.

“It’s so good,” she moaned. “You feel so good.”

“Yeah? I’ve got you, hermosa (beautiful).”

He could make it feel even better—this was a position where she wanted him to be rough, where she wanted him to fuck her until she was cock dumb and her legs shook.

He began increasing the momentum of his hips, slickly sliding halfway out and back into her over and over again until he was railing into her with hard, even strokes that stuttered her loud moans. Javier grunted with each thrust, their skin clapping where it met. With how the balcony had walls on three sides, the sounds echoed off the stucco.

Fuck, he loved being inside her. There was nothing better than feeling the squeeze of her pussy around him. He did love her going down on him a little bit ago, and earlier, when she gave him a hand job after their marriage ceremony, he loved that, too. He also loved the occasions when she’d let him fuck her ass—Javier loved anything she wanted to do with him. But if he had to choose a favorite, it’d be a variation of what they were doing right now.

“You like this?” he mumbled between grunts. “Is it good?”

Several seconds passed with no answer, and there was no hiding his smirk. He slid a palm up the path of her spine to firmly grasp the back of her neck, his other hand going to her front, roughly fondling her breast. He kept up the punishing pace of his hips.

“Am I fucking you good, mi amor?” he tried again a little louder.

Her head lifted, turning her attention to him behind her. Even in such dim conditions, he could see her eyes were heavy-lidded and glazed over. There was a scrunch between her eyebrows, and her mouth was slightly agape—she was absolutely wrecked. She finally answered, repeating, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

Pride swelled inside him. “You like how your husband fucks you?”

“Yes! God, yes!” she cried.

Her words had sparks igniting at the base of his spine, making his cock twitch. His fingers plucked at her nipple, rolling the stiff bud. It’d be hard for anyone down below to fully make out what they were doing, but there was no masking the noise—the filthy repetitive slap of skin hitting skin, his rough grunts, and her whining moans that filled the air gave them away.

They were usually much more courteous to their neighbors when it came to their volume. His wife always found it embarrassing when Mrs. Hernandez banged on the wall between their apartments or the people upstairs stomped on the floor to tell them to quiet down. It had to be the tequila—the liquid courage—that had her acting so brazen tonight, and he loved it.

“Are you gonna come for me?” he asked.

“Yes! Don’t stop!” She started chanting over and over again, “Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Don’t stop—”

He followed her orders, continuing to pound into her at the same speed, his fingers tweaking her nipple. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow and the small of his back, his gaze locked on hers—she was so gorgeous.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Cielito,” he told her. “So fucking beautiful taking it like my good girl.”

Her eyes squeezed shut, and she loudly whined his name into the night. Her cunt was fluttering around him, her entire body quaking. She laid her head back onto her arms, and that told him she was almost to the finish line.

“Come for me, mi amor,” he said. “Let me have it.”

He’d follow soon after he. His orgasm had been slowly building inside him, feeling the pressure rising deep in his guts with every passing second. He was thankful they fucked in the car because there was no way in hell he would’ve been able to last this long if they hadn’t fooled around beforehand.

Javier loved every second of this, the thrill amplifying his pleasure. The thrill was the reason he enjoyed fucking in places he shouldn’t. He craved the adrenaline, something he experienced regularly in Colombia. But now, instead of possibly dying to feel that rush, he just had to try not to get caught.

It wasn’t much longer before they reached a crescendo. She let out an unintelligible cry, all of the muscles in her body pulling taut, choking his dick hard enough to stutter his rhythm—he sucked in a breath through bared teeth, willing himself not to come while he continued fucking her through her high, drawing it out.

It happened fast. Her legs went wobbly like a newborn calf’s. “Shit,” Javier breathed, quickly getting his arm around her middle and the other across her chest. “Don’t fall, baby,” he grunted, hauling her up against his body to prevent her from doing as much. It was his strength that kept her standing and walked her forward, pinning her by the hips to the railing.

By some miracle, his cock stayed inside her.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “My legs feel like jello.”

He carefully pulled the robe off one of her shoulders to lightly kiss the side of her neck, her skin prickling with goosebumps. “Don’t apologize,” was his muffled reply. “Means your husband fucked you good.” His lips made a journey to her ear. “Do you wanna stop?” he whispered. “Or can I keep going?”

She reached up behind her, combing her fingers into his sweat-damp hair. “Mmm, definitely keep going.”

Javier smiled. “Yeah?” He kissed that one sensitive spot behind her ear—she hummed happily. “I wanna look at you,” he said. “Can I turn you?”

“Of course. Just help me, please. I don’t trust my legs.”

He chuckled. “I’ve got you.”

He slipped out of her, the back of her robe falling into place. Her legs were still shaking as he helped her face him, pressing her into the railing again. They locked eyes, and both smiled. His hands reached to hold her perfect face while her arms went around his neck, her fingers pushing into the brown waves at the back of his head.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.” His thumbs stroked over the apples of her cheeks. “There you are. My beautiful wife.”

Before she could respond, he closed the gap between their lips, hers petal soft and slotting together with his perfectly. He wanted to kiss her slowly. He wanted to savor this moment, take his time, but she made this delicious little noise that broke his resolve, and he wanted nothing more than to hear it again. It made him greedy. Not only did he want that noise, he wanted her moans and her sighs. He wanted to hear her mouth caress the syllables of his name and cry it out when he brought her to the brink of ecstasy.

The kiss turned hungry and passionate, both of them ravenous. When that sweet sound met his ears again, it spurred him on. He was still hard and aching to come. Unable to wait any longer, Javier reached down to hook her thigh onto his hip, then guided his length back into her pussy. The moment his cock breached her tight opening, he moaned into her mouth, his head going dizzy at how good it felt.

He started slowly thrusting, his lips breaking away to nip at her chin. “Can I make you come again?” he breathily asked. “Please?”

Her fingers were still tangled in his hair, and she pulled on it to get his attention. “Is that what you need, baby? You wanna feel me come around your dick? You wanna watch your wife come?”

Javier whimpered—his eyes squeezed shut, and his cock pulsed inside her. He wanted to watch, he wanted to feel and hear her come, taste her tongue on his, and smell the sex on her skin. She already occupied his every thought, and he wanted her to take over his senses, too. Take over his entire world until she was all that existed.

He continued moving his hips, his dick sliding easily with how wet it was between her legs.

Javier looked at her, his tongue wetting his bottom lip. “Yes,” he answered. “Can I?”

Her palm pressed to his cheek, and he leaned into the touch. “Yes, Javi.” This time, she was the one who crushed her mouth to his before he could utter another word, her fingers threading into his hair. Her tongue pushed past his lips, and he groaned, the kiss turning messy.

He was still so worked up that it wasn’t going to take a lot to get him off. Javier increased his pace, going harder and faster. There was an audible wetness where they were joined, and he could hear himself working in and out of her used cunt, her arousal dripping down his shaft and balls.

This was what he wanted. To be able to kiss her. To see her and watch her fall apart. He had one hand gripping her leg at his waist, keeping it up, and snaked his other between their bodies, sliding it down her stomach to the apex of her thighs to rub her clit. He swallowed her moan, her fingers tightening in his thick strands of hair. His lips broke away from hers, Javier ducking his head, spreading sloppy kisses along her collarbone, on her shoulder, and up her neck. With her robe open and off her shoulder, it gave him a canvas of bared skin for his mouth to map out.

“Tell me when you’re close,” he murmured against her throat. “Can you do that for me?”

He was doing everything in his power to hold off his own end so she could take him with her. The muscles in his belly were knotted up, his heart pounding in his chest. His cock was throbbing almost uncomfortably with his need to come.

“Yes.”

“Good girl.” Javier sucked on her earlobe, then returned his attention to her neck and shoulder, kissing and biting the skin. His voice was muffled as he rambled, “I’m gonna make you come, and when I do—fuck—when I do, I’m going with you.” He was circling her clit, giving her the friction she needed. “I'll fill you up, and you’re gonna stay full. I fucking meant it when I said I’m gonna keep you stuffed full of me.” He was panting hot breaths as he kissed her, getting himself worked up with what he was saying. “I can promise you—shit—I can promise you, I am going to get you pregnant. I am going to knock you up.” He swallowed hard, his hips continuing to fuck into her. “You’re gonna have my baby. I’m gonna make sure of it.”

They were pretty sure her actual shot at getting pregnant was the week prior. But since they weren’t 100% positive, they didn’t want to miss their chance, and that possibility made the shit they said while fucking even hotter.

“Please,” she moaned. “Put a baby in me. Please. I want it. Fill me up, Papí.”

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned. “You can have it—fuck—you can have any-fucking-thing you want. I’ll fuck a baby into you.”

He tucked his face in the crook of her neck, breathing heavily through gritted teeth. It was taking most of his focus to keep himself from blowing his load.

“I’m close, Javi!” Cielito whined. “Oh, god, I’m gonna come!”

The excitement caused his rhythm to falter for a split second. “Shit,” Javier hissed. He quickly got back into tempo, his head lifting to look at his wife. Her eyes were closed, her forehead shining with perspiration, moans spilling from her rounded lips. His fingers kept strumming her clit, and his other hand gently grasped her jaw.

“Look at me,” he panted. “Open your eyes, Cielito. Let me see you.”

Her eyelids fluttered open, and he was met with hooded lust-blown eyes.

“Javi,” she gasped. Her fingers were clenched in his hair. “I’m gonna come, Javi.”

“I know, baby. I know. Come for me. Take me with you.”

She was quivering as his hips swung hard and fast into her. Javier watched as each stroke took her higher and higher, his gaze never leaving hers. After half a dozen more thrusts, she finally told him, “I’m coming.” Her eyes squeezed shut, moaning as she peaked; her body seized up, her pussy clamping down on him.

That was it for Javier.

A strangled noise left his throat as his balls drew up, pushing himself all the way to the root inside her. Pleasure erupted from his core, his dick pulsing, painting her insides with rope after rope of his come. He rolled his hips, fucking his spend as deep as it would go. The primal part of his brain making him ignore how sensitive his cock was in order to fill the depths of her cunt.

When every last drop was wrung out of him, he stopped moving, and his body became boneless. He slumped into his wife, but not before wrapping his arms around her and burying his face back into the crook of her neck. All thoughts had left his brain, the man blissed out, basking in her warmth and the familiar scent of her skin. And then she did his favorite thing and started playing with his sweaty hair. He sighed happily, nuzzling his face closer to her like he was trying to burrow himself under her skin.

This. This was the closest thing to heaven on earth. This was his heaven. She was his heaven.

Javier grew up going to church with his parents, and his interpretation of what he read and heard was that if there were a heaven, it wouldn’t be a physical place. There were no pearly gates or St. Peter waiting to greet you. Instead, it was a state of being where there was complete fulfillment and nothing but absolute happiness. How fucking lucky was he that he found that in life?

He stood there, his body pressed into her softer one, as the beat of their hearts slowed and their breaths evened out. There was a low rumble of cars driving on nearby roads and unseen crickets chirping in the distance.

It took a few minutes before either of them spoke.

“Javi?” she croaked.

He kissed the side of her neck. “Yes, baby?”

“I’m ready to go inside.”

He straightened to his full height to see her face. “Okay, mi amor.” He pecked her on the lips, rubbing his hands up and down her robed arms. “Can you walk?”

Her eyebrow rose. “Can I walk? Mr. I’m-going-to-make-you-come-so-many-times-you’re-gonna-need-a-wheelchair.”

Javier tried not to smile and failed, his hands pausing. “A wheelchair?”

“Yes, a wheelchair. Because my husband loves to fuck me to the point I can’t walk.” She wasn’t wrong, and it made his chest puff up. “Should’ve brought one home from work a long time ago.”

“You don’t need a wheelchair, baby.” He gently squeezed her biceps. “I did it, and I’ll get you where you need to go. Does a bath sound good? Or do you wanna get into bed? We could also watch TV on the couch—order a pay-per-view movie.”

Her lips lifted into a knowing smile. “Pay-per-view movie, huh? Like, porn? Javi, when you stay in hotels by yourself, do you order pay-per-view porn? You can be honest with me. I’m your wife.”

He scratched at the back of his neck. “I mean, not every time… what about you? You can be honest with me. I’m your husband.”

“A time or two, out of curiosity.”

He smiled. “Out of curiosity, huh?” His voice went a little deeper. “Did you touch yourself while watching…?”

“What do you think?”

Javier grabbed her hips. He leaned in to hover his mouth over hers, nuzzling her nose with his. “I think,” he rasped, “you played with your pretty pussy while watching. Did you get yourself off with your fingers?”

“Vibrator. You know I don’t like playing acoustic pussy unless I have to.”

“You like my fingers.”

“Because you’re sexy and an acoustic pussy maestro.” She brushed his lips with hers. “It’s your turn to choose,” she said. “Bath, bed, or couch, Mr. Peña?”

“Bath sounds nice.”

“Bath sounds wonderful.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do, Mrs. Peña.” He ended the sentence with a kiss, something slow and tender. They broke apart, smiling. “Let’s go, Cielito.”

The rectangular whirlpool tub was massive enough that your husband could sit across from you with his long legs fully extended while yours rested over his. Javi’s cheeks and chest were painted with a pink flush from the bath’s heat, his broad shoulders dotted with a constellation of freckles. Your bodies were submerged in the hot water, covered from your shoulders down, the bathtub’s jets rumbling as they massaged your backs. It was relaxing, the warmth of the water and the pressure of the spray along your spine easing all of the tension from your body.

To continue the celebration of your nuptials, your husband brought the complimentary bottle of champagne into the bathtub with you. He popped it open and poured you each a glass, the two of you toasting to your marriage and the start of your family before drinking and chatting, laughter quickly filling the room. The bottle was over halfway empty, and you both were buzzed.

“You’re fucking with me,” he said with a grin. His arm was resting on the edge of the tub, holding his flute of bubbly. The man always had to be touching you, his other palm under the water rubbing up and down your calf, but it paused when he spoke.

Your smile got bigger. “I’m not!” you laughed. Your champagne was sitting on the bathtub’s rim, your fingers fiddling with the stem of the glass. “When I graduated nursing school,” you said, “I was trying to figure out what I wanted to specialize in. So, I did a rotation in labor and delivery, and I had this mother in labor who needed a C-section. Like, it’d been hours with zero progress, and the doctor called it. She told the couple, and I quote, ‘This baby has to come out the other way.’ I shit you not, after the doctor left, the father looked at me and asked, ‘They’re gonna pull the baby out of her butt?’”

He huffed amusedly, his head shaking in disbelief. “Jesus.” He took a sip of his drink and set it back down.

“It was so hard not to laugh,” you said. “Surprisingly, not the dumbest or wildest thing anyone has ever said to me at work.”

His expression turned curious. “What’s the wildest thing someone has said to you?”

“Ummm.” Your eyes left his to think about it for a second, your mind running through many memorable interactions until one in particular stuck out. Your attention went back to him. “Probably the guy who may or may not have been a gang member who gave me his number and told me if I ever needed someone taken out—as in murdered—to give him a call. He even said it’d be free of charge, which was weirdly sweet? Not that I’d actually take him up on it,” you clarified, lifting your glass to your lips for a sip.

His eyes rounded. “What…?”

Your champagne returned to its spot on the tub’s edge. “It’s kinda like how people propose to me all of the time because they’re so thankful I brought them food after they fasted for their procedures. When scary-looking dudes who may or may not have gang ties come to the hospital, and you treat them like any other patient—you know, with dignity and respect—they really, really appreciate it. Their way of thanking you is by offering their services or illegal goods.”

His eyebrows drew together. “Illegal goods, like drugs…?”

“Sure, and weapons.” You shrugged. “One guy offered me illegal European cheeses, and I won’t lie, that one was tempting.”

“Do you still have the contacts?”

“No. I never kept their info, and let’s be real, they weren’t using their actual names. Once they left the hospital, they were no longer my patient, and what they did was none of my business. Snitches get stitches and all that jazz.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, and his hand began a new circuit along the skin of your leg. “What’s the dumbest thing someone said?” He had another sip.

“Oh, listen to this. A male patient came into the ER complaining about abdominal pain. After the doctor did a quick exam, he ordered an ultrasound. When we told the patient about the ultrasound, he shouted, ‘I’m not pregnant! I’m a man!’”

“You’re fucking with me,” Javi said again, looking just as amused as the first time, his champagne flute hovering over the water.

“I swear I’m not!” you giggled. “He said that! This guy was in his mid-fifties, too. His wife was so embarrassed. The doctor had to pull out a fucking human anatomy diagram to educate the dude.”

“I’d be a shitty nurse. I wouldn’t have the patience for all of the stupidity.”

“Oh my god,” you laughed, thinking about Javi as a nurse. “Between your grumpy resting face and the fact you cannot hide what you’re feeling, you’d be so bad. No offense, babe.” You patted his knee underwater.

“None taken. I said it first. It’s nice knowing my wife has the patience of a saint to put up with my bullshit.” He raised his glass your way in toast, then took a drink.

“Stop it. You’re perfect. Now, are you finally gonna tell me how much you spent on this room?”

He smiled, setting his champagne back onto the rim. “No.”

“Rude.”

He chuckled. “Just enjoy it, baby.” Water droplets trickled as he lifted your leg out of the bath and leaned in, kissing the inside of your ankle.

“But I’m curious as fuck,” you whined.

He returned your leg to the water. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “Earlier, you mentioned we sometimes have to compromise, so I’ll tell you how I got the room, but I won’t tell you what it cost me.”

That had you perking up. Maybe you could call the front desk and find out the price yourself.

“The front desk won’t tell you,” he continued, looking a little too pleased with himself. Of course, he knew what you were thinking.

You deflated with a sigh. “Fine,” you said. “How were you able to get the room?”

“The manager is mi prima’s (my cousin’s) brother-in-law.”

You grinned. “You’ve got connections. That’s very sexy of you.”

He was smiling, his eyes crinkling at the edges and shining with love—a look you were all too familiar with and hoped he could see on your face. His hand continued stroking your leg.

He chuckled. “Even with connections, it took some negotiating. It was worth it, though. You’re worth it. I know our wedding was pretty short notice, and since we couldn’t get time off from work for me to whisk you away on a real honeymoon—which I plan on doing sometime this year before we have a baby—this was the next best thing to show you how much I love you and what you mean to me. You deserve the very best, and that’s what I’m always gonna give you, and nothing less.”

His words had you melting, your heart skipping a beat. It was a regular occurrence where Javier said or did something that made you wonder once again what you did to deserve him in your life or to be loved in this way you never knew existed. “How did I get so lucky?”

“I’m the lucky one.”

“I beg to differ because I am married to arguably the greatest man on earth, who worships me like a goddess, and that’s not even an exaggeration. A freaking goddess! Me! Insane.” It was crazy how much you loved this man, and the alcohol had your feelings threatening to burst from your lips. So, you let them. “I need to tell you something.”

“Yeah?”

“You make me feel so safe. You make me feel comfortable and so fucking loved. Javi, I’ve never been so loved, and I know it’s sad, and you hate thinking about it, but I’ve never had someone love me unconditionally like you do.” The emotions had tears welling up in your eyes. “I’ve never experienced a love like this that I feel deep in my soul, and that’s how I know it’s real. I’m not as poetic as you are, so I’m just going to say what comes to mind. Prepare yourself for some sappy bullshit.”

He was watching you with a fond expression and watery eyes. “I’m ready.”

“Hold my hand.” You reached out to him, and he grasped your fingers, his thumb rubbing over the tops of them. You cleared your throat to compose yourself. “There was an emptiness inside my chest?” You said it in question. “A lifelong longing for something I never knew I needed until you came along. You redefined the void. You gave it meaning. You’ve shown me what it is to be seen, to be cherished, to be truly loved. You’ve shown me a world that, up until you entered mine, was nothing more than a fantasy I’d only ever dreamed about. It was something out of reach, you know? But here you are, a dream come true, who loves me unconditionally, and for that, you have my love, you have my total devotion, you get my every morning and my every night. You get slow dances in the kitchen and four a.m. grilled cheeses—ooh, I like how that kinda rhymes.” Your husband laughed, his lips curved up in a smile. “I’m not half bad at this. Javi, I am going to give you the life you’ve always deserved but never felt worthy of—a wife, kids, dog, house, and hopefully, happiness. I want to make you as happy as you make me. This is my long way of saying I love you, Javier Peña. Thank you for loving me.”

“I’m so fucking happy,” he replied. “Come here.” He beckoned you toward him, lightly tugging your hand. Without another thought, you moved, the bath sloshing as you pushed yourself up onto your knees and crawled into his lap, straddling his thighs. Javi wrapped his arms around you, hugging you tightly to his body, your face nestled into the curve of his neck. His head tilted to touch yours. “I love you,” he said. “I love you so fucking much. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about how fucking lucky I am to have you. I’ve never been happier than when I’m with you, and sometimes I catch myself wondering if this is all a dream. You have no idea how many times I’ve almost pinched myself because being with you feels so right and so perfect that I think it all has to be too good to be true, and I’m gonna wake up alone in my bed at the ranch or in fucking Colombia.” You gasped, your heart squeezing at how heartbreaking that was. “Being with you is teaching me that life can be kind and there is hope for the future. You’re my future, and even though there are moments where it feels too surreal and too fucking good, it is real. What we have is real, and I am grateful for you. I will forever be grateful that you chose me, and I will never take for granted a single day that I get to share my life with you.” His head turned to kiss your cheek. “This is my long way of saying I love you, too. Thank you for loving me.”

“Oh, Javi.” You sat up, taking his face into your hands. Sitting in his lap, you were taller than him, and his chin raised to look at you with his red-rimmed eyes. “It is real. It’s so fucking real. I love you.”

That was an understatement of how you felt about him. Not when it felt as if his heart was beating in your chest, and looking into his eyes was like coming home—the familiarity, the comfort, the safety. Almost as if you’d always known that those irises, with their unique mix of chocolatey-colored hues, would belong to the one who was meant for you. A recognition, a certainty when your gazes met that he was your person, your other half.

Emotions had you smashing your mouth against his, kissing him hard. You poured your love into each press of your lips to his, letting him taste the devotion on your tongue. His arms were wrapped around your middle, holding you flush to him. It didn’t matter that you’d already come a handful of times tonight. The things he said had you wanting, no, needing him again, the desire searing through your veins and pooling in your belly.

An interesting side effect of being in love with Javi and knowing he loved you, too, was how it made you so fucking horny. Confessing your love to one another was basically foreplay, and wasn’t that adorable? A couple of love-sick fools getting turned on from loving each other. Robyn would absolutely fake-gag if you told her about you and your husband’s love kink.

He sounded breathless when he came up for air. “I love you.” He messily kissed your chin and the shape of your jaw. “I fucking love you,” he murmured into your skin.

“I love you, too.” His face was still framed in your hands, and you pushed him back to gain access to the line of his neck, your head dipping to swipe your tongue up his salty skin.

“Jesus,” he breathed, his throat bobbing. You rocked your hips, rubbing his already half-hard cock with your cunt, his hands grabbing ahold of your ass, the soft flesh firmly filling his palms as he helped you move. You sucked over his pulse point hard enough to leave a mark, Javi groaning, “Fuck, I love you.” The words vibrated under your mouth, making your lips curl in delight.

“I love you, too, Javi.” Your mouth traveled up to take his earlobe between your teeth, nibbling on it before your lips were at his ear. “I really fucking love you.”

“I’m yours.” His fingers dug into your asscheeks, moving you. “You fucking own me. I’m yours forever.”

“And I’ll always be yours, Javi. Always. For-fucking-ever.”

His large hand came up, lightly grasping your jaw to maneuver your face in front of his, Javier’s lips colliding with yours. This kiss was much more frantic, the headiness of passion overtaking you both, matching each other's energy, heartbeat for heartbeat, breath for breath. He was completely hard as you rolled your hips along his shaft, the bath’s water lapping at the sides of the tub. Your arms went around his neck, threading your fingers into the hair at the back of his head.

You loved this man so much that he was your entire world, everything that mattered, and the wild thing was, he felt the same way about you—you were his entire world and everything that mattered to him. It was an intoxicating feeling to love and to be loved.

The sweet heat of want burned at the base of your spine, the tension rising with each desperate kiss until it hit a breaking point. In sync, your mouths separated, you lifted your hips high enough for Javi to position his cock at your entrance, and then you sank onto it.

“That’s it, baby.”

“Yes,” you gasped when he was fully seated inside of you.

There was nothing better than the familiar fullness or how he stretched you open.

Your gazes were locked.

“I love you so fucking much,” he said. “Use me, Cielito. Make yourself come. I wanna feel you.”

He didn’t give you a chance to respond. Javi leaned up to capture your lips once more, his hands gripping handfuls of your ass. Your palms slid up his flushed chest to grab his shoulders, and you did what he said: you started moving. You ground your hips, keeping most of him inside you while rubbing your clit on the coarse hairs at the base of his dick. Sparks danced in your core, your pulse pounding. Your husband helped you grind in his lap.

“Te amo (I love you),” he said between kisses. “Te amo muchísimo, mi amor (I love you so much, my love). Eres mi todo (You are my everything). Toma lo que es tuyo (Take what is yours).”

“I love you, too, Javi.” Pleasure built, and the coil in your tummy started to tighten. “I fucking love you. I’ll always love you.” Your hips circled in the most delicious rotations.

His tongue delved between your lips, plundering your mouth, moans coming from the back of your throat. With how close you were physically—your bodies pressed together like pieces of a puzzle—and emotionally—your love and devotion for each other—this was the closest you’d ever been with another person, and it felt much more intimate than sex. It was something deeper. Something on a different level where you were caught up in one another, lost in your own little world and the overwhelming feeling of love. Maybe it was the oxytocin, the love hormone, flooding your system that had you thinking this must be what it felt like when your souls came together, the two halves melding to become one.

The water splashed against your back and ribs, the bath’s jets continued to rumble. You didn’t stop the rocking of your hips or sloppily kissing your husband. He felt so good inside you, the pressure on your clit pushing you higher and higher.

“Eres mi vida (You are my life).” It was muffled into your lips. “Eres todo para mí (You are everything to me). Quiero que me uses como tú quieras (I want you to use me however you want).” He switched to English. “I wanna feel my wife come. You gonna get yourself off?“

“Yes.”

“My good girl. I love you. Take what you need, mi amor. Don’t stop. You come, I come. I’m following you. You’re taking me with you.”

Your orgasm was close, the muscles in your stomach winding tighter and tighter.

“I will, Javi. I will. I fucking love you.”

This man you married knew exactly what would have you careening toward your climax. He took your breasts into his hands, ducking his head to suck on your hardened nipple, his fingers teasing the other one. It felt like every nerve ending in your body lit up, your eyes closed, the shock of it making you cry out.

“I love you,” you repeated. “I love you, I love you, I love you—”

Each time you rolled your hips, it created the best friction against your clit, and that, combined with the attention he was giving your tits, had you tumbling over the edge, coming with a gasp of his name. This orgasm was softer than the others. When your body tensed and your cunt squeezed him, Javi hissed. He grabbed your ass, his fingers digging into your flesh as he used his strength to keep moving you in his lap. He kept those gentle waves of pleasure flowing through you, letting you ride out your high while your husband chased his own.

“I’m yours, Javi,” you told him. When you opened your eyes, you saw his were shut tight, and his teeth were bared. It was that sexy look he got when he was close to coming; he just needed a push to get there. You touched your forehead to his, your fingers clutched in his hair. “I’m yours, baby. I want you to come. I want my husband to come. I want you to fill me up and fuck it so deep inside me you knock me up.” He whined, and that just encouraged you. “Get me pregnant, Javi. Let me have it. Let me feel it.”

“Fuck,” he gasped. “I love you. I’m gonna—Christ—I’m gonna fuck a baby into you. I’m gonna fuck you full of my come. Fuck it—shit—fuck it so deep in your pussy it takes. Te amo, te amo, te amo, te amo más que a nada (I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you more than anything).” The groan he let out was guttural. He hugged you to him, holding you still, his face pressing against your throat as he came. His teeth sunk into your neck, the pleasurable pain causing you to moan. His cock jerked inside you with each spurt of his spend gushing into your inner depths, and when it stopped, his heavy breaths were hot on your skin.

The only sound in the bathroom was the tub's jets. The water had turned lukewarm. The large mirror on the opposite wall over the two sinks was still fogged up. It was peaceful and calm. Time stood still in this little bubble where you luxuriated in one another and those happy chemicals flowing through your bodies. All of your muscles relaxed, making you melt into your husband. Javi nuzzled his face into your neck, and your fingernails lovingly scratched at his scalp, earning you a happy hum.

You loved these moments. You loved how comfortable it was to hold each other, your bodies and souls bare. You didn’t feel self-conscious or a need to cover up. You just wanted to share in the afterglow with the man you loved.

Javier told you once that his favorite part of having sex was this: the post-sex glow when you cuddled close and came down with the other person. He loved the intimacy of it. He craved it. He also revealed that down in Colombia, he’d pay the sex workers he slept with extra to stay with him longer instead of leaving immediately after he came so he could have some semblance of that intimacy. It was a little sad if you thought about it too hard; if you thought about how lonely and touch-starved he was, that was made exponentially worse because his love language was physical touch. You’d never let him feel that loneliness again. You were happy to spend those minutes with him after you both finished, cradled in his arms. You were happy to give him that intimacy he craved. You were happy to do whatever it took to make him feel as loved as he made you.

Seconds turned into minutes. Finally, Javi broke the stillness with a kiss to the skin his face was pressed against.

“Javi?”

“Hmmm?”

“I love you.”

He was smiling when his head lifted to look you in the eyes, and you matched his expression.

“I love you, too.”

“I have a serious question.”

His smile fell. “Yeah?”

“Are you a sea lion?”

As expected, his face pinched in confusion.

“What…?”

“Are you a sea lion?” you repeated.

“What do you mean…?”

“I mean, you must be a sea lion ‘cause I can sea-you-lion in my bed tonight.” To really sell it, you wagged your eyebrows.

He tried to hold in the laugh, his cheeks flushing red, but he couldn’t keep it in. He sputtered into full-on laughter, his eyes practically disappearing with how they crinkled in glee. It had you cracking up, too, joining him in the merriment. His head fell against your shoulder as you both laughed at your stupid pick-up line.

It took you back to your wedding ceremony, when you both vowed your marriage would be filled with love, happiness, and laughter. Which was another thing you loved about your husband: he made you feel comfortable enough to be your true goofy self. Something you didn’t feel in your past relationships. But Javi–even with him being a somewhat serious, no-nonsense guy—he appreciated your humor and laughed at your dumb jokes. He never made you feel stupid or embarrassed, and it was truly a breath of fresh air that you could simply be you.

Eventually, you both calmed down. Your husband kissed your cheek and then sat up, rubbing his palms up and down your ribs. He looked at you with soft eyes and a sweet smile.

“I am so fucking in love with you,” he said.

You grinned. “And I am so fucking in love with you,” you replied, poking the tip of his nose. He snatched your hand, lifting it to his lips to kiss your wedding ring.

“I love you naked like this,” he rasped. His burning gaze traveled from your face to your breasts, drinking in the sight of you before his eyes returned to yours. “But you know what would look really good on you?”

“Lingerie? That red thong you love?”

“Me.”

“Oh,” you gasped, your eyes widening. “That just made my pussy flutter.”

“I know.” Because he was still inside you.

You gulped. “Can I, uh, see your left hand real quick?” It came out of the water, dripping. He held it straight up for you to see the back of it. You stared at his fingers, seeing the gold band on his ring finger, and nodded. “Yep, that is a wedding ring. Jesus, you really did marry me. Me. That’s fucking crazy.”

“Stop that.”

Your attention went back to him to see he was frowning. “Stop what?”

He sighed and took both of your hands into his. “Thinking I’m out of your league. I hate it. Cielito, you’re fucking beautiful. Say it. Say, ‘I’m beautiful.’”

“You’re beautiful.”

He gave you a grumpy look. “You know what I meant. Say it.”

The thought of repeating it made you wince, but you did it anyway. You mumbled, “I’mbeautiful.”

“Say it louder.”

“I hate this,” you whined.

“And we’re working on fixing that. So, say it again.”

You took a deep breath. This was so fucking hard. “I’m beautiful.”

He smiled. “You are. Repeat it.”

“I’m beautiful.”

“Again.”

“How many times are we doing this?”

“As many as it takes for you to believe it. Again.”

You sighed. “I’m beautiful.”

“What are you?”

“I’m beautiful.”

He made you say it five more times, and it got easier each time you said it.

“One more,” he ordered.

“I’m beautiful.”

“Good girl.” He closed the gap to kiss you, his big hands coming up to caress your face. When his lips left yours, he nudged your nose with his. “You’re beautiful, smart, funny, sweet, sexy, talented, and an amazing partner. You’re perfect. I need you to remember that. You’re perfect,” he said again, “and I am lucky to have you as my wife.”

“Thank you, Javi. You know I struggle when it comes to that stuff.”

“Yeah, I do know. We’ll keep working on it.” He kissed your forehead.

“I’m lucky to have such a supportive husband who calls me out on my bullshit.”

He huffed. “You do the same for me. I love you, mi amor.”

“I love you, too.” You pecked him on the lips, then pulled back when you started to yawn, covering your mouth with your hand.

“You ready for bed?” he asked.

The question made you realize you were exhausted. “God, yeah.”

“Let’s go, baby.”

Thirty minutes later found you dry, your teeth brushed, and naked under the covers, with Javi spooning you from behind. The curtains were closed, the bedroom dark save for the alarm clock on the bedside table, whose glowing red numbers told you it was almost two a.m. Your husband’s arm was around your front, your hand over his on your breast, your rings touching. His nose was buried in the hair at the back of your head.

It was cozy and warm, feeling so happy and loved. Sleep was coming for you, and your eyelids were getting heavy, your thoughts slowing. In your sleepy haze, you remembered something.

“Javi?” you whispered.

“Yes, Cielito?” he answered just as quietly.

“I just realized Valentine’s Day is next month. I don’t know if you have anything planned yet, but you know what I’d love to do?”

“What?”

“You.”

He chuckled, hugging you a little tighter and kissing your hair. “That’s what we’ll do then. Any other requests?”

You smiled, wiggling back to get closer to him. “Nope. Do you have any requests?”

He was going to ask for the red thong.

“You said something about the red thong in the bath.”

There it was. You giggled. “You got it, babe.” You patted his hand, your rings clinking together. “Sweetest dreams, my wonderful, perfect husband.”

“They’ll be about you, my wonderful, perfect wife. I love you, Cielito.”

“I love you, too.”

Steve lifted his wrist to check the time, the hands on the watch face showing 3:16 p.m.

He frowned. He could’ve sworn he told Javier earlier when they talked on the phone to meet in the hotel restaurant at three p.m. Not 3:30, three on the dot, because he had to get Connie and the kids to Laredo’s tiny airport by six p.m. for their flight to Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport, where they’d get on a bigger plane to take them home to Miami.

Where the hell were the newlyweds?

He was sitting at the head of the long eight-person dining room table at the hotel’s restaurant, Zaragoza Grill, with a clear view of the entrance. Instead of a chair to his right, there was a wooden highchair with his one-year-old, Nate, sitting in it, chewing on a small slice of bread from the bread basket. Connie was next to their youngest in the middle seat, talking to Stevie, their three-year-old, on her other side while he used crayons to color the paper kids’ menu the hostess had given him. Olivia was at the other end of the table, opposite Steve, coloring her own menu.

His arm lowered as he looked at his wife. “Con?” he said.

Her head turned his way. “Yes?”

“I told Javi three, right? Not, 3:30?”

“Yes, you told him three.”

“Why aren’t they here yet?”

“Honey, they got married yesterday. You remember what it was like the days after our wedding. All of the laundry we folded.” She smiled.

‘Folding laundry’ was their codeword for sex, and he absolutely remembered the days following their wedding. They went at it like fucking rabbits and didn’t leave their hotel room in Cabo San Lucas for days.

He smirked. “How could I forget our honeymoon, baby? We had a good time. A really good time. You know, we should go back to Mexico. Maybe we could get your sister to watch the kids while we go on a little vacation.”

She rolled her eyes. “Keep dreaming, Steve. We’re not gonna be able to go on vacation alone until Nate graduates high school, and that’s a good seventeen years away.”

He sighed. She was right. They couldn’t pawn their children off on someone to fuck off to Mexico for a week. “You’re right, sweetheart.”

“I always am.”

That was the end of their conversation, Connie’s attention returning to Stevie.

Behind him was a table for two against the brick wall. The young women sitting at it had walked by them when they were seated, and he estimated they were in their twenties. He couldn’t help eavesdropping on their conversation when one of the girls asked, “Can you believe all that noise last night?”

“Oh my god, I know, right? Like from what it sounded like, either the woman in the room above us was getting it real good, or the rumors are true, and this place is actually haunted. But I just don’t think spirits of nuns would make those noises, you know what I mean?”

“Girl, the moaning? The screaming? The sound of that pounding? Whoever was staying upstairs is one lucky bitch. Her man knows what he’s doing, and I don’t blame her for not being able to stay quiet. I also think they probably figured that since they were on the third floor, no one would hear them going at it.”

Steve inhaled deeply, shaking his head. He knew who was staying on the third floor—he’d even been inside the massive suite. Javier had handed over $150 per night, a pair of expensive courtside tickets to a San Antonio Spurs vs. three-time defending NBA champions Chicago Bulls game, and all of his wife’s tamales from his and his father’s freezers for it. The hotel apparently didn’t rent out the Presidential Suite to just anyone to keep its allure of being something exclusive for the rich and famous who passed through the area. Javier’s local fame, unfortunately, wasn’t enough.

That didn’t stop him, though.

His pal could be a real stubborn son of a bitch.

Javier got intel that the manager was a huge fan of his mom’s tamales and the San Antonio Spurs. He lucked out that his wife’s tamales were the closest to his late mother’s, so he bribed the manager with fifty-something tamales and the highly sought-after tickets to the Spurs vs. Bulls game to book the place at full price.

There was no way in hell Steve would ever pay $150 per night for a hotel room. That was a month and a half’s worth of mortgage payments on his four-bedroom, four-bath home in Florida, for Christ’s sake. The only reason Steve rented a two-room, double-queen suite here in Texas was because Javi and his wife paid for it. They wanted his family to have roomy accommodations since they had their three kids, which was greatly appreciated, and their room only cost a reasonable fifty dollars a night.

Movement at the restaurant’s entrance caught his attention, and he watched as the new Mr. and Mrs. Javier Peña made their way inside. Steve snorted at seeing the newlyweds in matching outfits of jeans and lavender-colored shirts, Javi’s a button-up, and his wife in a V-neck. If that wasn’t ridiculous enough, they were practically fused together, with her tucked under his arm and pressed against his side, their heads close together, smiling and talking as they walked his way.

Steve had been friends with Javier for close to twenty years, and in all that time, he had never seen his best friend happier than he was with his bride. He wasn’t the same man Steve knew in Colombia. He wasn’t even the same man who lived with his family after he took down the Cali Cartel and quit his job. He changed, and he changed for the better.

To be honest, at first, Steve worried about his friend leaving the DEA and returning to civilian life. Javi had all of the signs of being what they call a lifer—someone who spends, if not all, then a significant portion of their career with the same agency. He’d been married to his job and fully committed to seeing it through no matter what it cost him. He didn’t visit his parents for years, and when his mother tragically passed away, he’d only gone home for a few days. Instead of grieving her death, he threw himself into his work. It sure as hell wasn’t healthy, but it was what he had to do to keep going.

Steve was so fucking thankful his friend got out and was getting a second chance. After all of the bullshit he went through, Javier deserved to be happy, and there was no doubt that this girl he married made him happy. She was the best thing to happen to him, and even though they needed to cool it with the PDA in front of his kids, Steve could admit they were really good for each other. He would never say it out loud, but he thought it was cute that a grumpy fucker like Javi ended up someone so bright and cheery.

He rechecked his watch to see it was 3:20 p.m.

The couple approached the table.

“Hey, guys,” the dark-haired man greeted as he pulled out the chair across from Connie for his wife to sit in. “Sorry, we’re late.” He got her settled, kissing the top of her head before taking the seat to Steve’s left.

“Tío (Uncle)!” Stevie shouted and hopped off his chair to run around the table to Javier.

His friend smiled. “Hey, mi principito (my little prince),” he grunted as he lifted the child into his lap.

When Javier was around, Steve and Connie no longer existed to their two eldest kids. Did that bother them? No. It gave them a break, and they weren’t going to be mad about that. They never expected Javi to take on the role of an uncle to their children. They never expected him to be as great as he was with their kids, either. He took his title of tío (uncle) seriously and loved the little Murphys as if they were his flesh and blood. It honestly caught Steve off guard the first time he saw how gentle and sweet Javi was with Olivia.

Steve could admit that at first, he didn’t like that his friend was so good and helpful with his daughter because it made him look bad. Steve grew up believing that, aside from the occasional diaper change, everything involving the children was his wife’s job. Looking back, he could see how that was a shitty way of thinking, and he felt ashamed for putting Connie through all of that. Seeing everything Javi did and how it helped his wife ended up being the swift kick in the ass he needed to step up and be a better father and husband.

“We lost track of time,” the bride said. “Empire Strikes Back was on the TV.”

That title sounded familiar.

“Is that one of those,” Steve started. “What’s it called? Star Trek movies?”

“Star Wars,” Javi corrected. Stevie got off his lap to run back to his original chair to grab his menu.

Nate had lost interest in the bread, so Connie put it on the table in front of the baby. Steve leaned down to his right to get into the diaper bag on the floor, grabbing a bottle of watered-down apple juice that he handed to the one-year-old as he sat back up.

“The ones with those, uh, laser swords?” Steve asked.

Javi sighed. “Lightsabers.”

“Never pegged you as a sci-fi guy.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Peña interjected. She looked past her husband at him. “Javi’s a space nerd.”

Steve smiled. “Is he, now?”

His son returned, holding the paper up to his tío (uncle). “Look!” He had crayons clutched in his other hand.

Javi’s attention went to the toddler. “Were you coloring, bud?” The man put the child in his lap again, and the page with a rainbow of scribbles on the table in front of them. “It looks good, buddy. What are you getting to eat?” He had an arm over the back of his wife’s chair, his other hand pointing at the list of three options, reading what each one was. Mrs. Peña watched the interaction with a fond expression.

Steve looked at Connie. “Honey?”

She met his eyes. “Yes, baby?”

“Five bucks says our kids will have a new cousin by the end of the year.”

She smiled. “I’d be stupid to take that bet.”

“She’s right,” Javi added before going back to talking to Stevie.

“Y’all are no fun.” Steve pouted.

The server interrupted to take their drink orders. After she left, Olivia called from across the table. “Tío (Uncle)?”

Javi turned to see her concerned face. “¿Sí, mi tesorito (Yes, my little treasure)?”

She asked him something in Spanish while pointing at his head, and whatever the question was made the other man’s cheeks flush and his new wife’s eyes widen. Connie looked where their daughter indicated and tried but failed to stifle a giggle.

“What did she ask?” Steve asked. His eyes traveled to each adult, hoping for an explanation.

Javier’s expression could be described as ‘panicked’ when he met Connie’s eyes. She didn’t even let him say anything. “Don’t look at me. I don’t know what happened, so you have to take this one.”

“What did she ask?” he tried again.

Connie caught his gaze and put her hand up to hide her mouth from Olivia while she mouthed at him, ‘Hickey,’ and pointed at the side of her neck. Great. Steve pressed his fingers to his forehead and sighed. They better come up with a believable excuse. His daughter did not need to be finding out what hickies were.

Javi finally answered Olivia in Spanish, and the young girl asked him another question Steve didn’t catch.

He hated it when they did this. He could make out some words, but his daughter and her tío (uncle) sometimes spoke too quickly for him to understand. They also liked to make it obvious when they were talking shit about him because they found it funny and enjoyed annoying the hell out of him.

Javier smiled and shook his head as he replied.

“What are they talking about?” Steve asked.

His friend’s missus threw him a bone. “Olivia asked about the bruise on Javi’s neck, and he told her what happened; he hit it on something last night, and he’s embarrassed about it.” That was a decent excuse. “She also wondered if it hurt, and he reassured her that it didn’t. Is that right, guys?” She addressed the uncle and niece.

His daughter said, “Yep!”

Javi turned his way and nodded. “Yeah.” He glanced over to Olivia and then back to Steve as he said something in Spanish that his daughter laughed at.

This was shit that made his jaw clench. “Hey, you guys know it’s against the rules to talk about me in Spanish.”

“Who said we were talking about you?” Javi replied. His attention returned to Olivia, the two of them, plus his wife, chatting in the language Steve barely understood.

“Leave them alone, Steve,” Connie said, and his eyes went to her. “It’s good practice for Olivia.”

“It’s rude,” he grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.

The server returned with their drinks, and the newlyweds had a chance to look over their menus, so the table ordered their food. Minutes passed. While Stevie was occupied with coloring, and the women were talking to his daughter about some show or movie he’d never heard of, Javier leaned his way and whispered for only him to hear, “Why does Olivia think I play baseball?”

The blonde man’s eyebrows knit together as he thought over the question. Why would Olivia think that Javi played baseball? It hit him: the conversation Connie and he had the day before on their way to the party after the ceremony. They used baseball terms to discuss whether the newlyweds would figure out how to fool around on the drive back to the reception.

He leaned toward his friend to reply just as quietly, “She wasn’t supposed to mention it to you.”

“Mention what?”

“It was nothing.”

“It was obviously something because your daughter is under the impression that I am a shitty baseball player.”

Steve had to hold in his laugh, air quickly leaving his nose. He needed to give his friend some kind of answer.

“You know how Connie and I use ‘folding laundry’ as a codeword?” he whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Well, we were talking more in-depth about the topic, but we used baseball terminology, so if the children overheard, they wouldn’t know what the hell we were talking about.”

“And it was about me…?”

“Yes.”

“Why were you discussing my sex life…?”

“You really wanna know?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

“Okay. I was being an ass and bet Connie that you horndogs wouldn’t be able to keep it in your pants on the drive to the party.”

“She would’ve lost. I hope she didn’t take it.”

“Of course, she didn’t, and I sure as hell didn’t take her bet that you guys would be able to wait until you got back to the hotel to score the first run on opening day.”

“Consummate our marriage?”

“Yeah.”

“That was a losing bet, too.”

“How the hell did you manage that with your wife driving?” he harshly whispered. She drove the two of them from the ceremony to Chucho’s house. “Wait, don’t tell me.”

“It was later on our way to the hotel,” he told him anyway. “We stopped in a field.”

“Are you guys trying to get arrested?”

“It was in the middle of nowhere. We were fine.”

Whatever happened to saving those kinds of activities for the bedroom?

“Uh huh, right.”

“Hold on a second, if Olivia overheard your baseball shit and assumed I played, where’d she get the idea that I’m bad at it? Did you fucking tell her that?”

Again, Steve had to keep himself from laughing, but this time, when he whispered, his voice was a little squeaky. “Maybe…”

His friend sat back to glare at him and forgot to keep his voice low. “You asshole.”

“You ass’ole!” the three-year-old in Javi’s lap parroted. “You ass’ole!”

The other man’s eyes rounded. “Oh, Shit. I mean, shoot.”

Steve groaned. “Goddammit, Javier,” he hissed.

“OH, SHI’!” Stevie yelled at the top of his lungs. He turned his head to look at Steve, pointing at him. “Daddy, you ass’ole!”

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[meet-me-backstage]

𓃗

𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ꥟ Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ꥟ It had been years since you ran away from Joel Miller, a hunter, frightened for your life and of who he had become. Before the infected roamed he was the grumpy single father of a chirpy little girl who lived across the street from you and kept himself to himself… until he didn’t, not with you at least when you began watching over Sarah while he couldn’t. He became someone who you could talk to, a friend dare you say, a silly little crush and your lifeline at the beginning of the apocalypse.

Now you are residing in Jackson, a slice of heaven in a cruel world, the perfect distraction from your past and the hell you went through to get away from it. However, you realize that the past really does always come back to haunt you when all too familiar faces arrive at Jackson and you have no other choice but to face Joel again, who makes it his mission to fix your broken friendship.

Unable to fight your heart, feelings resurface and lines blur when it becomes clear that you are just as much Joel’s lifeline as he is yours.

𝑨 𝒔𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒕, 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒚 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈!

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ꥟ Horror themes, not strictly following the first game/season + not at all following the second season/game so kinda au, reader can sing and play guitar, weapons, bad language, death, grief, angst, mentions of pregnancy and stillbirth, blood, mention of vomit, violence, nightmares, PTSD, a lil smidge of dark!Joel, Jackson!Joel, soft & protective with a bit of a dad bod!Joel, unrequited love until it isn’t, jealousy, mutual pining, age gap (reader is 36 and Joel is 56) and smUUUUT (‼️) so you must be 18+ to read❗️

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫 ꥟ 11K

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫 ꥟ a Platonic (with a capital ‘P’‼️) reader x Joel pre-apocalypse flashback / reader having a lil unrequited crush on Joel, mention of unrequited love, bad language, mention of parental neglect, grief, angst, weapons, violence, blood, PTSD symptoms, mention of death, mention of pregnancy and some mutual pining.

𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲! 𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐈 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐚 ‘𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞’ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭! <𝟑

⇜ 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

THEN

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐌𝐍, 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟑

"It doesn't matter where you go or what you do - I wanna spend each moment of the day with you - well, look what has happe—"

You and Sarah are singing in unison, your voices harmonizing with each other while you strum away at your guitars... until Joel pushes Sarah's bedroom door open, making his presence known to the two of you.

Sarah crosses her arms over the body of her guitar and glares up at her dad, feigning adorable anger - you don't miss the twinkle in her eyes though, it was always there when he arrived back home from work as if she hadn't seen him for years, "dad, don't you ever knock?"

"Don't mind me, honey—" Joel peeks his head further past her door, which is covered in stickers that sum Sarah up in a nutshell; rainbows, roller skates, cartoon puppies, guitars, music notes, multi-color stars and flowers. "I was just seein' what all the noise was," a playful grin tugs on his lips as he lets himself into Sarah's room, closing the door behind him and crossing his arms - looking awfully proud of himself for successfully poking fun at the fourteen year old.

"Oh ha ha - very funny—" Sarah retorts with a deadpan expression, "you're just jealous I've got someone else to do duets with."

"You got me there," Joel admits, bringing his hand up to lightly slap his broad chest while admiring Sarah, who is now the one looking awfully proud of herself for successfully poking fun at the thirty-five year old.

Joel's eyes divert to you - you'd been silent, fondly observing the father and daughter joking around while cuddling what was your mom's guitar to your chest, resting your chin on the side of it’s body. You could feel the warmth of her that always gave you comfort, a similar warmth that you feel with Sarah and Joel. He shoots you a knowing look and there's a thankful glint in it too that takes you aback more than his sudden arrival back home.

You'd been fulfilling the unspoken promise between you a few weeks ago by bringing over your guitar, taking his spot as Sarah's duet partner while he tried to fix the mess of his business that his little brother made... you hadn't seen much of him since that night, mostly at the occasional dinners like before. He didn’t have the luxury of having the time to watch a movie with you and Sarah anymore, he just wanted to keep his head down and finish that paperwork Tommy didn’t do - it was an emergency and you had been more than happy to watch over Sarah for him.

She is your best friend after all.

"Hey, trouble."

"Hi, Joel," you greet him by his name without a stutter, smiling... You hadn't been in the best of moods since your dad left and you hadn’t exactly been discreet about it - there was no point in hiding it because of course Joel had noticed the empty space of your driveway, usually filled by your dad’s car, the same day that he left for his business trip.

Joel confronted you about it a few nights after, prompted by your quietness at the dinner table… even Sarah wasn’t able to get a single giggle out of you.

You just sat there fiddling with your food, aimlessly scraping your fork against your plate, miles away until Joel’s voice jolted you back into the room…

‘What’s goin’ on with you?’

‘Me?’ His eyes pierced into your soul - there was no mistake he was talking to you. ‘Nothing.’

‘Ain’t nothin’ - you been mopin’ for days.’

You shrugged - shrugged. There was nothing in this world that frustrated Joel more than a goddamn shrug.

He fought the urge to roll his eyes. ‘I see your dad ain’t been home - ‘s that what this is about?’ He dropped his knife on his plate to gesture at your deflated self.

Your face said it all, you didn’t need to say a word.

Joel muttered something like ‘what an asshole’ under his breath - you could barely hear it.

‘He’s away - working. ‘S not his fault.’

Joel did roll his eyes at that. ‘Like hell it ain’t.’

‘Dad—’ Sarah interjected. The sight of his daughter alone calmed his agitated state, then she leaned towards him, excitably whispering in his ear.

‘You free on Saturday?’ Joel asked you after Sarah pulled back and resumed tucking into her dinner.

‘Mhm.’

‘Then it’s settled—,’ you tilted your head in the manner of a curious puppy, ‘I’m takin’ you ‘n Sarah to the theatre - we’ll see that movie you both’ve been goin’ on about, the one with the werewolves—’

‘Dawn of the Wolf two?!’ You gasped.

‘Dawn of the Wolf two.’ Joel, satisfied with himself for reclaiming the ‘best dad ever’ status from Sarah and for cheering you up, watched you with a crooked smile as you happily ate your food.

He watches you now with that same crooked smile that sends your stomach spiralling. "You okay?" He subtly nods, a caring movement that you respond to with wide-eyes... maybe his exhaustion in consequence of ‘Miller Bros. Services’ being on its last legs had been the reason for his short temper with you. He had showed you that he didn't hate you like you originally thought he did, but you’re still accustoming to this compassionate side to him he only reserved for Sarah and Tommy.

Whatever had changed between the two of you.

It’s a good change.

Dare you say it could be a budding friendship - the beginning of what you have with Sarah; someone who you could confide in. Joel could be that someone too… someone who is kinda an asshole but you could confide in him from time to time.

"I’m okay," you hum... you are. It's not like you noticed any differences with your dad being gone because he never made time for you. Besides, you'd been spending most of your days with Sarah so it's not like you'd been forced to face the desolate space that was your home all that much... in fact, you feel less lonely than you ever did before you met Sarah and Joel, you’re practically living in a loving home vicariously through them. "Are you - okay?"

"Just fine.” It's exactly the vague answer you'd expected considering he wanted to keep Sarah out of the trouble he's got himself into, and judging by his defeated tone he hasn't miraculously been able to undo Tommy's mistakes yet. "Tired—" he adds like the worst case scenario hadn’t been the source of his nightmares lately. "Worked my ass—" he clears his throat, sheepishly glancing at Sarah - she’s holding in a snicker by biting her lips together, "butt off as always."

Your smile grows as you tilt your head.

"What are you doin' back so early anyway?" Sarah questions, scrunching her petite nose.

“The guy me 'n' Tommy are workin' for wasn't feelin' too good so we got dismissed for the day." Joel’s eyes drift back to his daughter suspiciously with a raise of an eyebrow, "why'd you ask?"

“No reason—" She looks down at the guitar Joel had gotten her on her ninth birthday, an acoustic one that she'd also decorated with stickers... Sarah told you all about that day, her 'most kickass birthday' as she called it, and how she hadn't let the instrument out of her sight since, "we just - no offence, daddy - but we got practicin' to do aaand we were gonna wrap your gifts for tomorrow—"

"Thought we agreed on one gift this year, sweetheart—"

"I don't remember agreein’ to that—"

"I do remember tellin' you—"

"Well I wasn't listenin' - sorry," Sarah's apology comes out as an unconvincing mumble, then her eyes light up in the fraction of a second at the same time she points in your direction, “she got you a gift too."

Your face boils when you become the subject of his stare again but you refuse to make him the subject of yours, choosing to profusely blink at Sarah instead. If you did have the words you’d say something like ‘thanks for throwing me under the bus’, but Sarah toothily grins your way and all is forgotten.

"You did?" Joel quirks an eyebrow up at you now, tilting his head to the side.

"Maybe," you mumble, embarrassed that you even thought of giving him a gift in the first place, just before Sarah states confidently; "She did."

You did... and for some reason you feel the need to explain yourself. You had wanted to show your gratitude for all the dinners, the movies and the company you wouldn't have had if he hadn't given into his grumpiness towards you over the summer, to show that you are willing to let bygones be bygones and that the harsh words he had flung your way didn't matter as long as you got to be in a place that feels more like home than your actual one.

He hums, "that's real kind o’ you, darlin’."

Your jaw drops. ‘Darlin’’… you could get used to that.

"It is—" Sarah agrees enthusiastically with her dad. If it were possible, a flashing lightbulb would be floating above her head right now as she appears to come up with an idea. Once it’s executed, she directs her attention onto you, “hey, instead of leavin’ the gift here tonight why don’t you bring it over tomorrow—” you shake your head quickly, but Sarah refuses it as an answer, “pleeeeease - you’ve gotta celebrate with us.”

You shake your head again… it’s not that you don’t want to - you just feel like you’ve encroached on enough of their father daughter time. Surely he’d appreciate having quality time with his daughter more after the stressful month he's had… you also can’t help but recall words he spat your way before you ran home crying months ago that further prove your point:

'Between you 'nd me, I'd really like to have this one day with my daughter - you think you could allow me th—'

You can.

You'll leave your gift for him here and go home.

You’ll wake up tomorrow.

You’ll leave Sarah and Joel alone.

You’ll break Sarah’s heart.

Sarah does what she always does when she has no clue what to do next, she turns to her dad for answers. She stares up at him with big eyes, desperately pleading for him to help her change your mind.

"What'd you want me to do?" Joel wonders how he'd gotten to a point in his life where his purpose is to do a teenager’s bidding.

Sarah's shoulders drop into a slouch, "duh, you ask." She side-eyes you, the exact same look that Joel would give you after talking about you as if you weren't right there the whole time.

She is truly the mirror image of her father.

“She already said she don’t wanna come.”

“No she didn’t - she shook her head.”

“Same damn thing.”

“No it isn’t.”

“She’s your friend—”

“It’s your birthday… and she’s your friend too.”

They’re as stubborn as each other.

Joel and Sarah stare at one another, contesting with each other, further confirming their alikeness. If he didn't have such a soft spot in his heart for the girl or he didn't know the headstrongness of her that she inherited from him he could’ve kept his eyes open until they burned red, itching for him to just blink… but he doesn’t, he caves because he knows she’s right.

You should celebrate with them tomorrow.

You are his friend.

He obliges Sarah’s command with a scratch at the back of his neck, “it ain’t gonna be much—” he sternly glances at Sarah, speaking as if he'd forgotten that you already knew what plans she had up her sleeve. "But you can come over - if you want," he confirms... “I’d like you to come.”

Your heart thuds, “you - would?” He nods but you need to hear another confirmation in case you hadn’t heard him right the first time, “I wouldn’t be - intruding?”

"You wouldn't be intrudin'."

“Really?”

He nods again - not hesitantly or resentfully, but assertively. "I’d also feel better knowin' you ain't alone."

You find the courage to return his eye contact and nervously purse your lips before popping them open, "okay, I’ll - I’ll think about it."

Sarah bounces on her bed, suddenly so full of energy that her guitar ricochets off of her lap and you almost fly off of her stripey duvet. She catches the instrument back into her small arms and her beaming gaze drifts up to Joel, "Thank you, daddy!”

You can't not accept the invitation now… not with those cute dimples she’d gotten from her dad on display.

"Hm—" Joel brings a hand to his chin, his fingers holding his jaw and ending his intense scrutiny of you with those pretty brown eyes, "alright, I'll get outta your hair... but first you two are gonna sing me a song."

You and Sarah glance at each other, your face flushing instantly; a common occurrence for you whenever Joel Miller is in the same room as you. Sarah’s eyes are glimmering, so much that they light up the room alongside the pink lamp on her side table that nudges her white-framed double bed.

An amused Joel wanders over to the large pale purple bean bag sat at the end of Sarah's bed. It’s sinking into the shaggy brown carpet underneath it and he brushes his hands down his work clothes before letting himself fall onto it with a quiet groan. He immediately relaxes, his body consumed by the softness of the seat under him and he spreads his arms out, his legs too - you're convinced it's the first time he's had the chance to sit down today, it certainly looks it judging by the way his eyelids flutter so elegantly.

You can't miss the small movement because you're eye level with him now. Your grip on the body of your guitar subconsciously gets tighter when you feel those butterflies… they practically live inside you, your stomach may as well charge them rent.

Joel notices your fingernails accidentally catching the D and B strings, creating a muted but melodic sound that doesn't sound quite right. Then he closely examines the decorative details of the guitar you're hugging.

Your mom's guitar is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen so you don't blame him for admiring it.

A grand auditorium acoustic guitar of cedar, spruce and rosewood... A pattern of intricately thin lines run along its body and a floral motif of dahlias and their leaves are carved on top of them. Simpler floral decoration is copied along the fretboard, soundhole, headstock and side... It’s nothing short of a masterpiece - your mom's guitar is a work of art, and it feels like an honor for it to have been passed on to you, for you to be the one holding something as wonderful and close to you as she had once been.

"Now that's the prettiest gee-tar I ever saw," Joel murmurs. His voice raspy and tired. His entranced stare is still on the guitar as if the smooth wooden structure had hypnotized him.

You subconsciously smile dreamily… turns out your guitar has the same effect on him as he has on you. He looks at you, knowing he'd complimented something that you hold so dear… but you don't think he knows exactly how much his words mean to you and how they seem to aim directly for your heart.

Joel taps at the bean bag with the palm-side of his hand. "C'mon now, gimme a song - I need some serenadin'," he leans back more as his calm voice serenades you, soothing your rapid heartbeat which had started pounding from the moment he'd asked you and Sarah to sing him a song - invited you over for his birthday… no, since he poked his head through Sarah’s door.

Sarah doesn't show any sign of nerves, having sung and played for him plenty of times.

You never have.

You never intended to either.

Sarah pinches your shoulder, grabbing your attention, "you ready?"

"Huh?" You blink, dragging your eyes away from Joel to look at the girl sat cross-legged next to you, who has positioned herself and her guitar - eager and ready to play, "oh - yeah - wait - what're we playing?" You whisper, flustered.

"Gee - I don't know - maybe the song you taught me that we've been practicing all day every day for aaaages," Sarah answers sarcastically with high-pitched giggles between words.

How could you forget?

Especially as it was a song your mom would sing you to sleep every night - you could never forget it. Whenever you heard Nancy Sinatra's 'I Only Want To Be With You' on the car radio you found yourself singing along like you always did with your first duet partner, your mom, when she’d drive you to school... Now you're singing the same slow, stripped back version of it with Sarah that your mom taught you and it's such a good feeling - the perfect fitting bandaid to heal your grief.

You hold the man sat across from you accountable for your brain turning to mush and giggle with Sarah, nodding in agreement as you utter a quiet 'right'.

"From top?" Sarah asks.

You nod meekly, "from top."

Your fingers trace over the smooth curves of your guitar, and briefly recall how your mom would tap away at the side of it before she sang to you.

It has become a habit of your own too.

Just as the two of you had practiced, you count Sarah in alongside a few rhythmic taps with the tips of your fingers to guide her into strumming G, C and D chords while you pick the melody in time with her playing. You focus on Sarah's concentrated expression, how her hair falls over her face as she studies her fingers, how her fingers barely wrap around the neck of her guitar and still manage to create a sound as smooth as velvet.

She's a natural virtuoso like her dad too… and although you haven't yet heard him play the guitar or sing, picturing him serenading you has been the source of all your daydreams recently.

You do your best to push that idyllic image of Joel to the back of your mind before you fuck a note up and miss your cue to start singing. You already feel your fingers trembling due to the combination of the buzz of the aluminium strings pressing against them, Sarah's obedient nods in your direction as she prepares for you to join her in playing the chord sequence perfectly in sync and lastly, being the centre of Joel's intent and undivided attention… so you certainly don't need another distraction.

You send a warm smile Sarah's way which she returns. Then you shut your eyes, steering your focus onto the short preparation of your singing voice.

You take a quick breath.

You quietly hum in tune with Sarah's chords.

You’re as ready as you’ll ever be.

"I don't know what it is that makes me love you so - I only know I never want to let you go—"

NOW

𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒

You wish you remembered more songs like the back of your hand instead of humming vague tunes you couldn’t quite remember.

If you had the chance to come face to face with your younger self, you’d scold her for having taken the accessibility of music for granted… Believe it or not, it didn’t come by so easy these days. To get a hold of some in the apocalypse was the equivalent of trading in an arm and a leg - a rarity that you couldn’t afford all that often even at the rate you work. The selection was limited for trades in Jackson anyway but you had found and reacquainted yourself with a few gems over the years in the form of cds.

If you also had the chance to go back to the life that you led before outbreak day, you'd spend an entire day listening to all the cassettes you once owned… The collection you have now doesn’t compare to the one you had back then.

If you could you'd have saved your mom's guitar too, taken it with you everywhere just as you did her framed photograph... Much to your heartbreak amidst the chaos, the beautiful instrument was one of many belongings you left behind on outbreak day.

Often you wonder if it’s still sitting there on it’s stand back at your old house in Austin, waiting for you to come back and pick it up… You long for that to be the case because it meant there was someplace in this fucked up world that had been left untouched - untainted. A time capsule that, if you ever saw it again it'd take you right back to just as you left it twenty years ago... and you could pretend that none of this shit ever happened, that Sarah was alive and Joel was your designated moody friend.

It’s a pretty dream, but in reality the guitar had probably been taken by survivors on a raid rampage or strong fungal vines had grown around it, strangled it’s neck and broken it... and you just have to move on and make do with the life you lead in Jackson.

It isn't all bad.

You're finally living a life you imagined for yourself on your long and disastrous journey from Boston to Colorado in search of Maria's group - a normal life... well, as normal a life could be in a post-apocalyptic world.

Your weekly schedule is the same:

You go to work bright and early every morning.

You cook yourself an edible meal most week nights.

You get a decent night's sleep every night.

You have dinner with Maria and Tommy at their home every Friday.

You sing at the Tipsy Bison every other Saturday night.

You do whatever you damn well please on Sunday evening.

Before you knew it months had gone by.

Four months.

Joel has been gone for four months.

For two weeks you waited for him to come back and try to make things right between you just so you could have the satisfaction of telling him that, despite his efforts, you hadn’t changed your mind about never wanting to see his face again… You'd already spent twenty years pining after him - being haunted by him… what was another measly fourteen days?

When Callus found his way back to Jackson and Maria sent several search parties out one after the other for Joel and Ellie only for all of them to find nothing, you concluded that Joel's return into your life had been a temporary glitch to give you a sense of finality to the long-lasting situation between you... a true ending that could spur you on to exist without a big bad presence named ‘Joel Miller’ clouding over you.

At long last you could forget about him.

Having someone else with you at night helped.

Rick, to be specific.

He could erase Joel’s voice - wipe that ruggedly handsome face from your memory.

Rick hadn't left your side since the first kiss he placed on your lips... not until today.

You woke up this morning expecting him to be laying sound asleep beside you. Your chiselled jawed - boyfriend? Boss? Sleeping buddy? Could someone be all three of them at the same time? - He’d stopped the nightmares about your past with Joel. For you that was enough... it had to be, you'd spent enough time fucking him to convince yourself that everything good you felt with Joel didn't matter until you believed it to be true...

That Rick was the perfect man for you.

That you could learn to love him one day.

You slid your hand along the fresh sheets of your double bed with closed eyes, hoping to make contact with Rick's naked body on your fingertip's journey towards the empty space next to you... he hadn't ever not been with you in the morning. After your fifth date and your major comeback at the Tipsy Bison… ever since the night he’d heard you sing he’d stayed.

Maybe it was the first dip of your toes into the unknown terrain that was being in love with Rick.

You missed him.

Maybe that was your first sign.

Maybe you're closer to loving him than you thought.

It'd been so long that you've forgotten what it’s like to fall in love, you’ve not even considered your capability of it anymore until now. All you’ve ever known was Joel, the all-consuming love you had for him that sucked you dry, convincing you that he’d ruined you for anybody else.

The worst part about it was he didn’t feel the same.

He wanted Tess.

He loved your baby.

He wanted you, he loved you… but not enough for you to stay…

Not for a man you didn’t recognize anymore.

It’s all in the past.

Joel isn’t coming back.

It's a mystery to you, to Rick, Maria, Tommy, Jean and all the patrollers who had gone out searching for clues to piece his and Ellie’s disappearance together... the lack of evidence led to a presumed conclusion:

Joel and Ellie are dead - either that or they don't want to be found... The latter doesn’t make a single bit of sense to you because Joel had been so adamant about coming back to Jackson, and if he and Ellie had been in trouble, surely he'd have taken care of what needed to be taken care of eventually and made it his mission to be here rather than settle elsewhere?

No... the thought of not returning wouldn't have even crossed his mind, and if you’re wrong? And Joel is still living out there? Good riddance to him.

It was what you originally wanted anyway, for him to leave you alone... and yet it nagged at you, that it's somehow easier for you to tell yourself that Joel had died rather than having gone back on his word. It's also difficult to deny how your heart would clutch at the most likely possibility too… you often felt it, causing you to lay your hand flat over the vital organ that always disobeyed you when it came to Joel Miller.

It’s all in the past.

Joel isn’t coming back.

You have Rick now.

You'd stumbled out of bed with a gleeful smile on your face, brushed your teeth, skipped into the shower, sang your heart out in preparation for tomorrow’s open mic, excitedly slipped your work clothes on, hopped out of your house and in the direction of the stable with one intention…

You want to kiss Rick.

The stable doors are wide open, beckoning you inside.

He must be here.

But your heart is doing that clutching thing again, stopping you from being able to proceed into the building. You shake your head as if the organ will listen and obey at the same time Rick sees you stood in between the large doorframe of the stable.

He'd just stepped out of Callus' stall and is in the midst of shutting the gate to it. He rests a hand on his hip, "there you are—"

Ignoring his words and the tone that he uses when he speaks to all his workers, you set out to do what you came here to do… aside from work of course. You stride forward with determination and your eyes set on your boyfriend - no, boss - whatever - Rick.

The stern, bossy expression on his face doesn't fade until you're close enough to him that you can slide your arm through the triangular space that his bent arm had created between his elbow and side. You don't wait for him to react to your effort to pull him into you before you plant a firm kiss to his lips.

You hardly register the absence of those sensations you felt when Joel would— no, really - you don't - you don't even think about him - how could you when Rick smiles against your lips like this?

It’s all in the past.

Joel isn’t coming back.

"You're - late," Rick murmurs between another firm kiss. You do your best to disregard the clutches at your heart, but they only get stronger by the second, making it difficult to concentrate on him.

You pull back and naturally his mouth follows yours to catch it with his until you retort sassily, "you could've woken me up."

"So it's my fault?" He raises his brows as his lips tug upward into a teasing smile.

“Mhm.”

You don't miss the way his eyes flicker to your lips at your hummed answer. "You're lucky I like havin' you around - I woulda fired you for that sorta misconduct," he reciprocates your hug, placing his hands at the small of your back.

“I've done wayyy worse and being late by what - five minutes is where you draw the line?"

Rick's smile grows into a fully fledged grin, exuding charm that knocks you off your feet - if he wasn't holding you you'd stumble into Callus' stall and make a total fool of yourself - traumatizing the horse more in the process. "No, I'm just thinkin' you might have to make it up to me later—"

"Shhh - you can't say stuff like that, not in front of the horses," you whisper with a playfully serious expression - a horrible attempt at flirting you know, but it’s funny in the moment.

You both chuckle in unison - clearly he doesn’t care much about the judging stares of the four-legged creatures surrounding you because he pulls your body flush against his, causing your breath to hitch.

He attempts to kiss you again, only for you to pull back again. "Why didn't you—" Rick tilts his head, looking as curious as you, "wake me?"

"I couldn't—" he avoids your eyes as if he'd silently reminded himself of something, which is unusual as you're typically the one doing that to him - doing everything to evade the truth of your past and what you felt for Joel, not wanting it to sabotage your new, content way of living and whatever it is between you and Rick. "Was the first time I've seen you dreamin'."

"How'd you know it was a good dream 'nd not a bad one?" You ask cluelessly.

"You weren't lashin' out on me for a start—" he forces a laugh and you look down at the way your dirty clothes tangle with his. You hadn't had a nightmare so bad that you retaliated in reality in a long long while - when you did Rick would trap your body with his by holding your back to his front and keep you from drowning in the pool of blood - seeing Joel at the surface— "you were mumblin'."

You timidly lift your head, "you - um - hear what I was mumblin'?"

Rick's grip on you loosens - he's still evading your questioning stare. "Nah - not a word, sounded like a bunch'o gibberish to me," he admits unsurely. Before you can interrogate him further about your sleeping habits he drops his arms to his sides, you do the same, "I'd better er - get back to work. The first lot of patrollers'll be here any minute."

"Oh - okay," you nod passively as he smiles reassuringly, but it doesn’t reach eyes - like the color of them, they are as cold as ice. He turns his back to you and heads to the patrol board, jotting down something or other and familiarizing himself with today's schedule.

He's acting kinda strange - however, it isn't out of Rick's character to stick to his own work rules.

You hear shaky, distressed whiny breaths to your left, coming from inside Callus' stall…

Ever since the stallion’s premature arrival back in Jackson he'd been kept at the stable - no longer a patrol horse.

Callus, as skittish as he was whenever he sensed any nearby infected, he was the most obedient and brave of the horses stabled at Jackson Ranch... so whatever happened to him, Joel and Ellie out there, it must've been horrific because it had changed the horse’s entire persona - and even with the extra care you and Rick had given him since the night he came galloping back, his distraught state seemed to be irreversible.

He must be angry at himself for failing to protect Joel and Ellie like he always did the patrollers… or the trio had run into a horde and he'd bucked Joel and Ellie off, now feeling a tremendous amount of guilt for leaving them behind… for their deaths.

He whines again, louder this time, and you hurriedly respond, taking one step so you're stood in front of his gate, where Rick had been standing, and peek over it.

Callus is laying down on his side on straw that Rick must've just laid out for him.

He appears to be having a dream - a bad one... again.

Maybe he’s reliving what happened.

The numerous possible events with the same ending, with Joel and Ellie laying lifelessly on the ground that played on your mind more than you’d admit.

You don't hesitate to unlatch the gate and carefully approach Callus - you of all people understand the power of a nightmare, how they chase you back into the real world and make you act without precaution... the last thing you want to do is scare him more.

Treading lightly and kneeling beside the back of his long neck, you position yourself so that, in the worst case scenario, he can’t kick or bite you in a moment of sheer panic.

Your hand reaches for his brown mane and you slowly rake your fingertips through the untangled hair in attempt to calmly coax him through his nightmare while keeping a steady eye on his reactions to your touch - one of the many things Rick did to you at night to soothe you, to remind you that he was there to be the solution to all your problems.

Callus blows quiet raspberries and his eyelids move around in his sleep, but his breathing pattern slows. You exhale, relieved as it's the first time you'd successfully guided him out of the terror enforced by his trauma. "What happened out there, boy?" You sigh out, twirling his mane around your index finger with wonder in your eyes.

He has the answer, you can see it in his doe eyes.

If only he could talk.

If only you could read his mind.

꥟ 𓃗 ꥟

You couldn’t leave Callus’ side.

For hours you've been glued at the hip.

Two scarred souls finding solace in one another.

You're not proud of yourself but you didn't intend on falling asleep - surprisingly, aside from the odd poke and itch, Callus' straw bed is much more comfortable than it looks.

You're lucky that Jean hadn't been expected to be on a patrol shift today, instead she took on your usual, every day duties, eager to help in any way that she could. She agreed to look after Pearl and Shimmer for the day, and to assist Rick with Old Beardy's maintenance - it kept him off your back at least, otherwise he'd have found you laying on the extra straw that was supposed to be for Callus’ benefit and told you that 'sleepin' on the job is sorta a misconduct too' as if you didn't already know it.

Like a hammer to the brain interrupting a hangover nap, you hear your name being called.

"Shit," you curse groggily under your breath, half-asleep. "Shit shit shit," you keep mumbling into Callus' mane while also trying not to catch a mouthful of it or disturb the horse's deep slumber.

Your name echoes throughout the stable yet again - it's Maria, you realize, and by the sound of her voice she wants to see you urgently.

"Shit," you mumble one last time before blowing Callus’ hair out of your face and carefully lifting yourself as silently as possible until you're on your knees with your arms holding you up… During moments like this you can’t help but question yourself - what are you doing with your life? "I'm here!"

“Where?!"

"Here!" You answer, shouting at the volume of a whisper.

"You're gonna have to be more specific than that!"

You sigh out, “I’m with Callus!”

Maria, looking as radiant as ever, pops her head over the fence of Callus’ stall, looking down at you quizzically, “what are you doing?”

“I was tendin’ to Callus—” she gives you a skeptical look as you drop your head between your arms, “fine, I might’ve shut my eyes for a bit but look - he’s actually sleepin’ peacefully for once.”

“I’m glad he’s making progress,” she acknowledges with an impressed nod, but it’s short-lived. “What’s a bit?”

Without waking Callus, you stand yourself up with a few small grunts, “I dunno - what time is it?”

“Just after four,” she tells you after rolling up the long sleeves of her shirt that she’d thrown over a stretchy white t-shirt and exposing her watch underneath it.

Shit.

That’s almost your entire work shift.

You fiddle with your fingers, now stood directly in front of Maria with the fence between you, “errr a few hours then I think—” it’s a major underestimation and Maria does not buy it. Your eyes widen, pleadingly staring into her’s, “please don’t tell Rick.”

“I don’t need to tell him anything—” Maria rests an elbow on top of the fence, using her hand to gesture to your entire body which is covered with several bits of straw that had interwoven themselves in your clothes, “you’re a mess.”

“Gee, thanks,” you giggle softly, unfazed by her honest humor because that’s just Maria and she only means well - still, something seems to be bugging her. You start to pick at the straw, plucking them out individually while eyeing her suspiciously.

“Sorry—” she looks over her shoulder, appearing to be staring into the natural bright light that’s beaming into the stable from it’s entrance to her left, “get outta there I - I need to tell you somethin’.”

You’ve never seen her so worried - so stressed…

She’s the leader of this entire community, what could possibly be more stressful than that?

Your mind instantly goes straight to the worst, thinking that something had gone wrong with her pregnancy, so you stop stupidly fumbling around with your clothes in an attempt to tidy up your disheveled appearance to show her that she is your main focus right now… that you’ll be there for her as long as she needs you to be.

Once the barrier of the fence is no longer between you, you notice an element of relief that flashes across her face, which alleviates the worry you feel for her…

Realization spreads across your facial features one by one.

Whatever it is that she needs to tell you, it’s not about her baby.

“Maria—” she only blinks in response, completely lost in her own train of thought, so you gently grasp her biceps and shake them, “Maria - what is it?”

Maria’s stare drifts back onto you with her eyes so wide that if she told you she’d seen a ghost, you’d have no choice but to believe her. She blinks a few times and furrows her brows, at a loss for knowing how to broach the subject of her shock and trying to work out how exactly she is going to break it to you… She decides that there’s no other way than to just come out with it - loud and clear, “he’s back.”

Every organ in your body feels like it drops. “W-what?” You whisper in disbelief.

“Joel’s back.”

You blink. Your lips are open after mouthing another 'what?' that Maria sees because she is observing you so closely, so cautiously.

"Joel - he's back with Ellie."

"I - I heard you - it's just—" the words fly out of your mouth weak, cracked and breathless. You shake your head frantically at the slim chance of him being alive after months of no sign of him coming true… It hadn’t even crossed your mind that he could still be out there, or perhaps you avoided the chance like your life depended on it… truth was, it did - does… You wouldn’t have done half the things you’ve done in the last four months if even an ounce of you thought he was alive - you’d have lived in an unshakeable state of procrastination for Joel’s impending return and his intention to fulfil his promise to you if you did. "Maria - it can't be h—"

"It's him," she states calmly, boldly, matter of factly.

You nod feverishly, but you can't accept it. The cogs in your brain struggle to process the unexpected news, spinning so uncontrollably fast and out of sync that they overheat and fall apart… you feel light-headed.

Your arms slap down to your sides, losing all feeling in your body. Your eyes close, mentally preparing yourself to fall, but before you do or your head collides with a wooden plank Maria grabs a hold of your arms and pulls you to her. Her baby bump which has popped in the last month presses to your stomach - she isn't going to let you faint because of Joel's arrival again, she regrets not having caught you the first time and perhaps having let Joel see you way too soon... Tommy was wrong for making that decision and she blamed herself for not having stepped in, for trusting Tommy's judgement.

Maria repeats your name over and over but the life in your eyes does not come back and your body is frozen, so frail that she makes sure to continue holding you steady. She tries to talk you into consciousness - she's probably answering questions you want answered…

What happened to Joel and Ellie out there?

What spooked Callus?

Why did it take them so long to come back?

Are they okay?

Where are they now?

Is Joel looking for you?

Is he staying?

But you can’t hear her - see her.

Your vision underneath your closed eyelids is red and your ears are blocked by thick fluid you presume to be blood - no no no - you feel it trailing from your tear ducts, your nostrils, the corners of your mouth and dripping from your earlobes - this can’t be happening - it starts to pour heavily down you, feeling it drench your outfit that disgustingly clings to your skin - you have to open your eyes - your hands fly up to your face, frantically rubbing away at something that is just not there… and suddenly you’ve repossessed your hearing, Maria is shouting your name again.

She shakes your arms much harsher than you had done to her minutes before, but you’re too busy digging your fingers into the dry corners of your eyes to notice the pain she is unintentionally inflicting upon you with her fingernails clawing into you so ferociously… so hell bent on dragging you back into the stable with her, back onto planet Earth; a world that had stopped spinning on it’s axis for you… a world that you thought you’d bid farewell to months ago, where your nightmares bled into your days.

Your eyelids flutter open, revealing nothing but a glowing Maria… and there’s not even a droplet of blood on your faded white t-shirt.

"Hey, look at me!" Maria croaks out after an exaggerated sigh and you do - you stare at her, horrified at the trick your mind had played on you but relieved at your safety, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. “Are you okay?!” emphasis on the 'okay' with a squeeze of your arms. She shakes her head at herself, "stupid question, Maria."

"No - no, it's not—" you take a drawn out breath. "I'm - okay," you nod unconvincingly.

You don't know what else to say - you fear that anything you do say will make no sense or come out in jumbled one word sentences that you can't even decipher yourself… Maria’s eyes are searching your face for any indication that you’ll shatter into pieces in her grasp, left entirely unsatisfied with your vague, stuttered response to her witnessing what looked like your soul leaving your body in front of her very eyes.

“I’m okay—” you repeat, going to shiftily look at your boot-clad feet, but your view is blocked by Maria’s baby bump, making you think back on cherished memories of reaching the same stage in your pregnancy where you couldn’t tie your own shoe laces or even sleep comfortably due to the constriction of a larger bump… Joel would tie your laces for you and lay down behind you with a guarding hand on your belly all night. Those small moments were some of your favorites, you know how Maria loves it as much as you grew to given the circumstances… you don’t want to ruin her enjoyment of this time by distracting her with your problems, and so you do what you do best; you hide behind your armor, brushing aside your nightmarish visions with a smile, “I appreciate the warnin’ this time.”

Maria nods slowly, but she lingers with an open mouth - warning you of Joel’s return wasn’t the only reason why she came here. “Joel—” your breath hitches, the reaction causing Maria to stop talking, but you gesture for her to put you out of your misery and say it - whatever it is, “he wants to stay—” ‘course he does. “It’s obviously what Tommy wants too but I told them I’d find you and ask if it’s - okay - y’know, before making a final decision.”

That’s when it reappears.

The blood.

It’s spilling through the cracks in the stable’s structure behind Maria, in no time it’ll flood… you’ll be drowning in it, that thing at floor of the pool will grab your ankles and pull you down again.

You’ve got to find Rick.

You step away from Maria.

In a complete frenzy, your limbs carry themselves with nothing but the pure fuel of adrenaline, with its mission being to throw yourself at Rick so that your vision of red will go.

"Hold on - where're you going—" Maria tuts while following after you, hesitant to let you run away and shut her out like you always did when faced with anything falling under the topic of the Miller brothers, especially with how much progress you'd been making recently. You’d actually gathered the strength to sit with Tommy in his and Maria's house at their dining table and eat dinner with him, have a conversation with him - Tommy did most of the talking but it was something.

Your friend looms behind you, a creeping shadow similar to the monstrous one attached to Joel in your nightmares, gaining on you by the second.

The addition of fresh spring air carries you into the bright sunset like a guiding light to safety.

You're self-conscious, so exposed and unable to protect yourself - the real Joel could be right in front of you and you wouldn't know.

Once your eyes are adjusted after having been accustomed to the dingy light of the stable you make sure that he isn’t anywhere to be seen before resuming your search for Rick with squinted eyes - god, how you wish you were still sleeping in Callus' stall, straw prodding at your ass and all... you wish you hadn't made your presence known just so you could've hidden away in your dreams a little longer and avoided having such a huge spanner thrown into the works of your newfound zest for living your normal routine.

You should've known… your life had been running a little too smoothly recently.

The mixture of the blinding sun and Maria's distorted voice calling after you deter you from achieving your objective, but the blood is gushing from the stable doors like a waterfall, following you outside so you need to get to Rick and fast.

In your peripheral vision you spot him, he's talking to Nathan, the charming jester, famously known for his cheesy pick-up lines and smouldering winks aimed at every woman minding their own business at the Tipsy Bison - you've been on the receiving end of a few...

'I must be huntin' treasure.'

‘What?’

‘Cause I’m diggin’ you.’

He's kinda a dork under the muscle but it doesn't seem to stop him from leaving the bar with company for the night... although, due to spending more time with him in an effort to make friends with Rick's friends, you've found out some interesting stuff, like how Nathan has a whole segment of his mind dedicated to random facts about history that he'd remembered from university - famous pirates, to be specific - so he's actually pretty smart.

A relieved sigh escapes your mouth at the sight of the two men going about their day, probably talking about how Nathan's patrol had gone.

All patrol routes had become clearer than they had been during winter. With only a handful or two of infected to take down, you saw how the patrollers returned with skips in their steps... Nathan looks as though he's returned having not lifted a finger, but he's holding a rifle readily to his chest so he must've done some shooting.

You take one last look over your shoulder as you run, seeing Maria waddling and the red liquid turbulently flowing behind you both, the edge of it touching Maria’s heel. The absurdity of the image of your nightmare’s creation endangering your friend and how alarmingly real it appears to be, how it consumes her feet and pulls her into its strong current, it unlocks a whole new level of guilt and horror within you that you didn’t realize you inhabited.

They’re your nightmares to have, not Maria’s, not the horses, not the entirety of Jackson’s population.

They’re meant for you.

You’re the blood’s target.

It’s meant for you.

A single shot of determination and adrenaline all in one surges through your body, enough to last you for your final steps towards Rick - your savior and guaranteed safety net from all things nightmare related.

When you leap into the back of Rick’s unsuspecting frame, wrapping your arms around his front, you can feel it all sink away, the blood being sucked down by some imaginary drain just in time to save Maria. You tuck your scrunched up face in the space between his shoulder blades, your heaving chest flush against his back and allows you to recover from running as if you’d been in danger, as if Jackson had truly been under attack by an incomprehensible amount of deadly crimson fluid.

It’s silent around you, apart from the birds singing, children’s laughter, conversations being had and the horses contently neighing… noises regular to day to day life in Jackson, its music to your ears, but you have to see it for yourself. You slide your face to the left and along Rick’s back, taking a wary peek at the main road leading to the heart of the town and, sure enough, everything is as it should be.

Rick lifts his left arm, revealing your face to Nathan, who cocks his head with a bemused smile on his face, “well howdy there, songbird.”

You manage to keep your arms clung to him while Rick twists his upper half so that he can see you for himself, already expecting to see your face - there's only one resident songbird of Jackson and that's you... not one that's as treasured as you are anyway.

You’d gone from hermit to socialite.

From forgotten and ignored to recognized and praised…

People waved at you, stopped you on your way to work just to tell you how much they love your voice.

You're kinda like a celebrity here now.

“Hi,” you mumble into Rick’s shirt and momentarily let go of him to awkwardly wave at Nathan.

Your other arm latches onto Rick tighter in retaliation, squeezing him so hard that he groans. He reflects upon the other times you’d done that, a silent plead for him to save you from something he’d never seen. One thing that sprang to his head then was to lay his hand over yours, it seemed to work because your erratic mid-sleep stirring would stop after that… he does it now, you can’t see it but you can feel it. Warm and sturdy. His thumb rubs over yours as he clears his throat, glaring at a puzzled Nathan, telepathically telling him to give the two of you some space.

“Guess I’ll be seein’ you two lovebirds tomorrow night th—”

“Nate,” Rick stops him with raised brows.

Nathan lifts his spare hand up in surrender, “I get it I get it I’ll go—” he tips his cowboy hat at you and Rick before retreating.

Rick watches Nathan’s back as he walks away. It is not until the top dog patroller is at a considerable distance that his observant eyes trail along your arm. It’s about all he can see of you because you’re yet to unhide yourself. He mutters something unintelligible when he struggles to get a good look at your face, “hey—” he squeezes your hand, “what’s goin’ on?”

You stay silent, physically unable to describe your episode for not wanting to sound crazy… you also don’t want him to know why it started, how Joel still has an effect on you that you can’t control.

For a fraction of a second he lets go of your hand to turn himself so that he’s fully facing you, then he takes both your hands in his, “talk to me—”

You shake your head, feeling so foolish for not having the ability to switch your mind of piles upon piles of unresolved trauma off yourself. “Just hold me, please.”

Rick hesitantly indulges you, taking you into his arms properly like he did in your bed every night, aware of how it instantly lulled you into a deep sleep. He’d lay on his side examining your log-like state, making sure you were okay before focusing on getting himself to sleep. Often the sweet scent of your hair was enough to get him there… last night, however, it wasn’t, not after hearing your mid-sleep mumbles as clear as the view of the full moon through your bedroom window…

‘I wannnted - you to… but you - nev-er did.’ Those words had pricked his ears up, but it was what followed that kept him awake; small hitched breaths and a breathy moan of his name, not his, Joel’s… and by the sounds of it he wasn’t scaring you, no, he was doing something you… liked.

Questions had been circling Rick’s mind all day today, causing him to be more irritable than usual with the patrollers arriving to and from their shifts, at the realization that with the large amount of time he’d spent with you, he hardly knew you… The fact agitated him to the extent that he forgot to tick off the patroller’s names correctly on the register too, a mistake he’d never made.

Was it just a stupid dream?

Or were you reliving a real memory with Joel?

And if it was had you fucked him?

Was he the father of your baby?

Did you have feelings for him?

He has to ask… he has to hear it from you.

Your face is nuzzled so cutely into his chest, but he fights the warmness he feels inside because of you to speak, causing his stubble to catch the hair at the top of your head and the steady heartbeat you’d been listening to to beat sporadically.

“Did y—” Rick starts, but the question fades into a sighed ‘Maria’.

“Don’t you - ever - run away from me - like that - ever again,” Maria’s breathless voice bursts yours and Rick’s bubble of protection and uncertainty. You turn your head to face her and nod in understanding. “I mean it—” she adds as she strokes her hand over her baby bump. “Good evenin’, Rick.”

“Evenin’, Maria,” he responds more coldly than he intended, “you - good?”

“Yeah - it's getting tough though - putting one foot in front of the other—” She intentionally eyes you, “catching up to everybody these days is a trial, especially 'cause I'm expected to be everywhere when I - can only be at one place at a time... sorry - ramblings of a pregnant woman." She takes deep breaths and straightens her back, “I just need - an answer.”

“You never asked a question?”

“Not from you.”

“Oh.” She wants an answer from you as badly as he wants answers from you, he realizes.

Maria says your name - she pauses until she’s caught her breath, “can Joel stay?”

If Rick didn’t know about Joel’s return he definitely knows now… he probably knows it’s why you ran too.

Their eyes lock onto you, boring into the depths of your soul for any hint of an answer and yet you can’t feel them… all you can feel is the protection only Rick’s arms give you, making you optimistic about a future in Jackson with Joel in it at a distance as long as you have your safe person to retreat to; Rick.

“Y-yeah—” Rick tenses up at your decision, “he can.”

“You sure?” Rick butts in, hushed and Maria stays silent, allowing you the additional chance to send Joel away for good.

You nod, your mind made up, “it makes no difference to me, him bein’ here.” Rick untenses.

Blood rises at your feet.

꥟ 𓃗 ꥟

“‘Cause you’ve started something, oh, can’t you see? That ever since we met you’ve had a hold on me—”

Your eyes rake across the room as you sing. The fairy light chandelier that magically sets the tone, the bunting hanging neatly along the bar and lastly, your audience; a sweet old couple slow dancing, that one guy whose nine to five is drinking in the corner, Jean and Hannah chaotically singing with you, Arthur trying to talk to Nathan (who is on the hunt for his next ‘X’ marks the spot no doubt), Maria happily swaying with her back to Tommy’s front while his hands caress her belly, Seth actually smiling while serving drinks, people sat at tables watching you in awe and kids excitedly jumping along to each strum of the acoustic guitar you borrow from the Tipsy Bison’s storage whenever you took to the mic… it’s nowhere near as stunning as your old one but you can’t complain, it does the job well enough.

“No matter what you do - I only want to be with you.”

You can’t bring yourself to smile or sing Rick’s way, let alone gaze at him with that twinkle in your eye like you typically did when you performed… you can’t look at him the same way, not after the revelations you’d discovered yesterday.

Rick is not the solution… being held by him does not stop your nightmares, you couldn’t love him and you can’t have him in your bed anymore.

It made every bit of difference to you, Joel living in Jackson.

It made it so obvious, how Joel had ruined you for anybody else.

Like a moth to a flame, your gaze is drawn instead to those same eyes that watched you and Sarah sing, the same ones you knew in another life… Joel has that same soft look in them that had your fingers trembling as you plucked the strings, but nobody seems to notice and you hadn’t expected him to come here tonight - just as you hadn’t that afternoon he got back home from work early to find you and Sarah duetting.

“No matter what you do - I only want to be with you.”

Amongst the loud cheers and claps, you almost expect to hear Joel’s voice saying ‘you got a real pretty voice, darlin’’ like he did the first time he heard you sing… he doesn’t. Joel is motionless, glued at the back of the Tipsy Bison and gambling his agreement with Maria to stay away from you after hearing how you reacted to his return, how you jumped out of Rick’s embrace and ran home… he’s risking the house he and Ellie had just moved into for hope; a place well clear of infected that’s safe for Ellie to grow up in, a home to settle down and build a somewhat regular life for himself.

You’d taught Joel to hope, you always did out there even when nothing went to plan and supplies were low… a feeling so trivial, dangerous and downright stupid to him after having experienced a loss as big as the death of his daughter, but he did, he felt it. He’d never admit it to you but you could see that he did by the way he kept pushing and pushing forward for Boston, for you and his little brother… it went downhill when three became six, when you, Joel and Tommy met other survivors; Charlie, Harrison and Tess… you couldn’t see it anymore, Joel’s hope, not until you got pregnant and he stepped up to provide you with everything you needed at any cost… by doing shitty thing after shitty thing he wasn’t proud of. What was left of Joel’s hope was flung out the window when you vanished from his life like Tommy and Sarah, and just when the thought of living as a family with you and the baby at the Boston QZ was the only thing that got him to sleep at night and the only reason for him to wake up in the morning… He’d realized it too late and had no one to blame but himself for losing you. He hated himself, so much that the hope inside him soccumbed to his self-loathing. Then when he met Ellie and he saw you again his hope resurrected - it kept him alive through his mission to get Ellie to the Fireflies, that and the endless dumb jokes the teenager subjected him to on their way that he’s kinda warmed to… and now he’s doing it again, hoping that you’ll let him try to make things right between you like he told you he would four months ago.

He’s aching with it, especially with how beautiful you look tonight. His heart had been lurching in his chest, threatening to burst out of his ribcage since he stepped into the busy bar and saw you in the flesh. The way you’re grinning at the crowd of faces you’d been focusing on while you sang, Joel longed to be one of them all evening until your eyes do land on his.

He notices the tiredness that dims the glimmer in them beneath the buzzing happiness of your outer shell being in it’s element… it only makes him more determined to try, he swears he’ll do anything to be the reason for the ignition of that light within you, and even if he isn’t and you swore he didn’t have a chance to be he’d understand, he doesn’t deserve it - you, yet he can’t help but yearn to see that glimmer someday anyhow…

That’s the danger of it.

The pain of relentless hoping despite the harsh truth being shoved in your face.

You know all about that.

You’re quick to step away from the microphone, hand the guitar back to Seth, slide your hands down your dress and head into the open space swarming with your audience, ignoring the wave of compliments being thrown at you and hugging Maria, Tommy, Jean and Hannah without a word.

You’re too busy ogling Joel, mindlessly heading his way.

You have no idea what you’re going to do once you get to him, whether you’ll shove your hands into his chest and push him away or ball your fists into his denim shirt and drag him towards you - maybe neither, maybe both - with each squeeze through the pit of sweaty limbs, smiling faces and a flurry of questions like ‘how did you get such a voice?’, your legs carry you faster… desperate to touch him and be sure he isn’t some figment of your imagination.

When you collide with someone’s front— “hey—” Rick’s front, and he places his hands on your hips before leaning forward to kiss your cheek, you take the opportunity to peek over his shoulder at Joel, whose sad eyes hadn’t left yours for a single second. They flicker down to his boots when Rick’s lips touch your skin, like it hurts to watch it, like he believes that you feel those toe-curling sensations you’ve never felt - not with Rick…

You don’t even register Rick’s touch when Joel leaves the Tipsy Bison with tears in his eyes.

“You want a drink to rest those pipes o’ yours?” The tip of his nose brushes your cheekbone.

You don’t feel it.

You’re making the same mistake as you did before… back in Boston.

“No I - I think ‘m gonna head home—” Rick goes to grab his jacket that’s draped over a barstool, “alone.”

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐅𝐢𝐯𝐞 ⇝

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠! 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐬 (𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐨 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞) 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆!!!!! 𝐈𝐭'𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐲 <𝟑

𝐈’𝐦 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐬𝐬, 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐢’𝐦 𝐯𝐯 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐮𝐲𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 😁 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐥.

𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 ‘𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞’ 𝐨𝐫 ‘𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫’ 𝐭𝐚𝐠-𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰!

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𝐿𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝐿𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑇𝑖𝑚𝑒

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