After the birth of your beautiful baby that Jack put inside you, your old body is gone. Sorely missed, really. But Jack? He has no interest in helping you find it again.
He has you sprawled out across the bed. You're beautifully marked by the journey of mommyhood. And Jack doesn't just love your new body. That'd be very unlike him.
"Look at you, Mommy."
...Yeah. Jack's obsessed with the mommy he made. All the changes she's undergone for him.
"If you wanna get rid of the evidence that I filled you...fine. Can't stop you. But if it matters, I didn't know how much I needed you like this."
He moves his weight over you, his eyes of every color blown in a way you can only call predatory. Maybe wanting. Unblinking want.
"Jackie..."
Jack stares down at the stretch marks, the jagged lines tracing your hips and your belly. The map of his ownership, your growth...but that would be if he were feeling poetic. Again. He hasn't read a poem since high school.
Right now, though, he's just feeling hungry as shit.
"Jack...Daddy---"
Jack doesn't answer you with words. He takes to leaning down instead.
His tongue darts out to taste you.
"Mm."
His spit tickles you in a way that makes you squirm as he begins to lick your stretch marks with a focused, rhythmic swirl. He laps and circles over your skin. It's when he closes his eyes shut.
Just need to savor Kiddo. Take in the scent of Mommy.
"Little too corny to say you're a delicacy. Not that you're delicate. You've proven you're durable. Just..."
Jack's tongue is its way when his tongue trails the length of a particularly long mark that curves around your hip. He slurps. Just to clean up what he's left behind.
"You taste so fucking sweet, Sleepy."
He could suck on you all day. You should take it as a compliment by now. How he coats your stomach in his spit, as if he could taste every bit of stretch and strain your body took to growing a baby.
You whimper, twitching beneath him.
It's the way Jack's looking at you, too, that doesn't help. You feel like the most prized, favored piece of meat.
...You feel like a beautiful mommy.
"Please, Jack…I want you inside."
Your voice breaks. Jack pauses, his chin glistening with his saliva and your sweat.
He smiles thinly. A smirk, more so.
"Not yet. Just because you're a mommy now doesn't mean you get to boss me around."
Jack gives one last, dragging lick from your navel all the way down to where your hip meets your thigh. His eyes keep themselves staring into yours.
He does whatever you want all the time. He'll do whatever you want forever.
Another one couldn’t hurt… right? - The Big Reveal
Pt. 9: you and daddy Joel but not in that way… share the news of the addition to your little family.
pt. 1 | prev pt. | series masterlist // main masterlist | next pt.
NSFW! mdni 18+ only
warnings/content:
WC 7.4k - no outbreak!au, domestic fluff/smut, established relationship, husband!joel x wife!reader, some physical descriptions, mentions of pregnancy, age gap relationship, reader is early 30s & Joel is late 40s, they have 3 kids and are expecting a 4th. // unprotected p-in-v (don’t even think about it!), breeding kink/ pregnancy kink/ impregnation kink (even if your eyes are wide open, you don’t need to squint), soft dom!joel, size kink, fingers in mouth fingers in mouth fingers in mo—, fingering, degradation kink, praise kink, marking, dirty talk, multiple orgasms. No use of y/n.
a/n: more more more I’m greedy for them please stop making me exist elsewhere
୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ ୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧
your parents’ house, Christmas Day
“You’re pregnant?”
Your sister’s voice cuts through the moment you step into the foyer. Her head is poking out from around the kitchen doorway, hair pulled up in a messy bun, hands still flour-dusted from rolling dough, and her eyes lock right onto your stomach.
You glance down at your bump, snug and unmistakably visible beneath your soft, form-fitting sweater.
Your small frame was always quick to betray the blooming life within your womb. You’d started showing at just two months pregnant, a form-fitting sweater leaves little doubt.
You blink at her past your parents, who are busy wrangling your kids into hugs… Sarah already halfway out of her coat and Artie’s stomping water off his boots, and letting himself be lifted into your dad’s arms.
“Well,” you deadpan, tossing a look back at Joel and that permanent smirk fixed on his face, “hello to you, too.”
Your sister disappears, but before you can get your coat off she’s right in front of you, wide-eyed and eyes locked on your bump.
“Oh my god, oh my god, you are. That’s a baby bump.” Her eyes find yours and you swear you see a tear in the corner of them, “You didn’t tell me!”
“I was going to,” you laugh nervously, surrendering your coat to Joel’s waiting hand. “I mean… I am telling you.”
Your mom turns at the noise, gaze dropping to your sweater the same moment she registers the conversation. Her brows lift, lips part, and then her hand covers her chest like the gesture might steady her heart.
“Is it true?” she asks, softly. “Honey, are you really…?”
Joel steps up beside you, tucking a hand around your waist, grounding the moment with that subtle, quiet strength of his. He’s still carrying Ellie, who’s buried her face in his neck with her thumb in her mouth, clinging to him despite her puffy pink jacket. Her little legs dangle against him.
“A little over 4 months along,” he says. “We wanted to wait a little while before tellin’ everyone.”
Your dad glances up from where Artie’s got him in a bear hug. “Wait… four months? You’re four months pregnant?” He stares at you, then Joel, then you again. “When were y’all gonna mention that, sometime after the baby graduates?”
“We wanted to do it in person,” you raise your hands in mock surrender.
The room stills, the chaos of coats and kids fading into a shared, stunned silence, and then your mom’s face breaks open like the sun coming out from behind clouds. She steps forward, hugging you with both arms.
“Oh, sweetheart… another baby,” she murmurs. “You’re growing another little person.”
Joel smiles softly beside you, and when your mom pulls back, she hugs him too. He stiffens for only half a second before sinking into it. Just the effects of your mom’s hugs, he stopped denying that fact.
“Four kids,” your dad mutters, still shaking his head. “You must really like bein’ exhausted.”
“Well, she’s hard to say no to.” A sharp nudge of your elbow has him looking at you with that devious smirk of his, knowing damn well he was the one you couldn’t say no to.
“Happy wife happy life, right?” your sister jokes, nudging Joel from the other side and causing a grunt from the man as he’s attacked from both sides with what he swears are the pointiest damn elbows.
So distinctly sisters, but he loves the bond the two of you share.
Your sister grins as she steps in front of you and reaches over to rub your bump. You roll your eyes, though you secretly love when your sister dotes on your babies. You were practically her baby growing up, after all.
“This little one’s already stealing the show.”
Everyone’s laughing gleefully and so emotionally now, your sister hugging Joel from the side with a playful, ‘you dog, you’.
Joel finally lowers Ellie, who’s now more awake and mumbling something as she toddles straight toward your dad, arms out like a sleepy penguin. It’s her turn to be scooped up by him and he presses a kiss to her forehead.
Joel peels off his coat last with a deep sigh and a pleased smirk on his face.
He glances at you with that look he saves just for these moments, half overwhelmed and half overflowing.
“You okay?” you ask quietly as the room moves around you in a swirl of hugs, laughter, and boots being peeled off of tiny feet.
He nods once, eyes locked on yours, the softest brown to ever be seen. Warm like creamy hot chocolate which has become a staple in your cravings lately, “Never better, darlin’.”
Sarah tugs at his hand then, pulling his attention away from you. Always feels like a much crueler interruption than it is. But what can you do when just a look from the man can have you feeling your heart beat out of your chest.
“Can I show Poppy the drawings we made?” Sarah asks, the brightest smile on her little face causing those distinctly Joel dimples to make their appearances.
Joel’s mouth twitches into a soft grin, “Sure thing, bug.”
She grabs your dad’s hand and drags him into the living room while Artie runs ahead. Your mom leads you toward the kitchen with her arm around your waist, as if you’re viable to break like precious china if handled wrong. She was always like this with your pregnancies, with your only sibling being your sister who was quite content remaining single and childfree, you and your kids were the main attraction at any family gathering.
Joel only had one brother, Tommy, who had also miraculously remained childfree despite his dalliances before he hit his mid-thirties where life turned serious.
Joel had told you all about that moment in his life that he’d realized how much he’d forgone a personal life to take care of his mom when she’d gotten sick. Then, she got better, and he was still stuck in that eldest role of taking care of his younger brother and being the pinnacle of support for the entire family.
When his work started flourishing and he had his own house to maintain, he lost himself in the work. The effort of a relationship is easily dissuaded by the endless hours of paperwork and phone calls that drained his brain of any further effort. By the time he’d get home, he’d be exhausted mentally, physically, and emotionally; he knew trying to establish anything external would only be a distraction. Plus, if he were to get into a relationship he’d want to be able to focus more of his energy on that than he was capable of at that point.
By the time you’d met him, he’d finally opened himself to the idea of dating. But he didn’t want the flings or the one-night stands. He’d taken care of himself for long enough that he had no interest in wasting time as that was his most valuable asset. Then, you. Intense, focused, brilliant, determined… young as hell, but you were… well, you. As much as he tried to deny it initially, you had woven yourself into his very being. The idea of waking up to a cup of coffee and his dose of you every day became his lifeline.
When you’d finally decided to try for a baby together, it wasn’t a decision made lightly.
You’d enjoyed almost an entire decade together childfree. You’d filled your time with traveling and enjoying each other to the fullest, but there was so much love left to give.
Joel had respected your wishes after things between the two of you had gotten to an undeniably serious point after you’d settled into the married life. The discussion of kids came up, and you’d both agreed that you wanted to focus on your career and your marriage and not prioritize the life path of having children.
Joel was respectful of your wishes, as he always has been, but you could tell he was a man meant to be a dad. He was nurturing and patient, slow to anger, protective, kind, strong and soft all at once.
He’d never once brought it up unless you did, the exciting idea of having kids. Then, you slowly started talking about it more. How you were having baby fever, or when his cousin’s kids always gravitated towards him and he was just so natural and gentle that you couldn’t help but feel your womb ache to have his babies. Or when you were just so deeply and irrevocably in love you’d beg him to give you his babies.
He always tried to differentiate the feral requests with the logical ones, the conversations brought up when talking about bills or vacations or friends who were having kids. The logistics of it all, the time allocated, the mental and physical impacts that may occur, the lifestyle changes, the entire shift of dynamics once again to accommodate the new roles of being mom and dad, best friends, and husband and wife.
Then, you were buying baby books for new parents, eyeing that empty room for the layout of a nursery, and adjusting yours and his diet for the healthiest baby-making… That's when he finally embraced the excitement he’d been harboring for years.
Of course, he’d always stated his openness to the idea. In a “if you ever want kids, darlin’…” kind of way. Well, he can’t pretend he’s entirely innocent… especially when he’d be balls deep inside of you and he hears those sweet whimpers and tells you to ‘take it… let me fill y’up, make it stick, make a momma outta you’.
It's easy for him as a man to embrace the concept of children. But he knew it would have to be your choice, all he could do was be supportive of your decision. He wanted you, all of you, to himself. He wasn’t ashamed to finally admit his desire for physical, undeniable proof of his possession of your love and your devotion. Turns out, you wanted everyone to know who you belonged to, too.
As if that was much of a surprise for the way you unashamedly would display your affections in public. Or rather lay your claim. He loved every damn minute of it.
You’d learned early on that you shared particular turn-ons regarding the idea of Joel’s seed taking root deep inside you, creating life out of primal instinct. Which were very unproductive for the logical side of things when in reality you both had agreed to prioritizing a childfree life… but it had always been a turn-on. In addition to many others you’d explored over the years, at some point you realized there may be some real-life application with which you were both genuinely excited for. Not just the primal instinct to breed, claim, and belong to each other, though that fire within you both certainly continues to burn brighter with each day.
Now, with your little family, anyone you’d ever encountered had no doubt in their minds about the passion shared between the two of you. Overflowing with love and admiration for each other and bleeding into the physical and living proof of your love in the form of three little munchkins and another on the way.
Damn, he was proud to be the daddy to these kiddos. Quite literally made with love. Growing to become little people he adores, so distinctive and brilliant in their own ways, yet so undeniably you in other ways. And yes, more often than not he can’t help but confront the parts of himself that shine through these mini-versions of he and you.
“Daddy…” Ellie’s tugging on the pant leg of his jeans, her brows furrowed just like her daddy’s, so intently focused on getting his attention.
“Yeah, baby girl? What’d’ya need?” Her eyes light up once she’s won his attention, immediately outstretching her arms.
With a deep sigh, he leans down and picks her up, a soothing hand rubbing her back as he straightens again.
His girls are spoiled, and his son certainly is too. The blossoming life growing inside of you will be just as spoiled… he looks at you at that thought, his gaze softening at the sight of your hand absently resting on the bump beneath your sweater.
He’s obsessed with that sight, but is once again rudely interrupted by Sarah and Artie nearly knocking over your mother as she was carrying dishes to the dining room table.
He groans, letting his eyes rove over you once more before gently sets Ellie back down, much to her disapproval, “alright, you two… c’mere.” Artie and Sarah’s eyes quickly look as his usual soft, gentle voice turned stern. A rarity, but they knew enough to know that they had done something to earn that tone. He points his finger to the floor in front of him, and kneels down so he’s closer to eye-level of your two oldest.
“Artie…” your son refuses to still, trying to grab onto Joel’s broad shoulders and climb onto his back. But Joel quickly catches him, lifting him and setting him down in front of where Joel was kneeling. Joel’s large hands gently grip your son’s upper arms, keeping him still which is a nearly impossible endeavor when he’s hyper.
“Y’listenin’, bud?” Joel’s stern dad voice is so unbearably sexy to you, and as much as you loved it you also liked that he didn’t have to use it that often… yet. Who knew what trouble your kids would get into as they get older and likely more rambunctious.
Artie’s mischievous eyes, the same dark, scheming eyes his daddy gets whenever he’s up to no good, dart everywhere except his father’s face.
Meanwhile, Sarah has already begun retreating behind you.
Your now seven-year-old carefully wedges herself against the back of your legs like maybe if she becomes part of your silhouette Joel won’t notice she’d very clearly been involved in whatever catastrophe had nearly taken out your mother and the dinner dishes.
“Oh no,” he drawls, pointing toward her without looking away from Artie. “Don’t you start hidin’ behind your mama like she’s gonna save ya.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting a smile as Sarah’s little hands clutch the back of your sweater tighter.
“Mommy likes me,” she mutters into your side.
Joel huffs out a laugh at that, deep and warm and exhausted all at once. “Mommy likes me too, bug. Means she’s my accomplice, not yours.”
You finally glance down at her, raising a brow, “Were you helping your brother cause problems?”
Sarah’s eyes widen with immediate betrayal. Like you, of all people, should understand loyalty.
Joel catches the look and points between the two of you, “See? Team effort. Mommy and Daddy are united against tiny menaces.”
Joel sighs through a smile before finally straightening back up to his full height. Sarah stays tucked against you, peeking around your arm with cautious little eyes now that she realizes this is shifting from teasing into an actual lesson.
The softness settles back into his face almost immediately.
He reaches down, patting Artie lightly on the shoulder. “Hey,” he says more gently, waiting until both kids are looking at him. “Y’all know Grandma could’ve gotten hurt, right?”
Sarah’s mouth pulls downward just slightly while Artie’s grip loosens on Joel’s jeans, “We didn’t mean to,” Sarah says quietly.
“I know y’didn’t.” Joel’s voice stays calm and steady, never sharp. “But that’s why we gotta be careful in houses full’a people, ‘specially when folks are carryin’ hot food or dishes, alright?”
Artie nods first, quick and earnest now that he understands that they could’ve hurt someone because of running inside. He was a kid with good intentions, and so was Sarah. You and Joel both know they’d never intentionally hurt anyone, especially Grandma, who makes the best cookies and lets them lick the bowl.
“Can y’go apologize to Grandma for almost knockin’ her over?”
Sarah immediately slips away from your side while Artie barrels after her, nearly tripping over his own feet in his rush to make it right.
Joel catches the back of his sweater again automatically before he can faceplant, “Walk,” he warns.
Artie slows to an aggressively fast walk.
You laugh quietly beside him while Joel shakes his head under his breath, though you can see the fondness written all over his face.
Then he glances over at you, “Think they just need to burn some energy,” he murmurs.
“Y’think?”
He ignores the sarcasm entirely, “I’ll take ‘em outside for a bit before dinner. Let ‘em run ‘round the yard or somethin’.” His gaze drifts toward the darkening yard outside. “Better than lettin’ your father get tackled by a four-year-old hopped up on peppermint bark.”
You hum and melt into his side, pressing your face to his chest as his hand finds your lower back, his fingers massaging right where you always need it.
Your eyes drift toward the kitchen again just in time to see Ellie ignoring the chaos entirely in favor of your sister, who’s finally escaped dish duty and flour-covered countertops long enough to breathe.
Ellie toddles directly toward her with complete certainty, as she always has with your sister.
Your sister barely has enough time to crouch before Ellie climbs straight into her lap, little arms looping around her neck like she belongs there.
You watch as Ellie curls so naturally into your sister’s lap while the rest of the house buzzes around them. She’d always been different from the older two in that regard. Ellie preferred to observe first. To linger quietly at the edges until she decided where she wanted to be.
And somehow, more often than not, she chose your sister.
Maybe because your sister never pushes for attention from her. Never forces interaction or tries to coax her out of her shell. She simply exists beside her. And Ellie responds to that with the kind of trust only little kids are capable of giving.
Sarah reappears from the kitchen with your mother behind her, and your mom’s already waving the whole thing off with affectionate exasperation.
Artie’s at her heels in apology while Sarah explains something very seriously with animated little hand gestures.
Joel watches the scene unfold and something in him visibly eases again.
You tilt your head up to look at him properly, and there it is again, that unbearable feeling that still catches you off guard even after years together.
The sight of him.
Not just handsome, though god he is. Broad shoulders filling out that dark sweater, hair slightly mussed from tiny hands, wedding ring catching warm kitchen light every time he moves.
It’s the intimacy of knowing every version of this man.
Knowing how gentle those hands are when they hold your babies. Knowing the same man that disciplines your children, kissed every inch of your body this morning like devotion itself. Knowing the quiet steadiness of him is real because you’ve seen every version of this man there is to see.
The younger Joel who kissed you like he was starving for it never disappeared. If anything, age only made him worse. Who kisses you now like it’s the nectar of life itself and the only way he can possibly get through the day.
The man who keeps fruit snacks in his coat pocket because Ellie gets cranky in grocery stores. The man who learned how to braid Sarah’s hair from YouTube videos because she once cried when he couldn’t make it look like yours. The man who lets Artie “help” him with yard work even though it usually creates three times more work in the end.
Now, the amazing father who is currently calculating exactly how long he can let the kids sprint around outside before someone inevitably cries about wet socks.
Joel notices you staring almost instantly and his eyes lower to yours, softening at the edges, “What?”
“Nothin’.”
That earns you a skeptical little huff.
Your fingers curl into the front of his sweater instead, smoothing over the fabric there while your body instinctively drifts closer.
You swear sometimes loving him feels less like an emotion and more like gravity.
Your Joel.
The man who somehow still looks at you like he’s a little stunned you chose him.
Even now, standing in your parents’ foyer surrounded by children and Christmas dishes and overlapping conversations, you can feel it lingering beneath the surface in the way his eyes drift over you.
“What’s on your mind, darlin’?”
You smile against his chest, “You always know when I’m in my head, huh.”
“Married to ya long enough.” His nose brushes briefly against your temple, “Got tells.”
You raise an eyebrow and look up at him again, “Oh, I’ve got tells?”
He nods lazily, his eyes slowly absorbing everything your expression has to reveal, “Mhmm.”
“What are they?”
His eyes flick down to your mouth before lifting again, warm amusement settling there, “Get real quiet. Start lookin’ at me like you’re about five seconds away from either kissin’ me or cryin’.”
His hand slides firmly around your waist and pulls you against him until there’s barely space left between your bodies. Warmth radiates off him in waves, familiar and grounding and dangerously distracting all at once.
Then he kisses you, his mouth moves against yours with the ease of long practice. His thumb strokes slow against the curve of your waist beneath your sweater while your fingers drift upward into the slightly mussed hair at the nape of his neck.
God, you love kissing your husband.
Love the way he always sighs into it immediately.
Love the way his hand tightens subtly at your hips every single time, grounding himself to you.
The room dissipates from around you. Everything else fades away until…
“Again?”
Joel pulls back first, though only barely, forehead still resting against yours as he closes his eyes with exhausted resignation.
Sarah stands in the middle of the foyer holding a candy cane like she’s personally witnessed a war crime.
Artie appears beside her two seconds later, immediately far less interested.
Sarah keeps squinting suspiciously at the two of you, “You kiss a lot.”
Joel snaps his fingers playfully and points toward her without missing a beat, “Well, I like mommy a lot. That’s generally how bein’ married works, bug.”
Artie nods thoughtfully at this revelation while Ellie, still planted in your sister’s lap, watches the entire exchange.
Your mother waves a hand from the dining room, “Joel, if you still plan on taking those children outside before dinner, now would be an excellent time.”
“Yes ma’am, I’m goin’.”
The kids erupt instantly.
You bite back another smile as Joel starts gathering tiny jackets, hats, gloves, and boots with the efficiency of a man who’s done this exact routine a thousand times before. He crouches to zip Sarah’s coat while simultaneously stopping Artie from pelting Ellie with a mitten.
Then he looks up at you with that stupid, devastating tenderness that never fails to wreck you.
Joel sighs heavily through a smile before opening the back door, immediately getting blasted with cold air and shrieking children.
Within seconds the backyard is chaos.
Sarah starts organizing some elaborate puddle game that only she understands while Artie sprints through the yard like a feral woodland creature. Joel trails after them with Ellie right behind him, her hat slipping crooked over one eye while she watches her siblings with fascination.
You stand near the kitchen window with your mother and sister, pretending to help arrange dinner while mostly just watching your husband through the glass.
The porch light catches on the broad shape of him moving through the yard, bending to help Artie gather sticks that look the most sword shaped while Sarah tugs insistently at his sleeve trying to explain rules to whatever game she’s invented.
And even from across the yard you can see the grin that spreads across his face when he catches you staring again.
—
Dinner passes in the warm, chaotic blur family holidays always seem to become.
By the time the gifts are all exchanged and opened, and the kids are finally bundled into pajamas and makeshift sleeping arrangements, both you and Joel are running on exhaustion, affection, and several hours of quietly pretending you weren’t thinking about each other in entirely inappropriate ways all evening. Joel stands in the hallway doorway watching you adjust Sarah’s blanket later that night, your sweater riding up slightly over the curve of your stomach as you bend.
The look on his face when you straighten again is enough to make warmth coil low in your belly instantly.
His wedding ring glints softly as he hooks a finger through the belt loop of your jeans and pulls you into him.
There’s a pattern to the two of you now. One built over years of marriage and children and knowing each other too well. Lingering touches throughout the day. Stolen glances across crowded rooms. The gradual build of tension until eventually one of you finally caves.
Usually him, though not always.
You glance down the hallway toward the room where the kids are sleeping before looking back up at him.
Joel follows your gaze and immediately groans under his breath.
“Darlin’,” he mutters, forehead dropping briefly against yours. “We are absolutely not sneakin’ around your parents’ house like teenagers,” Joel mutters against your mouth. Even as he says it, his hands are already sliding beneath your sweater, warm palms spreading over your waist like he physically cannot help himself.
“Mm,” you hum against his mouth. “Married teenagers with a mortgage and four children.”
That rough laugh leaves him before he kisses you again, helpless against it despite himself.
Maybe it was the nostalgia of being back in your childhood home. Maybe it was watching Joel all night, warm and broad and endlessly patient with your children. Maybe it was pregnancy hormones or the rare opportunity to exist without tiny hands climbing all over both of you for five consecutive minutes.
Whatever it was, the second the bedroom door shut behind you, restraint stopped feeling particularly important.
The guest room, which was once your childhood bedroom, is dark except for the colored glow of Christmas lights filtering faintly through the curtains from outside. Soft reds and greens drift across the walls in muted washes, catching along Joel’s shoulders as he locks the door as quietly as possible before turning back toward you.
And then he just… looks at you.
His gaze drifts slowly down your body, lingering at the swell of your stomach beneath your sweater before climbing back upward again. Something about pregnancy completely rewires this man. Not that Joel had ever really tried to keep his hands off of you, but carrying his babies seemed to reduce whatever self-control he once possessed into ash.
He’s stepping toward you again and you bite your lip in anticipation, the heat already climbing your neck.
His mouth brushes yours, “Thought your mother was gonna catch you eye-fuckin’ me across the dinner table.”
A startled laugh escapes you before he kisses you again, swallowing the sound immediately.
The kiss deepens almost without warning.
Years together had made the two of you dangerously attuned to each other. Every inhale. Every shift of breath. Every tiny sound. Joel kisses you like a man who already knows exactly what makes you melt and still enjoys discovering it all over again anyway.
His hands slide beneath your sweater fully now, rough palms smoothing up the curve of your spine before settling at your ribs. You shiver when his thumbs brush the underside of your breasts.
“Joel,” you whisper.
The sound of his name alone seems to do something to him.
His forehead drops briefly against yours again, eyes closing as he exhales slowly through his nose like he’s actively trying to collect himself, “This is a terrible idea.”
Your fingers slide into his hair, “Y’wanna stop?”
Joel lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh against your mouth.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, palms smoothing slowly down your sides, “if I ever stop touchin’ ya, it’s because I’m six feet under.”
Joel backs you toward the bed slowly, one hand spread protectively over the curve of your stomach. The backs of your legs hit the mattress and he follows you down with a quiet groan the second you pull him with you.
His beard scrapes lightly along your jaw before his mouth finds the sensitive spot beneath your ear.
“Y’have any idea,” he murmurs quietly against your skin, “what watchin’ you tonight did t’me?”
Your hands smooth beneath his sweater, palms dragging over warm skin and the firm planes of his back. “Probably the same thing watchin’ you with the kids does to me.”
That earns you a rough exhale against your throat.
“Yeah?” His mouth curves faintly there. “Me wranglin’ sugar-crazed children got you worked up?”
“So stern yet so gentle with your minis…” You glance up at him innocently, “yeah, very much so.”
His mouth drags down your throat and he immediately catches the tiny sound that escapes you, one large hand sliding up to cover your mouth before instinct can betray either of you.
Those dark chocolate eyes lift back to yours instantly, equal parts amusement and warning.
“Mind yourself, darlin’, got sleepin’ kids and a house full’a people who already know too much about what we get up to when we’re alone.”
Your fingers smooth through the hair at the nape of his neck, softening at the rough edge in his voice. It’s almost unfair how quickly this man unravels for you after all these years. One kiss and suddenly the steady, capable father downstairs wrangling over-tired children disappears, replaced by the version of Joel who still looks at you like he’s starving for every inch of affection you offer him.
His other rough palm skims over your ribs, your waist, the gentle swell of your stomach again, “Y’gonna be quiet f’me, baby?”
You nod your head pathetically, and he can feel your grin against his hand.
“Y’promise?”
You nod your head again, taking staggered breaths through your nose as he looks down at you with such fire that you swear you melt beneath him.
“Alright… but I won’t hesitate in gaggin’ ya if I have to, y’understand?” He takes his hand slowly off of your mouth, assessing your understanding and obedience, “use your words, hun. Be a good girl.”
“Yes sir, I… I’ll be good.”
He hums in contemplation, knowing you have good intentions, but also knowing how hard you try to be quiet and how rare it is for you to succeed in that endeavor. His hands finally grab the hem of your shirt and peel it off of you, quickly disposing of your bra as you arch your back for him.
“Y’are a good girl f’me, ain’t ya…” His lips trail lower, lingering and reverent one second before turning hungry the next. Leaving dark red marks in his path.
The colored glow of the Christmas lights from the house beside your parents’ catches across his shoulders as he settles between your thighs again, broad hands smoothing up the outsides of them before spreading them gently apart.
You bite your lip hard enough to stop the sound threatening to leave you and his eyes darken instantly at the effort.
His thumb drags slowly along your bottom lip before pressing gently against it. Your mouth opens for him without hesitation, your tongue instantly working around it in a way that threatens his own unraveling.
“Y’know what y’do to me carryin’ my babies?” he murmurs, eyes dragging slowly over you. “Walkin’ around lookin’ so damn sexy all day while I’m tryin’ to behave in front’a your parents.”
His mouth presses briefly against your stomach then, softer than before, lingering there for a second longer before he looks back up at you again. His mouth presses briefly against your stomach then, softer than before, lingering there for a second longer before he looks back up at you again.
He withdraws his thumb from your mouth much to your dismay, but quickly unbuttons your jeans and hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of your pants and panties and pulls them down with less self-control than he’d been showcasing thus far.
You lift your hips as he slides them off, his hands lightly trace back up your legs, his eyes following aptly.
“Fuckin’ gorgeous, and look at that…” his obsession with your baby bump is no surprise, and might also be one of the reasons you’d agreed to having one last baby in the first place.
“You get prettier every damn day, don’t’cha?” His eyes flick back up to yours with that devilish grin of his before he’s gripping your thighs apart and settling himself between them.
He crosses his arms and peels his sweater and undershirt off in a grand show of revealing his deliciously tanned skin to your hungry hands and eyes.
It doesn’t take long for your hands to unbutton and unzip his pants and start to shuck them down his thick thighs. He steps off of the bed to peel the final layers all the way off.
His cock springs free, leaking profusely at the tip as if he’d been neglected all day. And maybe he had been, unintentionally, due to the demands of wrangling three trouble-makers on Christmas. And so had you, you realize, as your legs spread wider as settles between them again. Then, his attempt to inch down the bed is thwarted by your heels anchoring behind his thighs.
You’re not one to deny his hungry mouth from getting its fill of you, but the entire evening all you’d been able to think about is how you’re carrying his baby and how you need him to melt into you. For his broad body to cage you in like a damn animal and fuck the ache out of you.
“Need you, Joel… need to feel you,” your arms wrap around him as he presses his exposed skin against yours.
“Awfully bold of ya to assume you’re ready to take me, darlin’,” he drags two of his thick fingers down the expanse of your stomach, watching the shivers erupting on your skin with a quiet reverence.
“Gonna need t’use my fingers first, baby… need to feel y’cum before I lose my damn mind inside this tight pussy,” His fingers cup your mound now, his middle finger pressing against your entrance and quickly sinking inside without much resistance at all because of how long you’d been worked up, “fuck…” Joel groans at how wet you are already, then slowly adds another finger before starting to thrust in and out.
The squelch of his fingers is obscene, betraying how needy you are for him, as if there’s ever really any doubt.
“Needy cunt, I know… I know,” he soothes, his thrusts quicken with the addition of his thumb nudging against your swollen clit.
A whimper immediately escapes you, followed quickly by a moan of relief as he finds that spot inside of you, curling his fingers into the spongy ridge that has you seeing stars.
Joel can tell that you are already oblivious to the sounds you’re making. Before you can even register what’s happening, Joel’s thick fingers are stuffed into your open mouth, stifling the sounds pouring out of you, “since y’can’t shut y’self up…” he doesn’t need to finish that thought, the purpose is clear.
You hum around his fingers in surprise, but your eyes tell him everything he needs to know… well, the clenching of your tight walls around his thick digits buried deep in your pussy tends to also be a tell-tale sign that you are getting closer to cresting over that wave of pleasure.
Your hands anchor themselves to some part of him. Your nails biting into the tanned skin of his biceps and forearms, desperately trying to ground yourself against the onslaught of stimulation.
You're enraptured by the sight of him expertly working your body. He’s added a third finger into the gummy walls of your pussy, scissoring you open for his cock, and his thumb continues its circles on your clit.
You’re a blubbery mess around his fingers as you suckle them and incoherently plead for him, he doesn’t need to hear your words to know what you’re saying, “cum f’me, baby, then I can fuck the ache away. Be my good girl…”
Not like you had much choice in the matter as your body keens, your back arching into his touch as he brings you over that edge. Your vision goes blurry, the pleasure is blinding, and all you can feel is him. All you can hear are his stifled groans of approval and his words of encouragement through clenched teeth as he works you through your intense orgasm, “fuck yeah…such a good fuckin’ girl f’me… that’s it…”
You can feel the throb of his cock against your thigh, the tip leaking profusely and swollen red with need.
You still can’t talk coherently through his fingers still stuffed in your mouth, but he can feel your tongue moving along his fingers and his eyes finally meet yours again after he brings you down from your much needed release and withdraws his fingers from your pussy.
He keeps his fingers in your mouth, his eyes dark and hungry as he brings the fingers that had just been buried inside of you to his lips, sucking and licking them clean with a low hum of approval and murmuring praises as he indulges his favorite taste in the damn world, “best pussy in the damn world, all fuckin’ mine.”
He keeps his fingers in your mouth as he grips his cock in his other hand, his head tilting back briefly in relief as he strokes it once before nudging your legs wider with his.
Your eyes say enough for him to understand what you want, and your body says what your eyes can’t. Your legs spread wider, inviting... begging. Your hands pulling him closer, the heels of your feet digging into the back of his legs and practically forcing his cock closer to where you need him.
“Alright, alright… I hear ya, needy thing, let me make y’feel better, yeah?”
You nod frantically, only now noticing the tears welling up in your eyes in sheer need to be filled by him.
Joel tuts mockingly at your desperation which only causes the tears to spill down your cheeks, “Y’need my cock to claim this sweet pussy like it ain’t what fucked ya deep and raw til it knocked y’up… again?”
His thumb traces your chin and cheek as your tongue works around his fingers as if they were his cock shoved deep into your throat. You do your best to swallow around them, the saliva starting to spill out and down your chin and he just watches, completely enraptured by the sight.
Much to your dismay…. surprise…. delight? you’re not really sure, he pulls his fingers out of your mouth. He then grips your face, with your mouth still agape, between his thumb and his soaked fingers, ensuring your full attention on him.
The next thing you know, his mouth is on yours, and the thick head of his cock is pushing into you.
You swallow each other’s moans, inhaling and absorbing every non-verbal confession of how badly you both needed this.
His tongue licks hungrily into your mouth and you greedily accept it, your hands finding purchase in his greying curls once more as he gives in to his own need.
The stretch is accompanied by a subtle burn as he works the girth of his cock into you. One of his hands grips the underside of your thigh, holding you open for him, while the other braces himself.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth once he bottoms out. “Needed y’too, woulda kept teasin’ ya, but who the fuck am I kiddin’.”
He widens the stance of his thick thighs between yours, causing your legs to spread even more as he loses all abandon and begins fucking you into the mattress.
“Thank you, thank you… thank y…” you blabber against his lips, and you feel him grin against yours in response.
His pace picks up and his heavy balls slap against you with every thrust as he murmurs filth right into your soul, “take it, baby… this cock was made to fill this tight pussy, to fuck ya so hard and deep that y’can’t form a word in that pretty little head a’yours.” He keeps going, nestling his face into the crook of your neck and replacing his hand over your mouth to prevent your whimpers and moans from filling the entire house.
His lips are right up to your ear now, and you know he has no intention of stopping this spew of filth as he fucks you without reprieve, “this tiny body was made f’my thick cock to fuck my seed right into your womb… ‘n make it stick… over and over…” the sound of your bodies slapping together should’ve been more of a concern than whatever other sounds you could possibly be making, but Joel couldn’t care less at the moment.
The sound of Christmas movies carried throughout the house, so at this point it was more about making you compliant to the impact of his words, which he knows will have you milking his cock in no time, “fuckin’ ya in your childhood bed with our kids sleepin’ down the hall… what would your younger self say, huh? Before she knew what a greedy, desperate girl she’d become because a real man showed her how to fuck.”
You think about your eighteen year old self, finally eighteen, having indulged in endless fantasies of someday meeting an older man to show her exactly what Joel has shown you, but those fantasies could never compare to your reality now.
Joel’s words certainly have the desired effect, you can feel that coil tightening once more. That perfect mushroom head of his cock digging perfectly into that spot so so deep inside of you. His teeth and tongue are laying claim to the hollow of your throat. His grip tightens around your thigh, and you know it’ll bruise.
You fucking love when his hands leave a mark in the shape of his fingers. “Please…” you mouth the word against the hand still covering your mouth. Your nails rake down the muscles of his back, each thrust has you crying against his palm. You feel every detail of his impossibly hard cock as it repeatedly stretches you open around it and fucks deeper than you think is even possible, every time.
You can imagine every throb of every vein you’ve memorized with your tongue, your hands, your pulsating walls… his chest heaves against yours, the coarse, yet soft hair spattered across his broad chest rubs deliciously against your nipples and causes more whimpers to spill between his fingers. His skin melts against yours, the sweat of passionate bodies mixing together in a concoction of devotion and primal need.
He lifts himself up so he can see the way his cock splits you open and the foamy ring of your arousal forming at the base of his cock.
His brows furrow in concentration as he feels how fucking close you are again, “there it is, baby… give it t’me, my good fuckin’ girl,” he finally moves his hand from over your mouth in favor of strengthening your impending release. His hand moves between your thighs and his thumb finds that oversensitive bundle of nerves that instantly has you biting down on your own hand to stifle the noises from flooding out.
“That’s it,” his hips stutter as you begin to pulsate around him, he pushes his hips forward, tilting yours up slightly and then everything implodes, “fuck… fuck yes, milkin’ the fuck outta me, baby…”
Now, both of his hands grip the back of your thighs and folds you in half, his entire body pressing you into the mattress as he pounds mercilessly into you.
You’re free-falling off of the edge and Joel’s right there with you. Lips colliding in kisses meant to devour, hands grasping to pull him closer, but there’s no space between you left to fill, yet you ache to absorb.
A few more thrusts and he can’t hold back any longer. With a deep, guttural groan that vibrates so deep you can feel it in your own bones, he’s spilling his seed deep inside of you, “take it,” his forehead drops to your shoulder, his breath hot on your skin in soft grunts, emptying himself with thick spurts of cum painting your walls, “take it all.” His mouth claims every inch of skin he can reach, leaving little red marks and sloppy kisses in its wake. He slowly and messily trails back to your mouth, which he promptly pries open with his.
Your legs shake in the aftershock, your hands alternating between smoothing down the muscles of his back and tangling in his sweat-slicked hair.
You feel every pulse of his cock throbbing deep inside of you. With a few final and deep thrusts, he fucks his cum even deeper, and you can feel the mix of yours and his juices spilling out around his softening cock.
Right as you start to contemplate the consequences of making a mess on the guest room’s sheets, Joel understands exactly where your mind wanders to, “your parents ain’t dumb, they know we fuck like animals.”
Which does little to soothe your nerves. To know that your parents know how sexually active you are… as if a gaggle of kids and another on the way wasn’t proof enough… it went against your upbringing to really talk about that stuff with them. You and your sister are fairly certain they believe that she’s still a virgin, when you’d grown into your womanhood hearing about all of her sexual escapades. Her experience indirectly solidified your own preference for older men.
“Don’t worry, darlin’,” he presses gentle kisses to your forehead, your temple, your cheekbone…. the corner of your mouth, “I’ll rinse the sheets off in the mornin’ and leave ‘em to dry so there’s some benefit of the doubt… That work?”
You nod your head, but roll your eyes at the brown-eyed man staring so intently down at you, “thank you.”
He winks cheekily and you pull him into another sultry and sloppy make out.
“Anytime,” he replies.
You kiss his smug grin with a pleased hum.
A wandering hand finds your sore breasts with a soft sigh of relief against your lips, and he finally pulls out of you with a quiet groan, collapsing beside you. Joel presses gentle kisses to your shoulder and neck before settling into the soft mattress, allowing the exhaustion from the day to finally overtake you both.
୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ ୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧
a/n: and yes, we are going to ignore the fact that this initially was going to be more of a Christmas chapter. fighting for my life a little bit (just being dramatic). my drive to do quite literally anything is minuscule to non-existent, but there is no better feeling than a blissful realization where I’m like oh let me do something I want to do and I actually do it. Throughout the past few months I have made like 20 drafts of general ideas for this fic and filled in plot holes/ did research for accuracy. that process is exhilarating for me as I scour pinterest, but that’s as far as I’d gotten til now. writing smut just wasn’t happening for me lol. soooo, here’s whatever this became! hope you enjoyed!
Taglist as requested (please let me know if you want to be added/removed!): @white-wolf-buckaroo @streamermattsgf @somedayheaven @simpingforjoel
You jokingly call Jack your "dirty boy" when you wipe the food he can't help but wolf down, and that may be due to the fact that it's a meal you made just for him.
"...What the hell did you just call me?"
To your surprise, though, he begins palming his cock while berating you for calling him the name in the first place. You know, because what Jack also can't help is punishing you for finding new ways to filthify him, even if said filthy things get him hard as a rock in ways he's never been before. It's all very paradoxical.
...Cause the degradation and reprimand he just has to lay upon you gets him off as much as your audacity does.
"Just gonna have to fuck that smug smile right off your face until you're begging me to stop calling you a slut. That's more of a fitting name."
Jack's lips graze your ear as he pushes himself into your body.
"You've got a problem with your mouth sometimes, and it doesn't even make sense. Not a boy, Sleepy. Last time I checked, you liked that."
The guy guesses it's endearing. In a way. You, kiddo, calling him your boy when he's old enough to be your dad. Is that roleplay, technically? Like when you make him pretend to be your fitness instructor or a stranger that just took to you?
"But since you're so keen on telling me how dirty I am, let's see how much of this filth you can actually take."
When Jack pulls you closer, the stone, the twitching length of his cock is trapped against your belly. He smiles.
...Well. Maybe he is just your boy. At this point, with how far he's gone with you? How far gone he is? Anything's fucking possible.
— Chapter summary: After Joel's safe return, you find a rare quiet solace in his presence and the safety of his home. It’s a blurry line, and you're not quite sure if giving in to this feeling is the right choice. But for now, you choose to stop questioning it and just let yourself feel safe.wc: 22.4k
A/N: WARNING! This chapter contains fluff and smut, LOADS OF IT. Also, while I was editing this chapter I was listening to Jeff Buckley and noticed that I mention windows and sunlight streaming through them a lot here. It instantly reminded me of his song with Elizabeth Fraser, "all flowers in time bend towards the sun." I truly feel like the lyrics apply so much to Snow and Joel. If you haven't heard it yet, I highly recommend giving it a listen! Anyway, thank you so much for reading, and for waiting 2 months for this update. I hope you enjoy this part! In case you want to support me, buy me a coffee - ko-fi
If you liked it, leave a comment or reblog 🩷 your feedback really helps me keep writing.
Joel’s house. Morning.
Your body felt warm as you started to wake. Sprawled on your back with your right arm stretched above your head and your frame angled diagonally across the mattress, you were tucked comfortably beneath the warm blankets. And pressing down on the left side of your body, the heavy weight of Joel anchored you against the bed, the faintest hint of a snore slipping out now and then.
He was lying face down, his cheek resting against your chest just beneath your collarbone. His arm draped heavily over your ribs and the rest of his body followed that same diagonal line as yours.
You shifted slightly, extending your legs and reaching both arms over your head, but you had no intention of moving further; you were far too cozy. Joel’s weight was a welcome pressure and his body heat radiated like a furnace. He was wearing nothing but his pajama pants, leaving nothing but bare skin against you, while you remained covered in his shirt.
After one last stretch, you lowered your left hand to his back, letting it rest there for a moment. You leaned into him, just a fraction, and finally allowed your fingers to climb toward the nape of his neck, disappearing into his hair. Joel didn't stir in the slightest; he was out like a light.
Without a second thought, you hugged him, letting your chin rest on the crown of his head. Even with your mind still foggy, you knew the feeling washing over you was overwhelming; he was in your arms, alive.
No. Don't think about that.
You pushed the thought aside and let your breathing sync with his, surrendering to a long while of drifting in and out of sleep as the sunlight through the window climbed higher and higher.
Sometime later.
At some point in the middle of your idyllic dream, Joel climbed out of bed. You noticed immediately because, obviously, his weight disappeared from on top of you and suddenly you felt far too exposed.
Half asleep, you heard him shuffle to the bathroom; the toilet flushing, water running from the sink, and then, a couple minutes later, he was back beside you. He slipped under the sheets and blankets and, with one rough tug, hauled you against him again. You stayed there for a while, tucked against his chest, but you could only hold out for so long.
You seriously, seriously had to pee.
You shifted a little, trying to pry yourself loose; Joel pulled you right back against him. A quiet laugh slipped out of you.
Again, you started wriggling away.
“What’re you doing? Where d’you think you’re goin’?” he mumbled. His voice was low and gravelly with sleep and his eyes still completely shut.
“Gotta use the bathroom,” you whispered through a laugh.
Without another word, he let go of your waist, and you pushed the blankets off yourself too.
Oh, it was cold. The air wasn’t nearly as warm as it had been a week ago, and the floor beneath your feet felt freezing. That, and the fact that you were barely dressed. Your legs were completely bare, every inch of your skin prickling from the temperature.
“Oh, shit,” you muttered as you shut the bathroom door behind you. Sleep was making the cold feel twice as bad.
You rushed through everything as fast as possible, washing your hands and splashing warm water on your face afterward.
Jesus, your hair was a disaster. You fixed it as best you could with your fingers while staring into Joel’s tiny mirror, and the second you were done, you hurried back out.
On your tiptoes, you rushed back to bed and practically launched yourself onto him.
“It’s so freaking cold,” you whispered as you crawled beneath the blankets again, pressing your chest against his, sprawled on top of him.
Joel wrapped both his arms and half the blanket around you. The warmth of his chest seeped into yours almost instantly.
A sudden rush of happiness climbed from your stomach to your chest and burst right beneath your collarbone; you slid your hands along the sides of his head and pressed your lips to his jaw. You scattered little kisses there, trailing them up his cheek, then just beside the corner of his mouth.
His lips pulled into a smile that you kissed too.
“Gettin’ warm?” he asked, tightening his arms around you as his hands slipped beneath your shirt. On the way there, he hooked a finger under the elastic of your underwear.
“Yeah. Thank you.”
You kissed him again, but this time it was slower and deeper. Gradually, your right hand cupped his jaw, your thumb pressing against his chin and tipping it down, coaxing his mouth open wider for you.
You slid your tongue slowly into his mouth, grazing his lower lip with a lingering stroke before deepening the kiss; the lower part of your belly tingled at the taste. The sound that left him was a low soft moan.
The shift in Joel was instantaneous. His breathing hitched and his grip tightened until there was no space left between you. One of his hands slid down from your waist and his palm squeezed your hip, then moved lower to cup your ass. And driven by pure instinct, you shifted too, parting your legs to hook them around his hips.
You pressed yourself firmly against the lower part of his stomach, seeking more friction, and the contact drew another ragged breath from his lungs. Every point where your bodies met felt like it was suddenly sparking to life. Every point, wich basically was… every part of your body.
Your tongue keep exploring the heat of his mouth, sweeping against his in a slow, languid dance. He met you with the same unhurried hunger, his tongue tangling with yours as he tasted you deeply, because there was no rush, no world outside the four walls of this room; no one waiting for you, no one needing you, no looming shadow of duty. In the quiet safety of this room, the only urgency that existed was the pull of your own skin.
The kiss remained sensual and low, a long drawn out luxury you were totally entitled to.
Then, you pulled back just enough to graze your teeth against the soft swell of his lower lip, nipping it once, softly. The small bite broke his composure.
Joel’s breath hitched, and he brought his other hand down, both palms now heavy and big and commanding as they anchored to your ass. He squeezed firmly, his fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp against his mouth. And with a possessive grunt, he hitched you higher, dragging your body down against his as he ground his hips upward. The movement was precise, so precise, pressing exactly where you needed it most.
As he pulled you flush against him, you felt it; the unmistakable, rock hard weight of his erection through the soft fabric of his pajamas, pressing big and hot right against your center. The friction was enough to turn your knees weak even as you clung to his shoulders and the mattress under him.
You began to shift against him, a slow and rhythmic glide up and down, grazing yourself against his hard cock through the thin cotton. But you didn't break the kiss; you were too desperate to drink in the sound of the ragged groans catching in his throat.
Your body felt like it was nearing a boiling point. Skin to skin and heart to heart, your pulse was thundering in your ears; frantic, heavy and delicious beat that matched the insistent aching throb between your legs.
Joel’s hands abandoned his grip on your hips then, reaching up to fist the hem of the oversized shirt. He began to bunch the fabric upward as you straightened, sitting up to give him access and raising your arms to help him pull it off. He tossed the shirt blindly to the side, leaving you bared to him, wearing nothing but your underwear.
Suddenly, the cool morning air hit your skin, sending a visible shiver through you as your nipples peaked and goosebumps blossomed across your chest. But the chill was short lived; Joel’s hands were immediately back on you, his warm palms searingly hot as they settled on your waist.
You remained seated over him, looking down as you resumed that torturous, slow movement.
From this vantage point, you felt a surge of pure unfiltered power. What a beautiful sight Joel was, a beautiful wreck beneath you; his salt and pepper hair disheveled against the pillow, his cheeks flushed a deep, rugged red, and his eyes... they were blown wide, dark and glittering like black diamonds in the night. And scattered across his cheeks, forehead, chin, and chest, the cuts and bruises remained vividly visible as a reminder of just how fragile he could be. But not right now, not under your hand.
It was a feeling nearly impossible to put into words. You had never known yourself to be capable of this kind of intensity, or this kind of hunger. With him, and only with him, you felt like a version of yourself you’d never met before. A reclamation of your own body. It wasn't just lust; it was a vivid, electric sense of being alive, a hunger for life that burned brighter than the morning sun creeping across the floor.
You kept moving your hips, and even through the layers of fabric, his cock felt massive; a hard and pulsing weight that throbbed in perfect sync with the wet heat between your legs.
You leaned in, pressing your palms against the broad expanse of his chest, being mindful to keep your fingers away from the dark bruises on his skin. He was burning up, his body like a furnace radiating a heat that seemed to melt you so easily.
As you angled your body over him, Joel let out a wrecked sound and one of his hands traveled upward, his calloused palm sliding over the curve of your ribcage until it found your breast. He traced the swell before settling his thumb over your peaking nipple, rolling it with agonizing pressure until your back arched.
A broken moan escaped you, but he didn't let it fade. His hand drifted higher, until his fingers wrapped around the column of your throat for a fleeting second, just enough to feel the vibration of your next gasp, before his thumb pressed into the center of your jaw, coaxing your mouth open.
He slid his thumb inside, past your teeth, and you took him in without hesitation. You swirled your tongue around the pad of his thumb, tasting the faint salt of his skin and the heat of his touch, all while your hips never stopped their desperate move against him.
Looking down at him through hooded eyes, you watched the way his expression fractured into desperate need as you sucked on him. And then, he slowly withdrew his thumb, replacing it with his index finger. You took it into your mouth without hesitation, swirling your tongue around it until he slid his middle finger too; you sucked on them greedily, letting the wet, slick sounds filling the space between your heavy breaths.
Just after a few moments of watching you, he pulled his glistening fingers from your lips. He didn't let the moisture go to waste; he dragged his damp fingers down the length of your throat, then over the swell of your breasts, the cool air hitting the wet trails he left behind. His hands eventually settled on your hips, digging in with a possessive strength that anchored you to him.
"You're so beautiful," he rasped. "Just perfect."
A deep blush crept up your neck as you smiled down at him, but the sweetness of the moment shifted into something more commanding as he began to nudge your hips upward, sliding you further up his body toward his chest.
"Grab the headboard," he ordered.
You obeyed instantly, eyes locked on his as you reached to grip the wood of the bedframe. Joel adjusted you, dragging your body exactly where he wanted you, before he shifted himself downward until you were positioned right above his face.
"Joel," you whispered, letting out a shy breathless nervous little laugh. "Whare are you doing?"
He didn't answer with words. Instead, he leaned in to press lingering, warm kisses to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, his hands gripping your hips and pulling you down firmly, silently demanding that you sit heavier against him. Then, he reached for the edge of your underwear, hooking his fingers into the lace and sliding them to the side until you were completely bared to him.
Joel went still for a moment, his gaze intense as he took in the sight of you, wet and swollen just for him.
"Perfect," he murmured, his breath hitching as he stared. "Look at you... look how ready you are for me."
The sound of his voice sent a jolt straight to you. You could feel the warmth of his exhales puffing against your folds, making you ache.
You lowered one hand from the headboard and brushed the curls off his forehead.
“Just for you,” you whispered softly. “Only for you.”
Joel went still for a few seconds, his eyes locked on your face. Gently, he turned his head and pressed soft kisses to the inside of your thighs. Your hand sank a little deeper into his curls, feeling the anticipation build as his mouth moved closer and closer to where you needed him most.
And then, finally, Joel leaned forward and let his tongue touch you. It was a slow, agonizingly long stroke from the bottom to the very top. He started at a crawl, tasting you with a flat tongued pressure that made your hips buck instinctively. He followed the line of your body, swirling his tongue around your clit with a gentle teasing flick before burying his face against you to drink in the taste of you. Every lap was steady and unhurried, a masterpiece of patience that had you whimpering his name into the quiet morning air within seconds.
But he didn’t break the rhythm. If anything, your soft and broken whimpers only anchored him deeper between your thighs. His tongue continued its steady kiss, flattening against you to drag another slow soaking stroke from bottom to top.
You couldn't stay still. Your hips began to roll in a slow, desperate circle against his face, chasing the pressure of his mouth and trying to sink yourself fully onto him. And the moment you moved, Joel’s warm hands slid down from your hips, cupping the meat of your ass. His fingers dug into your flesh with a possessive soft grip, pinning you down and silently forcing you to take every bit of it.
It was dirty, the slick heavy sounds of his mouth eating you, but there was an overwhelming tenderness to the way he was doing it. His mouth was so hot, so incredibly wet; he swirled his tongue right over your swollen clit with a teasing flick that made your entire body shudder against his face.
"Joel—" your voice broke, a strained sound as your fingers white knuckled around the wooden headboard behind you.
He let out a low vibration of a growl against you and his thumbs pressed hard into your bottom, lifting your hips slightly just to angle you better for his tongue. He began to lap at you faster now, his patience clearly fracturing into something a little more desperate as he drank you in.
The heat inside you was coiling tight, pulling into a heavy ache right where his mouth was working. You were so close; the friction of his flat tongue and the hot puffs of his breath against your folds were pushing you straight over the edge. Instinctively, your spine snapped taut as you leaned back, your head falling back as your neck strained. One of your hands pressed against his stomach to steady yourself, your fingers splaying as the first waves of the climax began to tighten violently around your core, leaving you completely at the mercy of his mouth.
The moment you broke, you broke completely. You clamped down in violent, desperate pulses against his mouth, a sharp, choked cry tearing from your throat as you rode the peak. Your hand buried hard into his stomach, your fingers digging in as your hips bucked helplessly into his face, forcing him to take the thick, soaking heat of your climax. Joel didn't pull away; he held you there with that bruising grip on your ass, drinking you in, his tongue catching every heavy tremor until the ripples finally began to slow.
Your chest heaved, every breath a ragged, costly struggle that rattled in your throat. Slowly, the possessive tension in his hands softened. He let out a low, satisfied exhale against your wet skin, pressing one last, lingering kiss right over your swollen center to seal his work, before sliding his lips to your inner thigh. You shifted your hips back, letting out a weak whimper as the cool air hit the slick trail he left behind.
His large hands began a slow soothing path, stroking up and down the length of your trembling legs, before sliding over your hips to rest heavily at your waist. Joel tilted his head back against the mattress, wearing a breathless smirk on his lips as he looked up at you.
"You okay, honey?" he rasped, his voice rough and incredibly deep.
You managed a breathless smile, your hand leaving his stomach to wipe at your flushed cheek.
"Give me a second," you whispered, feeling your poor little heart hammering like a trapped bird against your ribs.
Joel let out a soft chuckle and you felt the sound against your thighs.
You bit your lip, tilting your head back for a moment as you tried to catch your breath, before carefully shifting your weight. You slid your knees backward, moving off his chest and unstraddling his face.
That’s when your eyes fell on his lap.
Even through the soft fabric of his pajama pants, his cock was tenting the material so fiercely it looked ridiculous. It was massive, a thick rigid ridge pointing straight up toward his torso.
A purring sound escaped you. Crawling back up his body, you leaned over him, pressing a slow kiss to his mouth, tasting yourself on his lips. Your hand drifted down the broad expanse of his chest, tracing a path down his flat stomach until your palm cupped the hard length of him right through the cloth.
"And are you okay, Mr. Miller?" you whispered against his wet lips, your fingers tightening around the thick shaft.
Joel's thighs parted instinctively at your touch and a low hiss escaped his teeth.
"Take everything off," you commanded.
Without wasting a single second, Joel pushed himself up onto his elbows. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pajamas and dragged them down his long legs, kicking them off the edge of the bed. He wasn’t wearing any underwear. He fell back against the pillows, completely bare, his chest rising and falling as you sat back on your heels and your gaze traced every inch of him.
Hooking your fingers into the lace of your underwear, you slid them down your thighs and tossed them carelessly to the floor before immediately moving over him again, knees framing his hips.
Looking down at him, you pooled a thick layer of saliva into your palm and shifted your hips slightly back to give yourself room, and wrapped your wet hand around the heavy head of his cock. You smeared the slick moisture over the crown before sliding your palm all the way down to the base.
Oh god.
He was stone hard, his shaft scorching hot and silky smooth under your wet grip. Along the side, a thick vein throbbed violently against your palm, pulsing with his heartbeat. You began to slowly stroke him, wearing a friction that coated his entire length in your spit, while you leaned slightly forward, teasingly rubbing him right against your soaking wet folds.
Joel’s eyes snapped shut and his head slammed back into the pillow; a deep groan ripped from the center of his chest, his jaw straining as your hand and your body drove him crazy.
Seeing him completely undone brought a wicked smile to your lips. You knew he was fighting with all his might not to grab you by the hips and sink into you right then and there. So while he stayed there, eyes closed and at your mercy, you guided his cock to your opening. You tilted your hips forward, aligning him perfectly, and began to sink down.
Slowly. Agonizingly slowly.
The sensation was so full of him, so intensely sweet, it made your vision blur. He stretched you completely wide, breaking you open millimeter by millimeter as you swallowed him inches at a time. Every internal muscle you had coiled up tight, wrapping around his thick pulsing width like a glove, gripping him impossibly close as you took him all the way in.
You froze, adjusting to the sheer size of him stretching you open from the inside, plugging you so completely that there wasn’t a single millimeter of empty space left between you. Joel let out a heavy, bottomless groan that seemed to echo from the pit of his stomach, his chest expanding as he took a ragged breath. And a long relieved sigh slipped past your lips; you leaned slightly forward, fixing your gaze on his face.
That was when his eyelids fluttered open and his dark eyes locked onto yours. Your expression instantly softened and your eyes filled with sugar and honey; unfiltered devotion as you took him in. His cheeks were flushed with heat, and his gaze was beautifully weighed down by the lingering remnants of the night; his eyelids were just a little heavy and swollen from sleep. His peppered hair was ruined, exploding in messy and wild peaks, little chaotic horns pointing in every direction where your fingers had gripped and tugged at the curls only minutes before.
And then, he smiled. His hands slid up from the mattress, tenderly stroking the curves of your hips and the smooth skin of your thighs. You smoothed your palms flat against his chest, caressing the warm skin as you began to lower your torso toward him, letting your hands slide up his chest until they wrapped around his shoulders. You leaned down and pressed your lips to his.
The moment your mouths met, Joel wrapped his arms around you, locking you against him with a squeeze at your waist. And then, he began to move.
He tilted his hips up, sliding out of you with agonizing slowness; he held himself there, teasing you for a suspended heartbeat, and then buried himself back inside you with one single, deep thrust.
You let out a muffled whimper straight into his mouth.
He pulled back again, dragging his cock nearly all the way out; paused for a agonizing second, and then rammed back in another sudden, deep thrust.
Another broken cry escaped you, but this time, the torturous pace was too much to bear.
Impatient and burning for a steady rhythm, you broke the kiss and pushed yourself up. Arching your spine, you planted your palms against Joel’s chest for leverage and took control.
You began to roll your hips in a slow tilt, rising up and sinking back down, feeling every ridge of him slide out and slide back in, filling you to the brim only to empty you again, over and over. But the slow torture was suffocating; the sheer hunger and raw need for more overtook you almost instantly.
Your pace quickened, your movements growing deeper, the friction escalating rapidly until the wet hard strike of your thighs crashing against his skin sounded loud and scandalous in the quiet room. Joel’s hands immediately clamped onto your ass, his fingers digging into the meat of your hips to help anchor your new found rhythm.
You looked down and completely melted into his gaze; his pupils had blown so wide his eyes looked entirely black, glittering with intense unvarnished lust, while a dark sudden flush crept rapidly up his neck and across his face.
Behind his head, the wooden headboard began to rattle, thudding against the wall with every frantic downstroke.
Overwhelmed by the sensation of him bottoming out inside you, you let your eyelids slide shut, throwing your head back into the morning air as you rode him.
Your hands stayed locked onto his chest, your fingers digging into his warm skin as you kept setting the pace, driving yourself down onto him with unyielding hunger. You were entirely in control, riding him with a desperate rhythm that had your head spinning from the delicious heat radiating from your core. Every single stroke was pure pleasure, a throbbing sensation that started deep between your thighs and rushed like wildfire all the way up your spine, leaving your skin tingling and your senses completely overwhelmed.
Joel was losing his mind beneath you too. His large hands clamped onto your hips, his thumbs digging into the bone to steady you, but he couldn't keep still. His hips began to roll upward, bucking his groin against yours with every stroke, using his own strength to shove his massive length as deep as it could go so you wouldn't have to work as hard for that agonizing depth.
"Ah... fuck," he whispered, a broken curse slipping past his lips. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscles in his face strained, his neck completely flushed as he looked up at you through those beautiful eyes.
You looked straight down at him from your height, your chest heaving, refusing to break eye contact even as a ragged whimper tore from your throat. Joel stared back, his teeth grinding together.
"Look at you," he rasped, his voice dropping into a whisper that was dripping with an overwhelming sweetness. "Taking every single inch... such a good girl. Ride it, baby, take whatever you want from me."
The adoring words sent a shiver through you, but before you could even gasp out his name, Joel’s right hand flew up from your hip.
Crack.
The sound of his palm striking the meat of your ass was loud and sharp in the quiet room.
A loud, shocked gasp ripped from your lungs, your hips freezing for a split second as the sudden, stinging heat of the slap bloomed across your skin. It didn't hurt; it was a delicious possessive claim that sent a jolt of pure electricity straight up your back, making your interior muscles squeeze around him in a tight desperate clench.
Joel’s eyes flared, a dark, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he felt you react. He immediately brought his hand down again, landing another stinging slap on the other cheek.
"Yeah, you like that, don't you?" he growled. He squeezed your hips tight, tilting you perfectly before his hips bucked upward once more, burying himself to the absolute root. "Keep going, don't stop, just…"
"Joel, oh my God—please."
You leaned down, your face just inches from his. The stinging heat on your ass and the thick stretch inside you made you completely shameless.
"Look at what you do to me," you whimpered, right against his lips as you ground your hips down. "You're fucking me so good, Joel, I’m so full of you."
The effect was instantaneous; a deep crimson rushed up his neck, staining his cheeks as a tight, guttural sound ripped from his chest. His hands clamped onto your hips with a bruising desperate strength, and driven by his reaction, you shifted your weight, changing the angle. Instead of just the steady up and down, you began to move your hips forward and backward, sliding your slick warmth right against his root. The friction was so intense, so devastatingly good, that your eyes rolled back under your hooded lids.
Your body was boiling, sweat slicked and heavy, and you could feel him hitting every sensitive, swollen internal muscle with a terrifying precision.
"Tell me how it feels," Joel rasped, his voice breaking as he bucked his hips upward to meet your grinding slide, shoving himself deeper. "Let me hear you, baby. Tell me how good you take it."
"It's too much," you cried out, your voice fracturing into a desperate sob as you quickened the pace. "It feels so good, Joel... you feel so good."
"Yeah? You gonna come for me?"
You nodded.
He squeezed your hip, releasing your skin for a fleeting second before another sharp slap landed against your ass. A devastating desolate moan tore from your throat.
"Use your words, c'mon," he rasped, weak. "Let me hear it from that pretty mouth."
The headboard began to crash with violent erratic thuds against the wall as your movements turned frantic. Joel’s thumbs pressed hard into your bottom, helping you rock against him, his teeth bared as his own breath rattled in his chest.
"Joel, I'm gonna come," you gasped out desperately, your eyes snapping shut as a single bead of sweat rolled down the valley of your breasts.
Your fingers balled into tight fists against his chest, your nails instinctively scratching deep into his warm skin as the tension coiled into an intolerable knot. A moan tore from the absolute depths of your throat as the climax finally broke over you; your entire body shuddered, your legs trembling so violently that your rhythm shattered completely, leaving you helplessly riding the explosive waves.
As your strength gave out, you fell forward onto his chest like dead weight, your chest heaving against his. But Joel didn't let you rest. His grip on your ass never loosened; he simply took the control you could no longer maintain.
Shoving his hips up with a raw, relentless hunger, he began to move your limp trembling body to his own liking; driving you up and down his thick cock while you buried your face into the crook of his neck, letting out helpless, broken whimpers and wet sobs against his heated skin.
He was moving you however he wanted, penetrating you hard and incredibly deep, his own breathing fracturing as his groans grew louder, sounding more and more desperate with every heavy thrust that bottomed out inside your soaking warmth.
"Fuck, you're so tight," he groaned into your skin, as he felt your interior muscles pulsing around him in the aftershock. "You're squeezing me to death, baby... I'm right there."
Desperate for the taste of him, you forced your torso up just enough to find his mouth, capturing his lips in a messy kiss. Joel met you instantly, his hands sliding up your back, wrapping his heavy arms around you with crushing strength to lock you tight against his chest. He was fucking you like an animal now, his hips snapping upward in a fast, brutal way that had you gasping for air against his tongue.
You wanted it so badly—you wanted him to fill you completely to the brim, to release everything inside you and feel his thick cock pulsing against your interior walls as he came, wanting him to stay buried deep inside you long after it was over.
But the explosion caught Joel by surprise.
Just as he reached his peak, a rough almost pained groan ripped from his throat. He abruptly tore his mouth from yours, his eyes flying wide with a wild dark light, and before you could even realize what was happening, his hands flew down to your hips, his fingers dig in with an iron grip, and he lifted your body up and off him.
His thick cock snapped out of your tight cunt just as he broke.
"Fuck—!" Joel choked out.
Without the tight seal of your body, his release shot high and heavy thick white ropes splattering across the lower part of your thighs. He stayed frozen beneath you for a few seconds, his chest heaving violently, his hands still trembling where they held your hips.
Your eyes scanned his entire face; his closed eyelids, flushed cheeks, lips swollen from your kisses, and the thin sheen of sweat coating his skin.
You reached a hand to his cheek, holding him still just long enough to press a kiss against his jawline. Smiling softly as he blinked his eyes open and locked them onto yours, you spoke.
"You okay, honey?"
Joel huffed a laugh, his hand sliding up your back. His palm was sweaty, matching the curve of your spine and likely the rest of your bodies. It was a gorgeous disaster.
You rested your head in the notch of his neck.
The heat in your body lingered for about ten more minutes. While Joel got out of bed to grab something to clean you up, you lay face down in the open air, feeling the sun on your skin. It was warm and comfortable, lying there naked in the sunlight on top of his sheets, but the moment your body temperature began to drop back to normal, the chill returned.
Your body was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep, but at the same time, you felt sweaty and sticky. That was why, when Joel came back and climbed into bed with you, you resisted a little as he tried to pull you back under the covers.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Can I take a shower?"
He gave a lopsided smile, his eyelids heavy with sleep. He stretched his arms over his head and rested one hand against his forehead. "Sure. Right now?"
"I won't be long," you said, starting to get out of bed. You felt a sudden wave of shyness being completely exposed, so you yanked the top sheet off the bed and wrapped it around your body.
Joel laughed. "Hey, what're you doin'?"
Walking toward the bathroom, you looked back at him. "I'm naked!"
"Nothin' I haven't seen before, from every angle."
You pressed your palm against the door and started to push it open, but not before looking back at him one last time.
"Yeah, through the lens of lust!"
You rolled your eyes and stepped into the bathroom, feeling the cold floor beneath your bare feet. Unwrapping the sheet from your body, you carefully folded it in half and hung it on the hook behind the door. Then, you leaned half your body into the shower to turn on the water, adjusting it to the perfect temperature to take the chill out of your hands and feet.
Once you were fully inside with the hot water cascading over your head, you let your sore muscles relax. Your thighs and hips burned a little, and your abs felt pretty tender too. That was a hell of a workout you’d just had with Joel; you knew it was going to hurt a bit more in a few hours.
You washed up at your own pace, cleaning your neck, legs, thighs, back, arms, shoulders and everything. You ran your fingers through your hair and over your scalp, breathing in the scent of the shampoo you always smelled on him. You were just washing your face when the bathroom door opened.
You heard a few short steps approaching the shower, and a second later, the curtain was drawn back.
Joel’s face appeared through the steam. "Need a shower too."
You smiled. "Okay, come on in. I was just about to get out."
He slid the curtain open further and stepped carefully onto the wet floor. Moving forward, he walked right under the stream of water, trapping you against the wall. The cool metal handles pressed softly against the skin of your lower back.
Joel looked down and closed his eyes, water dripping from the wet strands of hair on his forehead straight onto your face. He shook his head, sending a spray of droplets over you.
Laughing, you lifted both hands and placed them over his brow. He smiled, and for a split second, you swore he looked completely different; a light transparent smile that brightened his entire face appeared on his lips. But a second later, your focus shifted to the bruises on his cheek, the cut on his forehead, and down toward his shoulders, his chest, his stomach. Joel had plenty of old scars there, but your eyes lingered on the fresh bruises, the scrapes along his ribs. It looked like it had to hurt.
Carefully, you reached out and grabbed the soap and the soft sponge next to it, working it between your hands until you had a good lather before you began to clean and massage his shoulders.
"You know," you started, running your palms over his collarbones, "if you wanted to shower with me, all you had to do was ask."
Joel closed his eyes. "Was fallin' asleep. But I got cold cause you stole my sheet."
"What about your comforter?"
"It's on the floor. But I was cold, and I heard the water, and I got tempted."
You moved your hands down his stomach.
"Mhm. Your skin is really soft."
Joel’s hands settled on your waist. "You think so?"
"Yeah. Which is funny," you said, gently touching just below his ribs, "because you wouldn't think so. Your hands are rough, but everywhere else is soft."
He opened his eyes. "They feel rough when I touch you?"
"Not really. They just feel… warm."
"Hmm."
Your hand settled over the bruise on his ribs. For a second, you remembered sinking your fingers into that exact spot just a few minutes ago.
"Does it hurt a lot? Did it hurt earlier?"
Joel shook his head. "Didn't feel it then. But it hurts now, that's for sure."
You crinkled your nose. "I'm sorry."
"No, ain't your fault. It's been hurtin' since before. Always hurts worse after the body relaxes."
"That's true," you said, sliding your hands back up to his shoulders. "You know what? I'm gonna go grab those oils I brought you. When you get out, I'll give you a massage."
Carefully, you nudged Joel aside a bit and squeezed past him. He turned toward you, tilting his head back and closing his eyes as he let the hot water wash down his back.
He sighed. "You're gonna turn me into a puddle."
Smiling and feeling a sudden wave of tenderness for how exhausted he looked, you stepped closer and wrapped your arms around him for just a moment, pressing a delicate fleeting kiss to his chest. His hand slid up to the nape of your neck, his thumb resting just under your jawline to tilt your face up. There, beneath the falling water, he gave you a brief kiss on the lips.
A minute later, you reluctantly stepped out of the hot shower. But it had to be done. You knew that if you stayed in there with Joel, you’d both end up leaving the bathroom at the same time, and by the time you finished getting dressed, he’d already be completely passed out on the mattress.
You found the t-shirt of his you’d slept in tossed to the side of the bed, along with your underwear, and changed while you listened to the shower still running. After drying your hair the best you could, you slipped back into the bathroom to run a comb through it. Joel was just stepping out of the shower as you headed downstairs.
The morning sun was pouring bright through the kitchen windows, and the early air carried that delicious fresh scent you loved. You took in the view through the glass for a quiet moment before grabbing the oils, then poured yourself a massive glass of water, drinking it down as if you’d spent days stranded in a desert. You poured a fresh glass for Joel and made your way back upstairs.
When you walked into the bedroom, he was already sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing his pajama pants. He’d gone ahead and changed the sheets for clean ones, and the comforter was no longer crumpled on the floor.
"Here," you said, holding the glass of water out to him.
He took it immediately, murmuring a soft "'Thank you" before draining the whole thing.
"You ready?"
He furrowed his brow. "For what?"
You smiled, climbing onto the mattress. "Lay down."
He eased himself down onto his back, and you settled in right beside him. Opening the small bottle of heartleaf arnica oil, you poured a tiny amount into the palm of your hand.
"Just a little bit of this, you'll see," you murmured, rubbing your palms together to warm it up. "You're gonna feel much better."
You gently began to work the oil into the bruised and battered parts of his chest and ribs, taking extra care around a few open scratches. You kept your touch light near those spots, massaging the skin around the scrapes to make sure you didn't press on anything that might sting. Joel let out a sharp breath just once, right as your hand passed near his breastbone. When you paused to ask if he was okay, he muttered:
"Yeah, yeah. Don't worry about it."
You smoothed your flat palm over the spot, barely applying any pressure at all.
"Okay, roll over."
He complied right away, letting out a soft groan as he turned over. You repeated the whole routine, pouring a bit more oil into your palms and working your way across his entire back, focusing heavily on his lower lumbar area. You’d noticed that was the spot he reached for most often whenever he sat down or moved a certain way; a familiar ache you felt yourself from time to time. And as you worked out the tension, you knew you were doing something right; Joel was making soft relaxed sounds he probably didn't even realize he was letting slip.
Next, you focused on his shoulder blades and shoulders, applying a bit of steady pressure with your thumbs. That was right when you caught the first faint sound of him snoring. Your movements softened into a light soothing touch, until you finally decided he was out for the count and that you were getting pretty sleepy yourself.
You tucked the bottle of oil back into its small pouch and left it on the nightstand, where the little clock caught your eye: 8:23 AM.
So many more hours left to sleep. You had absolutely nothing to do all morning but rest, and Joel’s bed looked so incredibly comfortable and warm, like a field of clouds.
You snuggled in right beside him, pulling the covers up over both of your bodies. Stretching your arms up over your head, you let out a long yawn, and a minute later, you drifted peacefully back to sleep: utterly exhausted, perfectly comfortable, and completely relaxed.
Still morning, close to noon.
It was a place you didn't recognize. Cold, with tall dark canopied trees that blotted out the meager light in the pale grayish sky. Ruins surrounded you; broken walls eaten away by a pervasive dampness that claimed everything, with green moldy vines bleeding into the old cracks.
Your heart hammered violently as your legs moved with frantic speed, trying not to trip over the clutter covering the ground. Rubble, branches, old trinkets, and fragments of machinery that looked like computers or something similar; you couldn't fully tell. You didn't really know what to do, only that you had to run and run and run, because something terrible was happening.
You could feel that sensation in your chest, that painful hollow that nothing can fill once it's already too late. Your bare arms were freezing, just like your cold neck and cheeks. Your entire body felt numb, and no matter how hard you ran and ran, you couldn't seem to make headway fast enough.
No, just the opposite. Your body could barely move, and you wanted to scream with all your might. But you couldn't stop, because you could hear it the entire time: thuds, noises, voices laughing and suffering. Louder and louder and louder, your legs straining until every muscle synthetic ached, until your body plunged forward and your palms struck the splintered ground.
You scrambled up, getting back on your feet however you could, and plunged into the dark room where the sounds and noise were coming from. A hallway to the right; you ran more, and more, and more, and more into the pitch black, letting yourself be guided solely by the small rings of light filtering through the cracks in the ceiling, until at the very end of the hall, your aching bloody hands slammed open the door and—
"No!"
A gut-wrenching scream tore from your throat like dozens of thorns piercing you from the inside out.
Men —so many men, you couldn't tell how many, only that there were man— filled the room, their faces hidden behind black cloth, and right in the middle of them lay Joel, unconscious.
No, not unconscious. Dead. His face was covered in blood, his clothes soaked through with it, and a massive wound tore through the flesh of his neck. Beneath him, a pool of blood expanded outward, swallowing up more and more of the old wooden floor, quickly reaching all the way to your feet.
You fell backward, unable to stand, and the pooling blood reached your scraped palms, his blood mixing with yours inside your trembling fists.
"No, no, no, no… Joel …" your shaky voice repeated, trying to get a better look at him, trying to reach him, but your knees kept slipping, and so did your hands and elbows. You couldn't…
You couldn't.
"Hey, hey, wake up."
A hand nudged your shoulder, rolling you over at the exact moment your eyes flew open and locked onto the ceiling.
"Hey, you're okay. You're okay."
You snapped your head toward him. Joel was sitting up, leaning his body over yours, his hand resting gently against your cheek.
You were in his room.
"Joel."
"It's okay. Breathe."
A shaky breath hitched in your throat. Your cheeks were soaked, and your chest physically ached.
He lay back down beside you and pulled you close. You buried your face into the notch of his neck, clinging to his body like a frightened helpless creature while a few lingering tears continued to track silently down your cheeks.
His arms wrapped tightly around you, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"What happened?" he murmured, rubbing his hand up and down your back.
You closed your eyes, not wanting to talk about it.
Your hand drifted up his chest. "Nothing. Just a nightmare."
He squeezed you a little tighter against him. "You said my name. Scared me, thought it was somethin' else."
You opened your eyes and tilted your head back slightly, looking into his eyes.
"I'm sorry."
"No, don't go apologizin'. It's okay."
You tucked your face back into the notch of his neck, feeling your heart still hammering away, erratic and loud against your ribs.
"What time is it?" you asked.
He shifted slightly to check the clock, then quickly settled right back into place.
"Ten to eleven."
"Mhm. We should get up."
"You hungry?"
You nodded. "Starving. You?"
"My stomach was growlin' a little bit ago."
You let out a soft laugh, noticing how the sunlight was no longer focused right on the bed, but had spread out to wash evenly over the entire room.
He gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Five more minutes. How's that sound?"
You pursed your lips. "Sounds good to me."
Joel's kitchen. Noon & afternoon.
Concerned that you’d get cold wearing nothing but a t-shirt, Joel insisted you put on a pair of pajama pants from his closet. They were huge, but they had a drawstring at the waist that let you tie them tight enough to fit. Then, he handed you a fresh warm pair of cotton socks.
Today was noticeably colder than yesterday. You could feel a crisp breeze drifting through the open kitchen window while he made breakfast (or was it lunch?) and you sipped a hot cup of coffee, sketching out a list of prep work for school. Joel was frying up bacon and scrambling eggs, having just dropped some bread into the toaster less than a minute ago. The kitchen smelled incredible.
On the notepad resting on the kitchen island, you had a brief breakdown of the material for the first few weeks, along with your reading plan and curriculum for the kids.
Classic fables. The Jackson library and the homes of a few townspeople held a solid collection of all kinds of stories, mostly the foundational ones. You figured it was the perfect starting point for the first group, who were right around five to seven years old. They had been born entirely into a different world, and you believed literature could provide a safe haven for them; a good way to spark their imaginations and give them the words to express them.
The morals could be incredibly useful, too. Lessons on survival, cooperation, cleverness, and above all, fear. As a community, Jackson felt like a safe place, but these kids had fear woven right into their DNA. Many of them had witnessed terrible things before arriving here, and many others had never set foot outside the walls. Fear was deeply rooted in both perspectives.
"And what're you gonna do about the books? Ain't exactly a lot of copies lyin' around," Joel asked, looking over at you for a moment as he pulled the toast from the toaster.
"Well, some of them don't know how to read yet. I'll read aloud to them. It's great for building listening skills," you smiled, "and really fun too. And if the stories aren't too long, we can make handwritten copies. I already talked to a couple of people who volunteered to help transcribe."
"That's great," he said, raising his eyebrows.
"Yeah. What about you? Would you like to help?"
Joel looked up at the ceiling, his mouth dropping open slightly. "Uh… I—I mean, sure. My handwriting's awful, though."
"That's not true. You have nice handwriting, it's perfectly legible."
"You think so?"
"I do. Besides, the copies need to be written in block capital letters," you said, looking down at your notepad to jot something else down. "I was also thinking it would be a cute idea if every kid brought in an object, and we came up with a story for each one. What do you think? Think that'd be fun?"
"Somethin' like, if a kid brings in a teddy bear, you make up a story for it?"
You nodded.
"Yeah," he replied. "That'd be fun. Mostly 'cause I imagine they're gonna show up with all kinds of strange objects."
You laughed. "Yeah, just imagine the possibilities."
Joel began removing the bacon from the skillet, placing it on each plate alongside the eggs, before grabbing another dish for the toast.
"And what about the older kids?" he asked, setting one plate down in front of you and the other right beside it. You murmured a soft Thank you. "Fables for them, too?"
"Oh, no. I have much bigger plans for the older kids," you said, raising your eyebrows.
Joel gave a lopsided smile and went to grab the toast, placing it in the center of the island before turning toward the fridge. "Is that so? Like what?"
A spark of excitement flared in your chest. While you were looking forward to working with the little ones, you knew the pre-teens and teenagers in Jackson were going to make for a much more interesting group when it came to discussions and deeper perspectives.
"Well, we're gonna read books too, but I was thinking it'd be a great idea to introduce the concept of diaries and chronicles. There are three copies of The Diary of Anne Frank and a few about the Lewis and Clark Expedition. They also brought in The Giver and Frindle. I think it's a good way for kids to learn a little more about what the world used to be like. Have you ever read that one? Frindle?"
Joel smiled faintly, pulling a tub of butter from the fridge and shutting the door.
"Yeah. Sarah liked Frindle."
It took you a moment to find your voice after that.
"Oh."
He sat down next to you, letting out a quiet sigh as he settled in.
"Called pens Frindle for a whole year," he added, shifting his gaze over to you. "I think it's a good idea."
You smiled. "Thank you."
"What else?" He reached out and grabbed the butter knife, digging it into the tub to scoop out a generous amount.
"Maybe they could write their own chronicles? Or diaries, just as an exercise. And they wouldn't necessarily have to read them aloud or show anyone," you said, lifting your mug to take a sip of coffee. "But it might be a nice way for them to express themselves or blow off steam, as long as it's not hurting them, of course."
"Think they'll all want to do it?"
You smiled and shook your head. "I doubt it. I don't know."
Joel hummed, bringing his mug to his lips.
You popped a piece of bacon into your mouth, and it was so delicious your eyes nearly closed. You tried the eggs right after. Then, after a moment of savoring, swallowing, and giving yourself a little more time to think, you asked:
"You think they'll like me?"
Joel had his mouth full and raised his eyebrows at the question. While you waited for him to finish chewing, you took a bite of toast.
"They're gonna love ya," he said finally.
"And how are you so sure? Teenagers can be..." Your eyes drifted up the walls and across the ceiling before landing back on him. "They can be complicated. And these kids, these kids have been through things. Maybe I show up with diaries and chronicles, and they just think, 'Who does this nobody think she is and what the hell is she doing'?"
He huffed a laugh. "Don't go lettin' them walk all over you. Let them know you're the one in charge."
"Okay, and how do I do that without being bossy in the process?"
"You gotta be bossy, but that don't mean you can't still be nice to them. You can pull it off, I've seen it," he said, raising his eyebrows. "Saw you orderin' the guys around on some of the construction sites before. Even me."
You furrowed your brow. "I am not bossy."
"Yes," he said, looking right at you, "yes, you are."
You frowned. "I'm—"
"And when you're in a bad mood?" He brought his mug to his lips and rolled his eyes.
Your eyebrows shot up in pure disbelief, your lips twitched into a tight smile.
"Excuse me?" You tilted your head. "And you're the one telling me this, Mr. Uncle Grumpy?"
Joel smiled and shook his head.
"That's literally what Benji calls you, isn't it?"
"That don't change a thing," he grumbled, furrowing his brow. "You are what you are. Might as well make use of it."
"Oh," you nodded, "okaay. I will. But don't you go complaining later."
He poked his fork into the eggs and brought them to his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours.
"Ain't complainin'," he said.
You ducked your head, hiding a smile.
Joel and you ate in comfortable silence for a while, occasionally making notes and chatting about your lesson plans.
The whole thing excited you for different reasons. The little ones had you looking forward to it because you just liked little kids in general; they were adorable and sweet, and their minds came up with a hundred interesting things. That was why you’d loved chatting with Sophie when she was that small; the conversations were always unpredictable and fun, and her imagination was endless. But of course, you’d always made a point to show her all kinds of books and stories, so she had a rich source of inspiration. You didn't know what some of the kids here would be like, or how much they’d interacted with the world, but you were eager to find out and, if possible, be useful to them.
The teenagers were a different story, since you hadn't had much contact with kids that age. But it was just as exciting, and you wouldn't hesitate to ask for help if you needed it. You had no intention of pushing past their personal boundaries and you kept a firm reminder in your mind to be careful with everything you wanted to teach them.
Overall, it was exciting.
After eating, you cleared the table and washed the dishes even though Joel insisted you shouldn't. And while you were doing that, he stepped out through the kitchen's back door, returning a few minutes later.
"Ellie's not out there," he said as he walked back in. "Don't know what she's up to these days."
The moody tone in his voice made you look up immediately. You were drying your hands with a dish towel as you turned around to face him.
"Have you asked her?"
He sighed. "She ain't exactly talkative lately."
"Well, I've seen her around with Dina," you said, resting both palms against the counter. "Just hanging out, nothing weird. They spend a lot of time together, maybe she's with her."
He nodded slowly, pursing his lips. "Keep an eye on her if you can, alright? She really likes you. Maybe... maybe she'd rather talk to you than me, about certain things, you know."
You nodded. "Of course, I will."
He ran a hand over the back of his neck and you watched him hesitate for a second before he moved toward the fridge and pulled it open. He took out a glass bottle about half filled with water and grabbed a clean glass from the drying rack.
You checked the clock on the wall, mounted right above the window next to the table. It was already a little past noon.
It was probably about time for you to head out, wasn't it? You didn't want to overstay your welcome, and you doubted Joel would ever be the type to tell you to leave. So, pushing yourself away from the counter, you walked to the other side of the room and stretched your arms behind your back.
"I think I should probably get going."
Joel turned toward you, the glass of water still at his lips. He swallowed and set it down carefully on the counter.
"Yeah? You got somewhere to be?"
You mentally scrolled through your imaginary schedule: no, you had absolutely nothing to do.
"Uh, not really."
He nodded and pursed his lips, shifting them to one side. "We could watch a movie if you want."
The offer caught you off guard, and it was briefly reflected in the few seconds it took you to answer.
"A movie?"
"Yeah," he said, stepping away from the counter and taking a few paces toward you. "Got a decent collection, if you wanna pick one out."
You smiled, lacing your fingers together behind your back. "I get to choose?"
"I'll give you some recommendations," he said, ducking his head slightly, "but yeah, you get to choose."
Joel's living room. A couple minutes later.
In Joel’s living room, tucked beneath the TV stand, were two players: one DVD and one VHS, both functioning and in perfect condition. Right below them were two small cabinet doors, and when you opened them, there was his collection.
His DVD collection was smaller than his stash of VHS tapes, but that didn't mean it was small by any means. Discs were harder to keep intact over time; most of the ones out there in the world were scratched or cracked, but Joel had stumbled upon a massive stash of DVDs in mint condition at an apartment complex near Jackson a while back. Good Will Hunting, Magnolia, Drop Dead Gorgeous, Seven, Wayne's World, Thelma & Louise, Fargo, Pretty Woman, The Green Mile… and more. There were so many options it was hard to choose. A lot of them you’d never even seen. Most of them, in fact. So, you asked him to give you a quick rundown of each one and which he thought was best for right now. He suggested The Truman Show and Pretty Woman.
"It's got romance and all that," he said, sitting on the couch as he held up the plastic case of his second suggestion, using the romance angle as his main selling point.
You inevitably remembered his harsh words about romantic comedies from many, many weeks ago.
"From the first damn second I saw you," he continued, "half-dead out there in the snow—I felt sorry for you. Everythin' I've done since then's been outta pity. That's all it was. I can't even look at you without thinkin' you're broken. And it makes me sick."
Your throat tightened, something forming behind your eyes. You blinked, hard, and swallowed down the heat rising in your chest.
"If that's what you think, then—"
"And that night? That was a mistake. A fuckin' embarrassment. I hate thinkin' about it. It won't happen again."
"Good. I hated it."
Joel looked at you, jaw clenched, eyes sharp.
"Yeah. Good for you. Cause this ain't one of those fuckin' pathetic romantic comedies you like so much. So give it up."
You took the movie from his hands and looked at the cover, running your thumb over Julia Roberts' face.
"We can watch something else if you want."
Joel’s eyes scanned your face. "No, it's fine. I think you're gonna like this one."
"You sure?" You gave a slow, lopsided smile. "Isn't it just another pathetic romantic comedy?"
His brow furrowed in a confused look, mixed with a faint smile. "What?"
A beat. You sighed.
"A while ago, after what happened at my place that first time, remember? You said this wasn't like one of those pathetic romantic comedies I like."
The expression on Joel’s face began to soften piece by piece, his furrowed brow relaxing as the memory clearly came back to him.
"Right," he said, ducking his head a little. He laced his fingers together for a moment, looking down at his hands for a second before looking back up at you. "I said that, huh?"
You nodded, pursing your lips slightly. "Yeah. You said a lot of things."
He looked at you in silence.
"Can I ask you a question?" you asked after a moment.
"I don't think romantic comedies are pathetic."
"Don't worry about it," you smiled.
"It was mean. I'm sorry. I know you and Sophie liked 'em."
Your eyes locked onto his in complete silence. He looked genuinely ashamed.
"It's okay. And I know we talked about this, but," you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, "did you really mean it? What you said that day? Be honest."
Joel leaned back a bit and looked toward the coffee table, where several DVDs were piled up.
Maybe, maybe he didn't even remember it.
"Did you feel sorry for me?" you prompted him. "You said that every time you looked at me, you just thought I was broken and—"
"No." He shook his head. "I don't feel sorry for you, and I didn't back then, either."
A tight pressure gripped your chest. He looked back up at you.
"I needed to push you away," he confessed.
A beat.
"I know that. But… why?"
His eyebrows twitched. His eyes dropped down to your lap for a brief moment before tracing back up to your face.
"Because I ain't like this. Snow, I," he shook his head, "I don't do this. Not in a long time, I… For me, this is, this is new. That night at your place, things got out of hand pretty quick. I lost control."
You sat up a little straighter, your mind parsing through everything that had happened between you over the last few months.
You knew he wanted to keep his distance; you knew he had a tendency to shut down. But you had never considered it was about physical intimacy. It hadn't even crossed your mind that that would be an issue for him. He certainly hadn't made it seem like one.
"There wasn't anyone else before?" you asked. "I mean, in these last few years."
He squeezed one hand with the other, his brow furrowing slightly.
Yeah. There had been. He didn't have to say it out loud; you could read it plain as day in his body language.
"It's okay, you don't have to tell me."
Joel bit his lower lip, a rare hint of nerves, and watched you as you shifted further back into the couch until your spine met the cushions.
He hesitated for a moment, and you instantly resented yourself for throwing out such a blunt question without thinking it through.
"Tess," he said.
You froze. Tess. You turned the name over in your mind. Speaking felt risky right now.
"She was by my side for a long time, before I came to Jackson," he continued, keeping his eyes away from yours. "But it wasn't like this."
"How do you mean?"
He looked up at you. "Don't know. It was... We kept each other company for a lot of years, did a lot of things where we used to live. They weren't necessarily good things, but they were what was needed."
"Where did you live before?"
"Boston."
"Oh, right."
He rubbed his hands together, a nervous habit. "Yeah. Anyway."
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked you something like that."
Joel gave a gentle shake of his head. "It's alright. Don't worry about it."
You dropped your gaze to your hands. "Well, if it's worth anything, this is all pretty new and strange for me, too. I've never really done this with anyone before. Not like this."
"And what're you thinkin' so far?"
You smiled little by little, lifting your eyes to meet his. "It's been pretty nice."
Joel nodded, a soft smile spreading across his lips as he reached out and took the Pretty Woman DVD case from your lap. He held it up next to his face.
"We're watchin' this one."
Unable to help yourself, you grinned and slid over toward him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your lips against his. Joel seemed caught off guard for a fraction of a second, but his arms came around you immediately, pulling you flush against his chest.
You weren't going to tell him, but that tiny glimpse into his past meant everything to you. You knew he wasn't one for big words, and you knew how hard it was for him to open up about certain things, but he had done it in his own way, and that meant so much.
"Want somethin' hot to drink?" he murmured against your lips.
You hummed. "Yeah."
"Tea or coffee?"
You thought about it for a second. "Whatever you're having."
The sun poured warm and bright into Joel’s living room, even with the curtains drawn. At least with the fabric blocking the glare, the harsh rays weren't striking you directly.
It wasn't even two in the afternoon yet. Resting on the coffee table in the center of the room were your two empty coffee mugs and a plate scattered with crumbs from the blueberry pie you’d brought over yesterday, which you’d both finished off a little while ago.
With your stomach full and the quiet peace of the early afternoon settling in, your eyelids were growing heavier by the minute, even though you’d already slept for hours last night and earlier this morning. It didn't help that Joel was right there beside you; you were tucked into his side, wedged comfortably between the back of the couch and his outstretched body, your head resting on his chest while your eyes stayed glued to the TV screen.
You could tell he’d been drifting in and out of sleep because the second you asked a question or made a comment, he’d snap awake to answer before instantly passing out again.
"She is so gorgeous," you murmured at one point, watching Vivian appear on screen in that stunning red dress with the white gloves and her hair elegantly pinned up.
Joel’s eyes flew open. He stared blankly at the screen for a split second and muttered:
"Yeah."
A second later, his breathing went heavy again. He was already fast asleep.
By the time the movie neared its final act, you had formed a definitive opinion on it: you absolutely loved it. You deeply envied anyone who had gotten to live out their adulthood during that era. You would have loved to see a movie like this in a real theater, to let Vivian inspire you in a few ways; her hairstyles, maybe, or that radiant smile. Or maybe you'd have gone out to find your very own Richard Gere. Then again, right now you had a handsome older man of your own right beneath you. That had to count for something, didn't it?
Carefully, you slipped off the couch, trying not to disturb Joel, and walked over to the TV to take out the DVD. You tucked it back into its case and left it on the coffee table, where the other stacked discs caught your eye.
Inevitably, you ended up sliding another one into the player. The Bourne Identity. A man who can't remember who he is but possesses a lot of inexplicable skills. It caught your attention simply because it sounded interesting, and you remembered having a crush on Matt Damon back when you were little and your dad used to watch movies in the living room.
You took the disc out of its case, popped it into the player, and the moment the movie started, you hurried right back to your spot next to Joel, being careful not to press too hard against his chest or any of his sore spots.
As you rested your face against his chest, your eyes locked onto his neck, just inches from your face. He had that prominent mark running around his throat, purple and slightly greenish at the edges; the clear evidence of an act of violence you didn't even want to picture. It looked like exactly what it was: someone had bound him, choked him, or tried to do something worse.
Yesterday, the mark had been much more vivid, and while it still looked bad, it had softened just a fraction.
You let out a quiet sigh, your eyes continuing to trace his face and the marks left behind while Joel remained fast asleep. His breathing was steady, his chest rising and falling in total relaxation, while a hundred different thoughts and questions raced through your mind. Above all, you wondered: what on earth had happened to him in Ridgeway?
It wasn't like you were going to ask him, and it wasn't like he was going to tell you, but just thinking about it brought a dull ache to your chest.
Instinctively, you draped your arm across his chest, holding him gently as you closed your eyes.
The movie was barely ten minutes in when you drifted off to sleep.
A nap later
At some point in the afternoon, a few knocks at the door jolted you out of your comfortable nap.
Joel woke up instantly, and the sudden movement of his body jolted you awake too. You were still draped over him with your arm resting across his stomach, but you quickly pulled back as the knocking came a second time. The TV was still on, but the movie had already finished and the main menu had been looping for God knows how long.
Joel rubbed his face with one hand, giving your arm a gentle squeeze before he began to sit up.
"What time is it?" he asked, his eyes half-lidded and covered with sleep.
"I don't know."
He sat on the edge of the couch and looked back at you. His hair was a bit messy, his eyes glossy, and a faint smirk lingered on his lips as he stood up with a quiet groan.
"Be right back."
Lying back down, you watched him walk away and stretched your arms over your head. Then, you sat up on the cushions and grabbed the remote, muting the TV and leaning back to stretch your body one more time.
From where you sat, you heard Joel walk to the door and swing it open.
Were you even supposed to be here? Should you hide? Was he going to let whoever it was inside?
You didn't know. You weren't sure how careful you both needed to be with all of this; you’d never stayed over at his place for this long before. You’d already had that slightly awkward encounter with Ellie a while back, though of course, that was different. Joel trusted her, and you trusted her, too.
"Emily." Joel’s voice sounded flat and tinged with surprise as he said her name. You froze on the couch.
"Hey. Sorry, were you sleeping?"
"Uh—"
"I came by earlier this morning but I figured you were sleeping then, too. Just came to drop this off."
Footsteps, a few of them. Emily stepped inside the house. You pressed yourself harder against the back of the couch, though it was mostly pointless; it was positioned right in front of the archway separating the living room and the hallway.
"You didn't have to do that," Joel said. "Here, I'll take it."
Quick, get up and move to the other corner.
You shifted immediately and the hardwood gave a slight creak beneath your feet.
Emily laughed. "No, it's fine—Oh."
Her laugh stopped short.
You looked up toward the hallway, feeling a sudden wave of heat rush up your spine to the back of your neck and your cheeks, feeling completely exposed for a split second. She was looking at you.
And just like that, the cozy safe bubble you’d been sharing with Joel since last night had been abruptly shattered by the eyes of an outsider. Well, not an outsider. Emily. She stood there frozen, holding a glass baking dish with a white plastic lid. Inside, you assumed, was food. Obviously.
Standing entirely still, you became painfully aware that you probably looked like a creature caught red-handed; wearing Joel's t-shirt, Joel's pants, Joel's socks...
Not that she explicitly knew they belonged to him, but she could easily piece it together seeing how everything was completely oversized on you. And either way, everyone knew what pajamas looked like, or what someone looked like when they'd just rolled out of bed.
"Snow," she said, her smile turning tight. Her eyes scanned down and up your body, flicked over to the paused TV screen, and then landed right back on you.
Beside her, Joel stood just as still and caught red-handed as you were, wearing a white t-shirt and sweatpants with no underwear underneath.
But Emily didn't know that. You did.
"Hi," you said, smiling like an idiot. You crossed your arms over your chest to cover yourself up.
She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't seem to find any useful words.
Turning back to Joel, she held out the dish. "Anyway, this is for you. And Maria said you can take tomorrow off too, if you want."
Joel’s eyes were fixed on you. He took the dish from her. "No, it's fine. I'll be there."
"Alright," Emily said, nodding as she stepped past Joel toward the front door. "Well, see you tomorrow." She glanced back at you, lifting her hand in a brief wave. "Bye, Snow."
"Bye, Emily."
She gave a faint smile and, in less than three seconds, turned and walked out the door. She left Joel standing in the middle of the hallway clutching the baking dish, and you, standing in the middle of the living room with your arms tightly crossed and an expression you weren't even sure how to label.
You looked over at Joel as a nervous, slightly baffled smile began to tug at your lips.
He raised his eyebrows. "Didn't know she was comin' by."
"Yeah, no shit," you said, shaking your head. "She saw me like this."
Joel’s eyes drifted down your body before he shrugged a single shoulder, completely dismissing your worried tone.
"She ain't gonna say nothin'."
Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and started walking toward the kitchen. Your mouth dropped open at the sight of him, and you followed right behind without a second thought.
"How do you know that?"
"Ain't none of her business."
You huffed a laugh. "And?"
"Eh, I don't think Emily's the type to go gossiping around."
Once inside the kitchen, he set the baking dish down on the counter.
You stopped right beside him. "Oh, because you know her so well."
Joel tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, as if to say of course I do.
You felt your cheeks flare up again. "And now she's bringing you food?"
Joel hummed.
You furrowed your brow. "Does she always just walk in like it's nothing? I could have been naked or something."
He snorted a laugh. "Naked, huh?"
"You know perfectly well that was a possibility."
"Yeah, well," he dipped his head, "good thing you weren't."
Without blinking, you stared him down and crossed your arms tightly over your chest.
"Yeah, lucky us," you said, pressing your lips together. "Next time, tell her it's rude to just barge into a house that isn't hers. Unless you don't mind it, of course."
"It's the first time she's ever come by here."
You raised your eyebrows in pure disbelief. "Worse then."
Joel laughed softly and leaned both palms against the counter. He shook his head gently, his eyes bright with amusement, and asked:
"You don't like her, then?"
You clenched your jaw slightly before forcing yourself to relax, letting out a sigh as your gaze drifted down toward the fridge and the magnets on it. Your eyes lingered on the photo of Joel.
Uh-uh. "No. No, I don't."
"No? Why not?"
You shrugged a shoulder and looked back at him. "I don't know. I know she isn't mean or anything, I just don't like the way she deals with people."
Joel furrowed his brow. "How's that?"
You searched your mind for the right words, but the only ones you could find were simple and honest.
"She can be a bit cold. Or dismissive," you said, raising your eyebrows. "Sometimes I've seen people go up to her to ask a question or request something, and I just don't like the way she treats them. She isn't mean," you lifted a hand, "but she's just a bit indifferent and detached."
He gave a slow nod.
"And I had that completely confirmed this past week," you continued. "Every single time I asked her if there was any news about Ridgeway, she wouldn't tell me anything, she wouldn't even look me in the eye. She just kept saying there was no news," you tilted your chin up a bit, "and then later I'd find out they'd gotten a radio call or something. Even Eliza didn't know about half of it because Emily just wouldn't tell her anything. And it's not like it was confidential information or anything like that. She needed to know, her husband was out in Ridgeway too."
Joel let out a slow breath through his nose. "Didn't know that."
"Yeah? Well, I'm not surprised. She seems plenty nice and attentive with you," you said, raising a single eyebrow. "Maybe she's just selective."
He narrowed his eyes slightly, and you bit the inside of your cheek when you caught the faint smirk on his lips.
"I just don't think it's right for someone in her position to look down on people or act like she can't be bothered," you continued. "Because I’ve been there too and I know people are constantly asking questions and looking for things they need. So, okay, it's her job," you crossed your arms again, "then she should do her job. I swear I cannot stand people who get the tiniest bit of authority and immediately turn their backs on everyone else. We're all in the same boat here in Jackson, anyway, even the ones making the calls."
Suddenly, he stopped blinking. He just stared at you, nodding slowly as he began to straighten up, leaning his hip against the counter. Mimicking your posture and never breaking eye contact, he crossed his arms over his chest.
"Well, you're right," he said. "And I believe you, 'cause you're gettin' so fired up you're actually blushin'."
You clicked your tongue. "I am not fired up."
"Really?"
"Really," you said, opening your eyes wider. "Just… just tell her to do her job. I know you can do that because you used to do it to me all the time."
He frowned. "That ain't true."
"Joel," you smiled, "come on."
"I never—"
"Yeah."
"I never told you to do your job because you did your job," he said, pointing a finger at you. "What I did tell you was to stop botherin' me with everything else."
You snorted, knowing he had a point. "That is not true. You used to get annoyed even when I was just in silence."
He pressed his lips together. "You weren't exactly in silence, properly speakin'."
"Why? Because I was breathing?"
"And those little sighs you'd make every few pages while you were reading," Joel said, gesturing with his hand. "Always made me wonder what the hell was happening in that book to make you react like that."
"Oh Jesus," you rolled your eyes. "How many more times are you going to bring up the sighs? Get over it, man. You were annoying too."
Joel furrowed his brow, but a lopsided smile broke through. "Was I? Not anymore?"
"I'm not so sure about that."
"What was it you called me once?" He narrowed his eyes, trying to recall. "The most insensitive, proud, arrogant man you've ever met?"
Mmm. Something like that. If you remembered correctly, he was actually leaving out a few choice adjectives.
You're the most insensitive, thoughtless, proud, arrogant man I've ever met. And believe me, I've met a hell of a lot of assholes. It was something along those lines, if your memory wasn't failing you.
"Yeah, well," you shrugged, "you told me I was the most unbearable, incoherent, reckless, and delusional woman too. But who's counting, right?"
A low laugh broke from his chest.
What was so funny, huh?
Uncrossing your arms, you turned back toward him and said,
"Why don't you use some of that attitude on Emily, huh?" You tapped his arm. "Maybe that way she'll actually do her job right."
Without waiting for an answer, you spun on your heel and turned your back to him, your legs moving with determination toward the hallway as you planned to head back to the living room. But before you could even take five paces, Joel caught you by the elbow. He arrested your movement, pulling you gently backward and anchoring you flush against him with one large hand wrapped just above your belly button.
He brought his chest right against your back, his mouth dipping down close to your ear.
"Well, I got a better idea. Why don't I just tell Emily we need her help somewhere else and you put that pretty little ass of yours back at the desk across from mine?"
Your mouth dropped open, completely caught off guard by the words. "Joel."
"What?"
You clicked your tongue. "I can't, and you know it."
"I know. And I get the school thing, but Erin’s got plenty of help from Fabrizio and everyone else, and you could still keep doin' your work at the greenhouse either way."
"I do patrols now, too."
He hummed. "Only two days a week."
The way he was talking (like a little red devil perched right on your left shoulder) was pretty manipulative. But you knew exactly where his insistence was coming from.
You were having a good time, and you were getting along well too. You’d be lying if you said you didn't want to spend more time with him. But that was exactly where a clear sharp line needed to be drawn. Because what kind of relationship would you even have if you saw each other almost every single day, and during the nights, too? Didn't he think about that?
Since this whole arrangement had started, you really did enjoy being with him. To be fair, you’d always enjoyed his company, even back when you got along terribly, and you’d actually told him that. You didn't know why, just that you felt comfortable around him. But now, there was a much deeper layer to it, because you were genuinely getting along.
You’d told him just last night: how long could a good streak like this really last if you saw each other every single day, and how long would it take before you or he completely got sick of each other again?
"We already talked about this last night," you said.
"I know, and I get it, alright?"
"Do you?" You turned your head a bit to get a better look at him.
He pressed his lips together, puffing out the top one the way he always did.
"It's just a suggestion. Think about it."
You bit your lower lip slightly, your eyes scanning his face as Joel leaned forward; you could feel him hanging heavy against your lower back.
Averting your eyes from his face, you leaned back, pressing harder against him until you could feel his outline perfectly defined against your backside. You felt him let out a soft huff against your ear.
"Talk to Emily," you said, placing your hand over his on your stomach before brushing it away and stepping away from him.
Joel chuckled low behind you, letting out a rough sigh.
Without looking back, you made your way to the living room.
The clock above the fireplace read half past four in the afternoon, and the light filtering through the curtain and the window was still bright, though just a fraction paler than before.
You sank into the couch and folded your hands in your lap, wondering if this was the right time to leave. You weren't entirely sure. Joel wasn't giving anything away, but then again, you couldn't really rely on his cues. Maybe he wanted you to go, or needed some time to himself and didn't know how to say it. But then again, had he ever actually held anything back?
"What're you doin'?" he asked, appearing through the archway a second later and dropping down beside you. Shifting his hips forward slightly, he took your outstretched legs and rested them across his lap.
A soft laugh escaped you.
Jesus, he truly could act like a needy man.
"Nothing."
"Watch Bourne Identity?"
"Only a few minutes. I fell asleep right away."
He nodded, looking at the screen where the menu was still looping on mute.
"Want to watch somethin' else?" he asked, looking over at you.
You stretched your legs out further across his lap, and he gave your knee a squeeze.
"Do you?"
He pursed his lips. "Sure. Choose somethin'."
You smiled faintly and straightened up a bit, resting your hands between your knees.
He clearly noticed your hesitation; his eyes locked onto your face, waiting for you to speak.
You gave a slightly uncertain smile, feeling your heart flutter with a touch of nervousness.
"You know, I was wondering just a minute ago," you swallowed, dropping your gaze down his chest, "is it really okay for me to stay here this long?"
"What's that mean?"
You looked at him in silence for a second, wondering if he genuinely wasn't understanding the question.
"Well, I mean, is it okay? Or, you know, maybe it's too much?" You frowned, frustrated with how you were phrasing your thoughts.
He lowered his gaze to his hand on your knee.
"You wanna leave?"
"No," you rushed to say, and his eyes snapped back up to your face. "It's not that. I just thought that maybe, I don't know, maybe you wanted some time to yourself? Or something."
Joel let out a soft, lopsided smile, looking at you out of the corner of his eye.
Gradually, he turned his head toward you, taking you in completely.
What could he tell you? He certainly couldn't tell you that he didn't want to be alone. Though that was a bit limiting; Joel didn't want you to stay just because he didn't want to be alone. He wanted you to stay because he wanted to be with you.
Was that wrong? Was it too much?
Every time he asked himself that (and it had been several times between yesterday and today), he answered himself in silence with the memory of the last seven days. Those five days of the journey to and within Ridgeway had nearly drained the life out of him completely. His body had been beaten and cut; his eyes had seen more violence in a span of days than during his last year in Jackson.
He really thought that was it. The first few times they pressed a gun to his temple, he was sure they would pull the trigger, and that time they wrapped a rope around his neck and pulled and pulled until he thought his bones would snap, he swore that was it.
But it wasn't, somehow. And he thought of Ellie, of the last hug she’d given him before he left the house; he thought of Tommy, of Benji perched on Maria’s lap. But he thought of you too, and how he’d only left a simple letter. Because he’d thought it wasn't necessary to wake you—what for? He figured he’d be right back. Two days at most. But the time dragged on, and so did the suffering.
Upon his return, his body began to ache. It was as if every muscle and nerve had stayed rigid and numb right up until he crossed the gates into Jackson. He didn't even know how he’d managed to make it all the way back without collapsing. But the moment he arrived, and after settling everything with the guys (even after Hale checked him over and patched him up) his body remained tense.
He didn't feel anything, just a strange ache that ran through him like a massive bruise, one so constant it had already gone unnoticed.
But when he saw you outside Hale’s place, he knew he must be broken. Because on your face, he found the pain he was feeling. You looked at him like he was a ghost; your glassy eyes pierced right through his chest, and he felt the urge to touch you. But before he could do much of anything, you left.
You left, and he didn't see you again until that afternoon, when you made him understand in a rather direct way that you wanted him to leave you alone.
And he wasn't gonna tell you, but he saw right through you. It didn't hurt that you pushed him away. Well, maybe a little; it was hard for him to admit he'd been excited to see you. But he knew your attitude under that weeping willow was a normal reaction. You were angry. And you’d probably been scared, too. So, in situations like these, he just had to give you space; that was a lesson he’d learned many, many decades ago.
The next day, when he ran into Zach at the dining hall and Zach told him you were heading over to his place, he wasn't surprised. He’d been waiting for it, though he felt a wave of relief knowing the wait had been short.
The night before, he hadn't been able to sleep much, but with you here, he’d slept so deeply his eyes were still a little puffy. You tangled yourself around him like ivy; arms, legs, fingers, every part of you intertwined with his, keeping him warm after so many cold and cruel nights.
And it might be selfish, this need to want you here. Surely you had other things you wanted to do, other people to see. Or maybe you didn't, but you had to leave anyway. Joel didn't care; selfishly, he wanted you all to himself, just for today.
So yeah, he wanted you to stay. Just a bit longer. Because he needed and wanted the tenderness of your presence. And the wasn't anything he could do against it.
"Don't need no time to myself," he assured you then. He swallowed. "Stay here tonight."
Your eyes widened just a fraction. Joel knew what he said had caught you by surprise.
"You sure?" you asked softly.
He nodded. "Yeah. And tomorrow mornin' we both go back to our own things, how's that sound?"
You smiled. "Sounds good to me. Though I don't have any clothes," you raised your eyebrows slightly. "I should go grab something to wear tomorrow."
"Alright."
You nodded. "Okay."
He nodded. "Yeah. I'm sure we'll find somethin' to keep us busy later."
That surprised a chuckle out of you.
You placed your hand over his on your knee. "You really are a dirty old man."
Joel rolled his eyes, feigning exasperation, and shook his head.
"I meant watchin' movies or cookin'. You're the one with the dirty mind."
You hummed, not buying it. "Yeah. Well, you're probably already tired anyway."
He clicked his tongue. "Don't be so sure about that. That nap was pretty revivin'."
Hours later
"See you in a bit." Stretching up on your toes, you gave Joel a quick peck on the lips.
A second later, he opened the front door and you stepped across the threshold, wearing the dress you’d arrived in, your boots, and one of his jackets. Today was much cooler than yesterday, and if you walked back to your place with nothing but what you'd brought, you were going to freeze.
Joel watched you walk away for a moment, closing the door only when you disappeared from his line of sight. Immediately, the house felt quiet again.
For a while, he distracted himself by tidying up and cleaning. He went up to his bedroom and made the bed, straightening things here and there, and left the pajamas he’d lent you neatly folded on the mattress. He dusted the dresser in front of the window, arranging the picture frames on top, and swept every corner of the room as best he could.
Downstairs, he wiped down the already clean kitchen counter. He cleaned the cabinets, then the windowpanes and the backyard door, and just as he was drying the glass, he noticed Ellie arriving at the garage.
She opened the door and slipped inside right away, and Joel didn't hesitate for a single second to seize the opportunity.
He stepped out into the yard, feeling the cool air raise the hairs on his arms, and hesitated for a second before knocking on the garage door.
From the other side, he heard a few muffled noises, and a moment later, the door swung open.
"Hey. What's up?" she said. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was a bit a mess.
"Out early today," Joel said, stepping inside. The girl moved aside to let him pass. "Where'd you go?"
"Had plans with Jesse."
"Ah, Jesse," he rested his lower back against the desk and crossed his arms, smiling. "What kind of plans?"
Ellie frowned and shook her head. "Don't start. It's not like that. What're you doin' here anyway? Don't you got company?" She raised her eyebrows.
In a split second, the smile vanished from Joel's face, and he went completely still.
Ellie tilted her head and waited a beat. "Look, I know Snow's here. I saw you guys earlier."
Joel frowned but didn't say a word.
"I was hungry," she tossed her head back, "so I went into the kitchen to grab some food and heard the TV. You were wiped out."
He stepped away from the desk. "Ellie, look—"
"Please, just don't say anything," she said, holding up both hands and shaking her head. A faint smirk tugged at her lips. "I already knew. I mean, I knew there was something, I just didn't think it was so... you know—"
"We're just friends."
"Yeah, right," she rolled her eyes. "Great friends."
Joel hesitated as he tried to speak again, suddenly feeling really nervous. He rubbed the back of his neck and let out a sigh.
"Snow and I... we're gettin' along, and—"
"Joel, chill, you're not my dad," she cut him off, waving a hand. "You don't gotta give me some speech like you're tryin' to convince me to like my new mommy or whatever—"
"Ellie."
She stopped talking, and her eyes softened, but Joel still had his brow furrowed, his thoughts tangled up in his head.
"I like Snow," she said. "And I like that you guys are... friends."
Joel pursed his lips and watched her for a brief moment; the look on her face and the softness in Ellie's eyes held no lie or forced reassurance.
He knew she liked you. He knew the two of you had formed a bond while he was away. And suddenly, he wondered if his relationship with you would affect yours with her. Lately, Ellie hadn't been very expressive with him, but he’d seen how she was around you. He hoped that wouldn't change.
"I'm fixin' to make a good dinner tonight. Snow's stayin' over too," he rested a hand on his hip. "How's about you come on over and join us?"
Ellie smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Sounds great. But… maybe another time? I'm pretty wiped, and I still gotta go see Dina."
"Yeah? What for?"
"She found a few parts we were missin' to finish some traps," she leaned back, dropping onto the couch. "We're headin' out early tomorrow to test them."
Joel nodded. "Rabbits?"
"Hopefully."
"Right. Well, I'll leave a plate out for you anyway, alright? We'll have dinner around eight, just in case you change your mind," he nodded. "I know Snow'd like to see you."
Ellie nodded. "Okay. Did you give her the portrait?"
Joel nodded. "And how're you comin' along with the herbs and all that?"
"Almost done with a few of them," she smiled. "I'm headin' to the greenhouse tomorrow to show Snow what I got."
"You could show her now, you know. She'll be back in a bit."
"Nah, I'm good. Don't wanna interrupt whatever's about to go down in there," she said, holding up a hand.
Joel clicked his tongue.
"What?" She raised her eyebrows. "I didn't know you were the type to cuddle up on the couch like that. Ugh," she shuddered, faking a chill.
Joel let out a chuckle, Ellie echoed it.
"Alright. Take care of yourself then," he lifted his chin. "And tomorrow, let's get some dinner, just you and me. How's that sound? Whatever you want."
She pursed her lips. "Can you make that meatloaf you do?"
"Course. An extra large one."
"Alright," she nodded.
Joel smiled and took a few steps toward her. Reaching out, he gave the crown of Ellie’s head a quick affectionate rub. She ducked her head, immediately clicking her tongue.
"Watch yourself out there, alright? And don't be gettin' back late," Joel said, moving toward the open door. "Don't go doin' anything reckless."
Ellie snorted. "You neither, Casanova."
Joel hid a chuckle as he turned around to head back inside the house.
Your house. Ten minutes later.
You got home around half past five in the afternoon. Stepping inside, you caught the scent of the flowers on your coffee table and the entryway stand, mixed with the soap you used for your laundry.
You didn't linger. You went straight to your bedroom, tossed your dress onto the small couch in the corner and kicked your boots to the side, wrapping your arms around your bare body.
The closet doors stood open, and your naked reflection stared back at you as you stepped closer to find something to wear.
Your cheeks were flushed from the walk, and your hair was a bit a mess. But there was a particular shine in your eyes that made you pause and just look at yourself for a moment. It was as if your skin were glowing, as if the expression on your face had suddenly softened.
On your neck, there were two small marks, faint and nearly invisible, that Joel had left either last night or this morning, you weren't entirely sure. But your fingers brushed up to touch them, and it was as if you could feel his mouth there all over again.
You smiled like a fool, your eyes drifting down your body; they passed over the scar on your jawline, the scars on your collarbone, just beneath your ribs, and further down on your right thigh, where several small but distinct marks barely revealed themselves.
You tilted your head, observing yourself and suddenly seeing a difference. As you did, a lock of hair fell across your face.
You caught it between your fingers and breathed it in, then gathered a handful more. Burying your nose in the strands, you closed your eyes.
You smelled like him. From the strands of hair between your fingers to your very skin; his soap, his shampoo—him. The same clean scent of his fresh sheets, the exact same scent that was woven into his skin. You carried it now, and the feeling brought a flutter to your stomach that made every hair on your body stand up.
Well, that, and the fact that you were naked and your house was freezing.
Jesus, stop being so corny, what's the point?
The more time you spent staring at yourself in the mirror, the longer it would take to get back to Joel. So you finally turned away, moved along, and headed into the bathroom.
You took a quick shower without getting your hair wet, since you'd washed it just that morning, and went through your usual routine. With your skin soft and clean and your body much warmer than before, you stepped out of the shower wrapped in a towel. Your feet weren't cold anymore, and neither were your fingers.
Back in the bedroom, you misted yourself with rosewater and put on a little bit of everything you owned, smelling like a dessert all over again and feeling like one, too. You ran your fingers through your hair, brushed it out a little, and reached for the small wooden box inside your nightstand. From it, you took your necklace and fastened it around your neck.
Opting for comfort and practicality, you pulled on a pair of straight-leg jeans that hugged you perfectly up top, thanks to some alterations Isa had done, along with a cropped white tee and a slightly loose black sweater. You were right on the verge of putting on sneakers, but you chose your boots again. There wasn't much use fighting against something both cozy and cute.
Okay, what did you need to bring for tonight?
You grabbed a tote bag and tossed in clean underwear, your hairbrush, and a few other small things. Carefully, you folded the jacket Joel had lent you earlier and slid it inside as well.
You didn't waste any more time. You bundled up in his other jacket (which, technically, was already yours) and went into the kitchen to grab the blueberry pie you’d left in the fridge yesterday. You’d only tried a tiny slice to make sure it tasted right. You packed it into a plastic container and carefully settled it into your bag, strategically arranging everything underneath and around it so it wouldn't shift in any way.
Giving yourself one last look in the mirror and knowing that at Joel’s place, nothing but a tiny little hand mirror awaited you, you stepped out of your house just as the sun in the sky began to turn that sea of blue into a field of orange and pink.
Joel's house. Late afternoon.
The second Joel opened the front door, a delicious aroma hit your nose.
"Mmm," you breathed in, stepping into the entryway. "What am I smelling?"
Joel took the bag from your hand and closed the door behind you. With a smile, he lifted his chin and nodded toward the kitchen.
He’d changed his clothes and wasn't in his sleepwear anymore, but in jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt.
He look so good.
"Go on and look," he said.
Smiling, you walked over as the scent grew even richer. Your eyes instantly locked onto the pot on the stove. You stepped closer while he carefully took the container with the blueberry pie out of the bag and set it on the counter.
Inside the pot, vegetables were simmering away, releasing a thick sweet steam, covered and surrounded by a dark glossy sauce.
"Is there wine in this?"
He nodded, and your mouth watered instantly.
"Started a good while ago," he came up beside you. "Seared the venison, took it out, cooked down the veggies with the wine, and threw the meat back in. It's been stewin' for a while now. You real hungry?"
Smiling, you looked at him out of the corner of your eye. "I didn't know you knew your way around a kitchen like this."
"I don't know that much," he shook his head. "Just a few things I'm fixin' to stick with forever."
You laughed. "Is this one of your specialties?"
"Yeah. This, and the meatloaf I'm makin' for Ellie tomorrow."
"Oh, did you see her? Is she here?"
"No, she left a while ago. But we talked for a bit," he nodded. "Said she was headin' to the greenhouse tomorrow to see you. Wants to show you what she’s done with the herbs."
You were genuinely excited to see what Ellie had been working on. You thought it was incredibly sweet of her to want to help you out with all of this, and you were sure you’d find a way to thank her properly. Favors are favors, and they ought to be repaid right.
"I can't wait to see what she's done."
Joel smiled. "You're gonna like it."
It was only fair that you set the table. While Joel cooked, you arranged the plates, silverware, and everything else, though you still felt like you had too much time on your hands. But you distracted yourself by picking something to listen to; Joel had a box full of cassettes and handed over the authority for you to choose the music. You picked a Fleetwood Mac compilation and spent the rest of the time keeping yourself occupied with the glass of wine he had left on the table for you.
You had rarely ever had wine. Looked like almost never before arriving in Jackson. But here, they had a decent amount of alcohol, both produced by the community and brought in from the outside. Cider was pretty common, as was whiskey, but wine was a much trickier thing to come by for some reason. Joel, being who he was and knowing the people he knew, had a few bottles tucked away in a small cabinet in his kitchen.
He wouldn't let you help with the cooking, insisting he had it under control. That left you with only one job: sitting at the kitchen island with a glass of wine, just watching him. It wasn't like he had a whole lot to do after a while anyway, since the meat pretty much cooked itself, only needing a quick check every now and then. During that stretch of time, he pulled up a stool next to you with his own glass of wine, and the two of you talked about everything and nothing, mostly just casual drift.
"Pet Sematary," he said, bringing the glass to his lips.
"Never read that one."
He raised his eyebrows. "You ain't ever read Pet Sematary?"
You shook your head. "No. I only read Carrie, and honestly it didn't really make me feel any better."
"You gotta read Pet Sematary. Reckon it’s one of the few books I actually finished cover to cover when I was a kid."
"Weren't you big on reading?"
"Preferred doin' other things," he said, tilting his head. "But I got that book for Christmas one year, and then I caught the flu and spent a week in bed. Read the whole damn thing. Let me tell you, havin' a fever dream after readin' somethin' like that wasn't nice."
You laughed. "Is it really that terrifying?"
"Well, I was eleven. Doubt it’d scare me none now."
"I remember my parents watching the movie once, but I didn't pay much attention. I wasn't really into horror. Either that, or it scared me and I just didn't want to look." You suddenly sat up straighter. "You know what book I know you’d love?"
He frowned just a fraction.
"Lonesome Dove, by Larry McMurtry," you said. "You ever read it?"
"Not that I recall."
"It's about two old Texas Rangers who decide to drive a huge herd of cattle all the way from the Mexican border up to Montana. But they run into just about everything along the trail. It’s a Western, so you can picture it. Storms, bandits, different towns. I loved it when I read it, it's incredibly entertaining and," you raised a finger, "deep. It’s not just about the adventure, you know? It’s about the fact that the whole world around them is changing. It's the end of the Old West."
He nodded. "Modernity."
"Exactly. And they’re old men from a generation that spent their entire lives chasing outlaws and living in places where the government had no control. But everything’s becoming obsolete, you know? Their whole way of life."
"Yeah," he smiled, "it happens."
"I've got it on my bookshelf if you'd like to read it," you raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah, I'd like that. I gotta give you my notes or somethin' afterward?"
You laughed. "Only if you want to."
Dinner turned out to be an absolute triumph. You sat with him at the table by the window, savoring every single bite. The venison was incredible; the meat was so tender it practically melted in your mouth, to the point where you didn't even need a knife; you could cut it with just your fork. The vegetables were delicious and just as tender, their rich flavors almost making you want to roll your eyes in pure bliss.
Joel, of course, got a little cocky about it. There was a smug smirk playing on his face that he was clearly trying to hide. Still, you secretly suspected the man hadn't even realized it was going to turn out this damn good.
Between the waiting in the kitchen and the dinner itself, the two of you finished the first bottle of wine without even noticing. Midway through the meal, Joel cracked open the second one, which turned out to be just as delicious. You were really starting to get a taste for it; the flavor paired so well with the food that you couldn't bring yourself to turn down another glass, and then another, and maybe another.
And you weren't sure if it was the alcohol or something else, but you’d gotten so hot you shed your sweater before your third glass.
By the time you finished your second helping, you knew the alcohol was starting to do its thing. You felt it first in your feet, in that pleasant buzzing warmth around your skin, and then in the floating lightweight feeling warming up your chest. But most of all, you knew it because your eyes started losing their modesty.
You caught yourself tracking the movement of his lips every time he spoke or took a sip from his glass, your gaze lingering without a shred of hurry. You got completely pulled in, watching his profile under the soft light; the sharp line of his jaw, the crinkles around his eyes when he smiled. Your eyes drifted down to his hands, tracing the veins standing out against his rolled up sleeves, and you couldn't stop a clumsy wine addled thought from taking over your mind: oh wow… his fingers are really, really thick.
But there wasn’t a thing you could do about it; the wine had already hijacked your filters, and your eyes stayed exactly where they wanted to be. You knew you were being obvious, taking way too many seconds to meet his gaze whenever he spoke, like a woman suddenly turned shy.
And Joel, of course, wasn’t any fool. He noticed.
You caught the shift almost instantly. He stopped talking so animatedly, and his rhythm eased into a lazy drawn out cadence as his voice dropped a register, turning deeper and huskier.
His posture in the chair relaxed, leaning just a little closer to your side of the table, cutting down the distance between you. His eyes, which had been fixed on yours, began making their own unhurried sweep across your face. They lingered on your wine flushed cheeks, dipped for a split second to your mouth when you bit your lip, and drifted back up. He held your gaze for a long stretch of time, sending a tingle straight down the back of your neck.
When he picked up his glass, his fingers traced the curve of the crystal. A tiny, barely there tug pulled at the corner of his mouth; he knew exactly where your attention was anchored.
Oh, Jesus... you wanted to tear him apart.
But not here.
Dinner having ended quite a while ago, you got up from your chair and gathered your plate and his. Joel was up right after you; he cleared the glasses and the rest of the table, tucking the used napkins between his fingers while balancing the wine glasses and the empty bottle in his other hand.
Weaving your way into the kitchen, you placed the dishes into the sink with extra care, trying to let the clatter of the stoneware drown out just how hard your heart was thumping, and turned on the faucet. The rush of running water filled the room for barely a second before you felt his heat right behind you.
Joel stepped up right against your back. You felt the solid pressure of his chest nearly brushing your shoulder blades a moment before his arm shot past your side, planting his palm firmly against the edge of the counter, trapping you completely against it. His other free hand reached up without a hint of rush, gripping the handle and shutting off the faucet, cutting the water dead.
"Later," he said.
You felt his breath hit your neck, and your head tilted back on instinct. Understanding the invitation, Joel pressed his entire weight against your back. The solid unyielding feel of him felt so damn good you squeezed your eyes shut and smiled shamelessly.
His hand shifted from the edge of the counter, sliding down to your lower stomach. He flattened his palm there, pressing gently into the soft heat of your belly, before his hand began a steady inching crawl upward. At the same time, his lips found your exposed throat; he kissed you right there while his hand kept drifting up, caressing your chest. And as his palm brushed over your chest, his thumb grazed your nipple through the fabric of your shirt, catching a quiet sigh in your throat.
Your eyelids felt too heavy to keep open. Joel’s mouth kept tasting your neck with short nipping kisses and soft suctions, his hand traveling higher until his long fingers and broad palm wrapped around your throat, squeezing firmly from the sides.
A muffled groan tried to break free, but his grip trapped the sound against your skin, making the vibration rattle right in your vocal cords.
With a tug, Joel pulled your head back, forcing your spine to arch as he locked his hips tight against yours.
His other hand traced down your side, mapping the curve of your waist and hip, squeezing your flesh with a hunger that was driving you out of your mind. The wine and the friction of your bodies sparked a desperate ache between your thighs, and you didn't know how much longer you could go without tearing his pants off.
Sensing your restlessness, Joel nudged one of his legs between yours. With a firm shift of his thigh, he forced your legs apart and hitched his knee right into your center. You let your weight drop, desperate for the pressure, grinding down against him, but the thick denim of your jeans blocked the full sensation and the partial friction only fueled your frustration.
Joel caught onto your desperation and surged even harder against you, and you could feel him fully hard, a rigid ridge pressing into your backside through the layers of clothes. Unable to hold back, you reached a hand blindly behind you until you found the front of his pants, and wrapped your fingers around his crotch, squeezing firmly through the fabric.
The sudden boldness caught him off guard; Joel let out a low groan right against the skin of your neck as his grip on your throat tightened just a little more.
With a sudden jerk, he hauled you away from the counter. His hands dropped to your hips instantly, digging firmly into your flesh as he started steering you out of the kitchen.
A breathless nervous laugh slipped from your lips, cutting through the silence of the house as the two of you moved toward the hallway. And before you could even plant a foot on the bottom step of the stairs, you slapped his hands away, spun around, and bolted up the flight.
Halfway up, curiosity got the better of you, forcing you to glance back over your shoulder. Joel was already tracking you; his posture was stiffer, his eyes so dark and locked on yours. You let out a soft amused gasp and scrambled up the rest of the way.
As you cleared the final steps, your fingers hooked the hem of your shirt, yanking it cleanly over your head and dropping it behind you like a breadcrumb on the trail. Right before hitting the doorway of his bedroom, your hands flew to your back, unhooking your bra and letting it fall, too.
Joel trailed you without missing a beat. You heard him pause for a split second below to scoop your shirt off the floor, and then he kept coming, completely unhurried, stopping to grab the bra next. He was giving you a head start. He was granting you the exact window you needed to slip into the bedroom, kick off your boots, and shed your pants.
Hearing his heavy tread approach the threshold, you padded silently on bare feet into the bathroom. From inside, you caught the low huff that rumbled from his chest when he stepped into the room and found the bed empty.
The cool night air drifting through the bathroom window instantly prickled your skin, making your nipples harden and the hair on your arms stand up, but you didn't give a damn about the chill. You planted both hands flat and firm against the edge of the marble sink, arching your spine completely and tilting your ass toward the doorway; right at the perfect angle for where he was bound to appear in less than a heartbeat.
And yeah, just a heartbeat later, Joel filled the bathroom doorway. He stopped dead in his tracks, going completely still, frozen under the frame.
A thrill shot through you just from watching his reaction. Joel held your clothes in one hand, his eyes locked onto your bare skin, tracking the curve of your hips and your exposed ass. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscle bunched, and that sudden paralysis of sheer awe and desire on his face let you know you had him exactly where you wanted him.
Joel tossed your clothes onto the bathroom counter without a shred of care, while you stayed completely still, watching him. He tightened his jaw and brought his hands down to his waist.
Slowly, he unbuckled the metal latch of his belt; the leather creaked and the metal clinked in this quiet bathroom as he whipped it through the loops in one clean yank. Your pussy throbbed just looking at him; so mean, so serious, so intensely focused as he popped the button of his jeans and dragged the metal zipper down with a harsh rasp, never taking his eyes off you for a single second.
As he began to close the final few inches between you, an intense flutter turned your stomach over. Joel settled right behind you, planting one of his big heavy hands flat against your hip, digging into your skin to anchor you in place, while his other hand went straight for your center, hooking the fabric of your panties to the side.
Your breathing was already ragged and heavy, and your throat felt so dry you could barely swallow. Trying to hold onto that thread of control from the game, you tried to look back at him.
"You should get yourself a mirror," you murmured.
Joel huffed a laugh.
His thick warm fingers parted your wet folds. "Yeah," he said.
You shut your eyes instantly, letting out a low moan as you finally melted into his touch. His fingers were soaked in you immediately, sliding top to bottom. He brought the pad of his index finger up until he found your clit, pressing and rubbing in firm circles that made you flinch and arch your spine even deeper against him.
The wet obscene sound of his fingers moving inside you filled the bathroom instantly. But Joel took his time to torment you, sliding his middle finger along your slit and stretching your wetness before pushing a single knuckle inside your pussy. He went in easy, stretching you open, and a choked moan escaped your lips. A second later, he slipped a second finger in, opening you up from the inside, and began to thrust into your depths, curling his fingers upward to hook the exact spot that made you lose your mind.
"Shit, baby... you're fuckin' soaked," Joel growled in your ear, and the sound of his dirty voice only deepened the spasms already starting to ripple through your walls.
Your hands gripped the edge of the sink so hard your knuckles turned white.
The wet sounds of friction between his hand and your pussy were loud, giving away just how ready you were; every time he buried his fingers to the hilt, your eyelids grew heavier.
You started to lose all sense of rhythm, rolling your hips back on pure instinct, begging for more and more and more. But Joel didn't give in; he kept his hand steady, pumping inside you, catching your dirtiest, most shameless whimpers right out of the air.
"Joel, please," you stammered, letting your head drop forward. "Fuck me already, don't make me wait."
He cut his movements instantly. With a dragging touch, he slid his fingers out of your wetness. You lifted your head and licked your dry lips, desperately trying to catch your breath.
"You gettin' bossy on me now?" he asked.
A small smile tugged at your lips, and you glanced back over your shoulder. Joel already had his cock in his hand, stroking it up and down, using the same hand that was coated in your own slick. The sight of his size and the heavy veins tracing his shaft made you swallow hard.
"Over the sink, now. Put your hands further out and lean down," he ordered.
You obeyed instantly. You stretched your arms across the surface, planting your palms firmly against the cold marble that clashed sharply against the heat of your body. You slid further forward, arching your spine to the absolute limit and pushing your backside out, offering yourself to him completely.
Joel stepped forward, erasing the space between you. You felt the burning tip of his cock hunt for your entrance, pressing right where the ache of your need was loudest. Easy, he broke into you in one controlled heavy push, burying himself deep, inching further and further until he filled you to the brim.
He stretched you so wide you choked back a cry against the marble. He went dead still, granting you a few agonizing seconds for you to adjust to his thickness and squeeze tight around him. Feeling his pulse throbbing inside you was pure heaven.
Then, he started to move. At first, they were short testing thrusts, but as the rhythm leveled out, a whimper of pure relief slipped from your lips.
Joel took you at your word; he fucked you with relentless consistency, driving deep into you with every single stroke, making the wet echo of his hips slamming against your cheeks ring out through the bathroom. The moans spilled uncontrolled from your mouth, impossible to hold back.
Bit by bit, any trace of patience melted from his movements, turning harder. Joel reached a broad hand up to your shoulder and, with a firm yank, forced your upper body back, arching your spine flush against his chest. And without giving you a second to catch your breath, he shifted that same hand straight to your throat, squeezing with just enough pressure to pin you tight against him while he kept hammering into you from behind.
The shift in the angle made him sink even deeper, ripping cries and sobs of pure pleasure that vibrated right against the flat of his palm.
And just when you thought you couldn't open up any wider, Joel used his boot to nudge your foot, forcing your legs further apart. With a quick heavy grip, he hooked his free hand under your thigh and hoisted your leg up over the edge of the sink, splitting you completely wide open.
Locked in that vulnerable position, he started fucking you hard and fast, a pacing that completely stole your balance. Desperate, your hands scrambled to find a handhold on the wall or the counter, but you couldn't reach a damn thing; the sheer speed of his thrusts was rattling your entire body.
Joel had you pinned so tight against him that the only thing you could do was cling to his arms, burying your nails into his skin. You held onto him, feeling your one steady foot on the floor nearly lift with every strike, suspended in the air by the force of his hips.
To say you didn't recognize the sound of your own voice was an understatement; you didn't think you’d ever made noises as broken as the ones Joel was ripping out of you with every single thrust. It was a completely new sensation, being entirely undone, unable to do a damn thing but cling to him so you wouldn't shatter completely.
Slowly, his movements began to lose their speed, turning heavier. You felt his chest heave hard against your back as he dialed back the pace, locking you tight in his arms. He let your dangling foot finally find the floor, easing the strain on your muscles, and softened his grip on your body, though he stayed buried deep inside you.
Driven by the lingering slip of pleasure, you reached an arm back over your shoulder, searching for the touch of his skin. Your fingers found the nape of his neck and sank right into his curls, tangling in that soft hair you loved so much.
You tilted your head back, offering your lips in a silent plea, and Joel caught your jaw gently and planted a deep dragging kiss on your mouth.
While kissing you, his free hand carefully guided your leg down from the sink, helping you find your footing. He steered you away from the marble counter, backing you up toward the bathroom door.
Only when you hit the threshold did Joel pull out of you all at once, leaving a choked whine on your lips at the sudden cold absence. Before you could even protest, he brought his palm down in a stinging smack against your flushed ass.
"Bed," he ordered.
You moved toward the mattress immediately, your legs shaking and a delicious ache pooling between your thighs. You collapsed flat on your back against the mattress, sinking into the sheets, and hooked your fingers around the waistband of your wet panties, yanking them off and tossing them onto the floor. All while you watched him shadow over you from the dim light.
Your eyes, completely blown out, tracked Joel’s body as he stripped down under the faint light. He yanked his shirt off in one motion, revealing that broad torso, then kicked off his boots, and finally shed his pants, letting them pool on the floor.
God, he was so big. Huge everywhere; the width of his shoulders, the thickness of his ribcage, his massive arms, and that tremendous length pointing right back at you, glistening and heavy with thick veins.
You spread your legs wide on the mattress, begging him back, utterly unable to look away.
Joel climbed onto the bed, making the springs groan as he settled immediately between your open thighs. He gripped your knees, pushing them back toward your chest to split you open even wider, and lined his cock up with your pussy.
He slid in inch by inch, savoring the fit, stretching your already sensitive walls, but the second he was buried completely inside you, he gave you no quarter. He picked his rhythm right back up.
You held onto him with everything you had, wrapping your arms tight around his neck and digging your nails into his broad back while he fucked you hard, deep thrusts making you bounce right against the mattress.
The wet friction of your bodies took over the room again, mixing with Joel’s pants directly in your ear and your own shameless moans.
"Joel, please," you cried out, squeezing him tighter. "Put all your weight on me."
He lifted his head, locking his eyes onto yours.
"Put all your weight on me," you repeated.
"I'm gonna crush you."
"No, you won't," the heavy impacts chopping up your voice. "Please."
Joel let out a rough pant and buried his face right next to yours as he slowly let his body drop over you. You felt his weight gradually press you down into the mattress; his chest flat against yours, his stomach against yours, blanketing you in sheer heavy man.
"Yes, yes, yes," you started to babble, letting your eyelids flutter shut as your arms wrapped around him and your fingers buried deep into the hair at the nape of his neck.
You were right on the edge, suspended in that eternal second where the pleasure gets so sharp it almost hurts. Your legs were wrapped tight around his waist and your nails were dug into his shoulders, feeling the coiled tension in every single muscle.
Then you felt it. You caught that subtle unmistakable shift in the vibration of his body; the way his cock went even harder, pulsing and throbbing inside you, expanding to its absolute limit. Joel let out a guttural grunt, a purely animalistic drawl of a sound that drowned in the crook of your neck as he completely lost his rhythm and his grip on control.
Knowing you had him right there, that he was about to fall apart for you, was the final push that shattered your gravity. Your own orgasm hit you all at once, a hot burst that clamped your internal walls in violent desperate spasms around his length.
Joel roared against your skin the second he felt you clamp down on him, completely trapped by your climax. He delivered a few brutal frenzied thrusts, driving so deep you felt like you were splitting in two, before cursing loudly and dragging himself back with desperation.
You unlocked your legs from his hips to let him clear, and he grabbed his cock, letting go right over your belly. He was so flushed, his face so raw and undone, that your eyes could do nothing but watch him, panting and silent, while your own muscles kept riding out the tail end of your release.
He leaned forward, planting one forearm beside your head, and brought his face down to yours.
You cupped his face; your fingers pressed gently against his jaw as you pulled his mouth down to meet yours.
Joel's room. Half an hour later. Night.
You flicked off the bathroom light and shut the door behind you.
The effects of the wine were still floating through your system, but now it was pure exhaustion weighing you down. You knew you were gonna sleep like a baby tonight, so before climbing back into bed next to Joel, you went straight for the alarm clock on his nightstand.
"Six thirty sound good to you?" you asked, turning the clock around to set the dial.
"What time is it now?" he wanted to know. He was lying back with his hair still a little damp from the shower, wearing a dark blue cotton t-shirt and sweatpants.
"Quarter to ten."
"Ain't as late as I thought."
You smiled. "Right. I figured it was at least eleven."
"Six thirty's fine."
You set the alarm and slipped the clock back into its spot.
Carefully crawling over Joel’s legs, you slid under the covers as he pulled the sheet and the comforter up over you. You dug your toes into the mattress, stretching out on pure instinct just from the happiness of being comfortable, warm, and knowing you were in for a perfect night of sleep.
You draped your arm over Joel’s chest, and he leaned into you, shifting onto his side to blanket you with his body heat.
"Oh," he murmured, pulling back for just a second to click off the lamp on his nightstand before wrapping his arms right back around you.
The bedroom fell into darkness, but the moonlight streamed through the window; pale, soft, and soothing. It was a full moon tonight.
"Goodnight, Joel."
He let out a low sigh. "Goodnight, Snow."
divider by: omi-resources
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Clint Flood x OFC│fluff, angst, smut│explicit, 18+
Summary: Dolly learns to trust, and Clint gives love a second chance.
Tags: Modern day Freaky Tales babysitter AU with adapted canon, slow burn, angst w/ happy ending, smut and domestic eroticism, forced proximity, age gap, found family, discussion of SA trauma from a stalker ex, Clint saves the day, canon typical violence.
A/N: This series has a very happy ending for Dolly and Clint but very heavy topics are discussed and portrayed!!! I saw Freaky Tales and immediately thought that I wish Clint was my scary mob uncle, and so this story is for all of us who never got the justice we deserved and wished we had someone like him to deliver a bit of good old fashioned street justice instead. I could've left it as a found family thing, but I liked the idea of having Clint find love again so... here we are :p Enjoy!
As an Oscar winning movie star and the world at his feet, famously troubled Dieter Bravo is used to getting exactly what he wants. But when sinister love letters begin appearing at his front door, his agency assigns you to be his personal bodyguard.
Professional, guarded and carrying deep scars from a past you’re trying to move on from, you don't relish the thought of babysitting a spoiled celebrity.
But as the stalker's threats escalate the two of you are forced into close quarters and a deeper danger. And while the growing attraction between you may be forbidden, a stalker's obsession is far more dangerous.
This is the second story I will be working on this year! Different from my normal fare, but I enjoy the challenge.
A/N: SURPRISE! Happy almost-end of RTY. It's taken far too long, I know, but for those that have stuck around and still hold interest in these two and their trainwreck of a story - thank you.
Summary: Following on from ‘Traitor’ and ‘You’re Somebody Else’. An unexpected visitor throws you right back into the life you thought you left behind. Working beside the man that put you behind bars is one thing, pretending like you never loved him is another.
Word count: 6.3k
Warnings: swearing, graphic violence, graphic thoughts of death and torture, reader is Stressed my guy, marcus "i dont have time for bullshit" pike, a kidnapped hostage stand off situation, use of guns and graphic descriptions of bullet wounds and blood, A N G S T (god i love it), i love grace van pelt, jacob wilson is golden retreiever, patrick fucking jane and his antics, some more angst, critically injured marcus, hospitals and talk of surgeries and more death
main masterlist | series masterlist
This story is 18+ only.
The vicious turning of your stomach increases with every second you spend in the car, wedged between two men, complete strangers. They say nothing. The male driver, also a stranger, says nothing. You say nothing. The silence that fills the small space creates a thick tension, curling around your shoulders and tightening around your chest, and you worry any sound or movement you make could shatter it all completely.
You dare not shift in your seat, remaining so still an ache starts to grow along your limbs and deep in your lower back. You don’t breathe too harshly, but the panic that stirs within your chest threatens to ruin that. You focus on each lungful, the inhales and the exhales.
In, and out.
Repeat.
In, out.
You count them.
One, two, three…
Eyes falling to your lap where your fingers anxiously pick at the other, you find you’d picked completely through the skin by the side of your thumbnail. Blood builds and smears along your nail fold where the skin had given in to the small assault, but you can’t stop. Your other thumb still picks at it, its blunt nail scratching through the sticky warmth and spreading the blood further.
Breathe.
In, out.
It’ll be okay.
It’ll—
You grind your teeth as tears begin to sting behind your eyes. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this shaken, this terrified, in your entire life. Not when you’d been a part of this world all that time ago—you were on a different side back then. Not when you’d been arrested—you’d been scared, sure, but at least they were the so-called ‘good guys’.
They wouldn’t kill you just because you were an inconvenience to business.
You’re going to die.
It sinks into you, heavy and relentless. You wonder if what they say about a warm bright light is true, if you do get a few moments of reliving memories before falling into the inevitable abyss. Would it hurt? Be quick? The fear of death is nothing compared to the fear of not knowing all that could happen before the end. Maybe they’ll drag it out, make it a punishment for getting in their way before showing some mercy with a bullet.
No. No crying, you tell yourself.
This is it, and whatever happens… well, there’s no changing it.
A voice echoes in your ears—warm, familiar, stubborn.
I won’t let anything happen to you.
You can’t be mad at him for breaking his promise. It was your own stupid self that got you into this position. If you had just waited at his apartment, endured the safe walls of his home and the waft of his cologne after he left… if you had just listened, you wouldn’t be here.
It was heartache that had you all but running out of that door. You needed air, needed something to clear the sudden onslaught of memories and the way his voice swirled in your mind. It was always real to me.
It had been real.
The soft spoken words, the gentle touches, the way he had looked at you, the way he had made you feel, the way he said those three little words that had been your ultimate undoing…
It wasn’t all a lie.
At least if you die, when you die, you’ll know that. You’ll have that to reflect on. You’ll go knowing the love you had felt had been accepted, and returned. It still hurts, the scarring left from how everything had changed permanent and lasting deep in the very core of you, but at least, while it was happening back then, it had been real.
The car rolls to a stop, and your heart briefly along with it. You don’t know where you are, where you’re being taken to next. You don’t move until they gesture you to. The hand that curls around your arm when you awkwardly make your way out of the backseat is tight, an unspoken promise that there was no easy way out of this.
There was no running.
In, out.
Maybe he’d find you in time. Maybe he was already close.
You comfort yourself with that as you’re moved into a new vehicle, the sound of liquid being thrown about and splashing behind you. You look back out the open door in time to watch one of the men throw a small lit match into the now vacant backseat, eyeing the flames that engulf the interior of the car you had been in, thankful they didn’t decide to just leave you in it.
For now, there was still a bit of time.
—
His heart still beats thickly in his throat. Sweat had gathered on his palms as soon as he saw you exit the elevator, and had slowly built along the back of his neck with every moment in your presence. He's surprised he's been able to keep control over his voice so far, a barely there tremble threatening to break free in his words and cause him to stutter under your attention.
You were hard, and completely closed off. You listened throughout his little debriefing, and understandably been pissed when he told you just exactly what they were asking of you. It was hypocritical, even he had to admit.
Even with your evident and spoken anger and borderline disgust, a part of him still warms at the sight of you. He doubts that will ever fade.
“Are we done here?”
He sees how you struggle to look at him, feels the hollow echo of what once was before getting hit with harsh reality.
“Yeah. Yeah, we are.”
He feels weak as you move to leave the room, you couldn’t move quick enough.
It all hits him like a punch to the stomach and he folds from it, bracing his hands on the cool top of the conference room table and letting his head hang low. He drags in a breath, catching the smell of your perfume as you pass. It’s new, so different from your old one.
A reminder of how everything had changed, of what he did to you.
He exhales quietly, eyes slipping shut and seeing the hatred that had swam in your eyes behind his lids. The door slams shut behind him.
—
He gets it over a call.
The car was found, torched and completely destroyed, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that any potential evidence has been destroyed, doesn’t care they weren’t quick enough to intercept before whoever took you fled again. He doesn’t care because he’s relieved at the following information provided to him.
No body was found within the vehicle.
The immediate thoughts that had assaulted him of seeing your body, twisted, unmoving and burnt beyond recognition, vacate to the depths of his mind, and he finds he can breathe a little easier. His tie sits a little more comfortably around his throat, and he’s able to focus a little better on the road as he drives to the office.
You’re okay. For now, you’re okay.
They still want you alive, and that’s good. That means he has time.
“There’s a security camera around the corner from the lot,” Wilson’s voice continues to fill the car.
Marcus didn’t comment on it at the time, too busy swimming in his own thoughts and the sheer relief flooding his system, but he had heard the edge in the young agent's tone when he had answered the call. He’s thankful Wilson wouldn’t be forever haunted by the sick images his mind had conjured.
“It's old, but we’ve been able to get a rough image of the vehicle. Black SUV, tinted windows so we weren’t able to get a look at the occupants. Also got a slight partial plate, but it’s barely readable. I’ve sent it through to forensics to see if they can do anything with it.”
“Good. I’m sending a team your way, make your way back to the office once they arrive. I want you with me.”
If anyone on his team would understand the depth to this, it’s Wilson.
“Yes, sir.”
Marcus knows the agent has some experience at this kind of shit, having previously read over his history within his file before confirming his success at getting the position he was so eager for, but this time it was a little more personal.
You two had spent quite a bit of time together during the start of this case, would go as far as to call you two somewhat friends, and so the softer, less Special Agent Pike, more Marcus side of him feels the need to ask, to focus on something other than his own emotions.
“How’re you doing?”
The line falls silent, before the younger agent clears his throat quietly. “Can I speak freely, sir?”
“Always.”
It comes out in a quiet rush. “I’m so fucking relieved she’s not in that car.”
Marcus makes a low noise of agreement. “You and me both.”
—
“0800, on the dot. Not a second after, understood?”
The young agent before him nods, his enthusiasm evident. Marcus remembers that enthusiasm, the excitement at finally being where he wanted to be, where he worked so hard to get to.
This new guy… Marcus liked him. He knew watching over his interview that he’d be a good fit within his team. The kid was eager for an opportunity, had gall, and Marcus knew you’d be safe in his agent’s hands.
“Any questions?”
“No, sir.”
“I don’t expect trouble along the way, but I’ll note it now that her safety is paramount. She’s—” he stops, looking down at an older photograph of you sitting amongst the various bits of paper pulled from the file and feeling the familiar ache creep around his heart.
She’s important to me.
The words had almost slipped free, danced so easily, so naturally, on the tip of his tongue it had taken his mind a moment to catch up and stop them from leaving his mouth. He clears his throat softly, tucking the image back into the manilla folder so he doesn’t have you smiling up at him.
He didn’t want to use your mugshot for the file made for Wilson. He didn’t want the agent to go into this with a preconceived idea of who and what he would assume you are. After everything, the least he could do was give you a chance to be known as you are, not what they made you to be.
“She’s integral to the case. Should anything arise, her safety is your highest priority.”
Agent Wilson straightens in his seat, a cool wash of determination settling into his features. Yeah, Marcus thinks to himself, he’s a good fit.
“Understood, sir. She’ll be in good hands.”
Marcus nods.
He thinks you’ll like him the most out of his team. His other agents are great, but you’ll be on your guard. The others will be quiet, and will keep to themselves more often than not. That wouldn’t help you. Wilson’s a talker, though. Sometimes, relentlessly so. It might help you find some comfort in this shitshow, might make things a little easier for you, a little less lonely.
—
He studies your photo where it’s pinned on the board, only a little ways away from one of the murder victims' post mortem images. The images are a stark contrast from each other, one warm in hues, brightness swimming throughout the image and bursting from the wide spread of your smile. The other is cold, clinical. Void of life.
The more he looks, the more his mind twists and runs, swapping the features of the two women until it’s painted a version of your own post-mortem photograph. Skin sunken beneath your open eyes, pupils fixed, unseeing. A cold measuring tape held next to the gaping hole in your skull.
He blinks, and the images are as they were.
Jane is damn near adamant they want you alive, but without definitive proof that you’ll be okay, it does little to settle his mind.
Marcus turns away from the board with a new wash of nausea he swallows down, flicking through the notes provided to him by Lisbon’s team from the interrogation and marking the noted locations of addresses on the map spread out before him.
He can hear the work beyond the conference room, a part of him comforted by the sheer amount of effort put in by both his own and Teresa's agents.
They’re close.
That familiar feeling swirls in the pit of his stomach, knowing that with every new bit of information that comes through by the hour, they’re closing that gap between them and you. It overrides the worry, pushes his anxiety to the side until all he feels is brute determination, the urge to get the job done and retrieve you swiftly and safely.
You’ll be okay.
He’ll make sure of it.
Marcus feels the presence of someone hovering just inside the door of the conference room, and fights the sigh of annoyance threatening to break free from his lungs. He doesn’t want to entertain niceties, doesn’t have time for idle chit chat and useless empty conversation, so he cuts straight to the chase with a sharp edge in his tone that says just that.
He’d feel ashamed by the bluntness of it if his mind wasn’t working so damn hard to absorb every possible bit of information given to him in an effort to get any closer to you.
“Can I help you with something, Agent Van Pelt?”
He sees her move in his peripheral as he shuffles through more notes, more paper, more satellite images of warehouses and shop fronts and galleries. She shifts slightly, almost unsure as her eyes glance back to the open door to the conference room before they roll back to settle on him.
“I just wanted to say that it’ll be okay,” she says finally. “We’ll find her.”
It’s spoken so surely, so warmly sincere, it completely cuts through the icyness that had settled in his chest and worked its way through his nervous system. He feels his shoulders slacken slightly when he eventually meets her eyes, the tightness of his features softening when she gives a small reassuring smile.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, giving his head a little shake to settle the mess of emotions swirling through him. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be—”
“It’s okay,” Grace’s smile widens . Her eyes fix on the board behind him in open interest, but it doesn’t hit him like it did with Jane and Lisbon. It doesn’t get his hackles up in defence with a need to shield you from potential judgement.
“Seems like she’s really something.”
He looks over his shoulder, gaze swiping one more time over your image. “She is.”
—
It’s a warehouse, empty save for the leftover pallets, a few odd pieces of old machinery from previous companies and the van you had been driven in.
You’d lost track of the route they had taken you, not wanting to risk anything by making it obvious you were trying to decipher your location by looking out of the windows. There was no point. You doubt you’d make it very far if you chose to run.
Playing along, doing what these people ask when they ask it, it’d hopefully buy you some time. Hopefully the time Marcus and his team needs if they were looking. No, you know he is. You can feel it.
Before all the recent developments, you probably would’ve resigned yourself to your uncertain fate, and accepted that you were just another pawn for the FBI. A nobody, just mere collateral damage in the wider grand scheme of things.
You lost track of how long you’d been standing in the one spot, almost scared to move. The small group of men had shown you out of the van and onto the main floor of the warehouse, and then moved to the sides. They stayed quiet, sometimes talking quietly amongst themselves, but otherwise leaving you alone.
A welcome relief.
“You’ve certainly been working away, haven’t you? Piece after piece. Surely you’re tired.”
The men take their cue and start their exit, leaving you alone with the newcomer. The one pulling the strings and keeping them in line, if their quick and quiet departure was anything to go by. They clearly deem you no threat whatsoever.
You turn to the voice, eyes sweeping over the familiar face of Edward Thomas. You recoil a little in surprise, almost expecting someone else to be with him because of how out of character something like this was for the older man, but he remains alone, and you are left standing corrected.
“Didn’t really have much of a choice,” you murmur.
You don’t think openly admitting you had readily agreed to helping the FBI wouldn’t work well in your favour.
“How’d you know it was my work?”
“I didn’t,” he admits quietly, “in the beginning. We actually thought you were still in prison.”
“We?”
Edward smiles, though it lacks any warmth or sincerity. He looks tired, older. “Asking for yourself, or your FBI boyfriend?”
You ignore the goad, glancing carefully around the vacant space with a barely concealed shiver down your spine. Now what?
“What am I doing here?”
He sighs, rubbing a tired hand across his weathered features.
“This whole thing, it’s—it’s turned ugly, and quite frankly I’m tired of it. I had no intention of being this involved. I needed something to offer in return for my… retirement, let’s call it. After all, after a few of your pieces had been discovered by myself, interest has grown in your particular… area of expertise. You have a few curious in what you can offer.”
A sick feeling turns your stomach, but you keep a hold of your expression. “So you’re not auctioning off my pieces anymore, you’re just auctioning off me.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Throwing me to the highest bidder so you can, what, run away to a sunny beach somewhere? That’s not like you, Edward.”
“Yes well, as I said, it’s turned ugly.”
“By ugly, you mean the people that have been killed.”
“You’re quite naive if you didn’t think that was happening before your arrest. People died then, and people will die now. It’s simply a part of the world you so readily jumped into.”
“Can’t really blame the girl.”
A calm and collected voice takes you off guard, and you quickly school your stunned expression into something a little less obvious as the one and only Patrick fucking Jane all but waltzes into the room, looking completely at ease as he slides his hands into the pockets of his slacks.
“She wasn’t exactly given a brochure on the workings of an underground art ring upon her application.”
If he’s here, then his team isn’t too far behind.
And if his team isn’t too far behind, surely that means Marcus would be with them, too? A slight twinge of hopes grows to life in your chest, your heart picking up with the possibility you’d be walking free from this.
Edward frowns at him in confusion, eyes darting to the direction of the van and where the three men that had bought you in had disappeared to.
“How the hell did you get in here?”
“The door,” Jane comments as if it were obvious, and you can’t help the eye roll, pinning him with such a look of disdain it makes his lips twitch.
“And what are you doing here?”
He has the nerve to look bored, eyes observing the empty warehouse in false interest. The sheer ease he remains in has Edward’s frown deepening with every step he takes further into the room.
“Checking out industrial real estate. What’s the going rate for one of these?” His hand leaves his pockets to gesture vaguely about the open room.
“Mr Jane, I must admit I do tire of your little games.”
You startle, eyes widening as you glance between them.
“You two know each other?”
“We met at the museum,” Jane shrugs. “When I said I was following my own leads, I was. It just wasn’t you. I did have to get you out of the way, though. Sorry about that.”
He doesn’t sound sorry in the slightest. You stare at him, at a complete and utter loss, your mind struggling to piece together all of the events that had led you here. Did he intentionally upset you at the museum? To get you to leave?
It’s all a big fucking game to this man.
“You knew,” you realise slowly, your brows coming together, “you knew I’d leave the investigation.”
“I expected. Just like I expected Mr Thomas here to make a move as soon as he knew you weren’t being monitored anymore,” Jane explains easily, unbothered by the way your face twists with his little reveal.
You had been a pawn.
Just not the FBI’s pawn.
You were Patrick fucking Jane’s pawn.
“What I didn’t expect, was you running off, and.. you know, all that happened after,” he trails off with a slight wince. “That was inconvenient, I’ll admit.”
He, at the very least, has the grace to look apologetic at that. So he didn’t mean for it to work out like this. He knew Marcus would flip and put you into protective custody. He counted on Marcus getting you out of town and finding you somewhere safe to lay low while they worked out the rest of the case.
What he didn’t count on, however, was the mountain of emotional baggage he was undoing and letting loose during his little playtime pretending to be an FBI agent.
“Inconventient?” You grind out, anger simmering beneath your skin. “I got fucking kidnapped, Jane!”
“Like I said—inconvenient.”
“Enough.”
“Oh my God, I can’t believe you. Marcus was right, you really are a fucking dick.”
“Things could’ve gone smoother, yes—”
You jump at the sudden firing of a gun, wide eyes immediately flying to Edward where he stands unimpressed, holding the weapon towards the ceiling. He then levels it between you, your undeniable anger at the consultant melting steadily into fear.
Jane takes a step towards you automatically, his arm outstretched as if he could reach you despite the distance between you, but he stills when the gun is aimed for him.
“I said enough.”
—
“North entrance is covered,” Rigsby reports as Marcus arrives on scene mere moments after them. “South’s free—they’re not expecting company.”
“Good,” Marcus nods, eyes scouting the area around the warehouse and the flashy expensive car Thomas had left parked along the side. Might as well be a flashing neon sign in an area like this. “How many on the north?”
“Three,” Cho replies plainly, checking over his weapon.
“You certainly work quick. We’ll send a small team to cover both exits for now, when—”
“We need to wait for back up, we don’t know how many are inside yet.”
He fights the frown threatening to dig between his brows as he looks at Lisbon, her expectant gaze already fixed tightly on him. He knows that. He doesn’t need to be told that like he’s some freshly graduated baby agent, let alone by someone who’s not even on his team. He bites back the sarcastic words building on his tongue.
“When SWAT arrives,” Marcus continues as if she didn’t interrupt him, “we make the call to move in. How far out are they?”
“Four minutes,” Cho provides again, looking between the two superior agents with a look he couldn’t quite decipher, but otherwise keeping quiet.
Anything could happen in four minutes.
Marcus presses his lips together, eyes raking over the structure they suspect you’ve been taken to and its wider surroundings. His hands find his hips as he studies the high windows, wondering if Wilson would be able to find anything to climb up on to find a point to look in to until backup arrives.
“Uh, where’s Jane?”
Rigsby’s carefully posed question pulls Marcus's attention from the building, his teeth quickly mashing together as he attempts to reign in the hot flood of irritation that sweeps over him. Sure enough, the consultant is nowhere to be found when the team looks, and the irritation morphs into something a little stronger, something with a bit more of a kick.
He can’t help it.
Marcus smiles at Lisbon, stiff and sarcastic. “I see that tight leash is working well.”
She sighs, barely sparing him a glance. “Don’t.”
“If he does anything to—”
A single shot echoes from the warehouse and he jolts as if it had come straight for him and pierced right through his chest. Seconds of silence pass, and with each slowed tick of time in his mind, there you are. On the autopsy table, a bullet through the head. Cold. Lifeless.
Someone speaks, reporting to the incoming team that shots have been fired and he doesn’t care to look at who calls it in. His eyes dart over the building, waiting for movement, a yell, a scream, anything—
He doesn’t, he can’t, wait any longer. Logic, strategy, training—it all blends and settles at the sound of nothing. It’s instinct, it's pure adrenaline. Marcus takes off towards the building while reaching for his weapon, the thought of you bleeding out on the filthy floor, losing precious time with every moment he wastes standing around, pushing his legs harder as he comes up upon the back entrance.
“Marcus!” Teresa shouts after him, already following. “Cho, on me. Rigsby, Van Pelt, you’re on the north entrance. Wilson, wait for SWAT and direct on their arrival!”
—
Your ears ring from the gunshot. The piercing echo of it threatens to stop your heart then and there, the tremble in your hands obvious as you quickly and carefully raise your hands in an effort to show you’re of no threat. Jane mirrors you, studying the way the gun ever so slight shake in Edward’s hand as the barrel of it bounces between the both of you.
“FBI, put your weapon down.”
You almost choke on a sob at the familiar voice.
He’s here.
You feel Marcus move step up and next to you, his own weapon held steady and pointed directly at Edward . You watch the recognition, the panic, the indecision, the urge to flee play out on the older man’s face, the shake in his hand increasing under the presence of Marcus.
“You’re surrounded. Don’t go doing anything stupid. This is your one and only chance to walk out of here, so put it down, and we’ll talk. We can figure something out.”
“I just want this to be over,” Edward mutters with a distinct tone of irritation, flustered by the sudden presence of an actual FBI agent and having their weapon pointed at him, “it wasn’t meant to go this far… I didn’t want any part of this.”
“I know,” Marcus soothes carefully, his voice smooth and calm. “Put the gun down, and we’ll talk about it.”
“You know, it’s your fault,” Edward continues, completely absorbed in the stress of his thoughts, and the gun changes direction to land directly on you, “if you had just stayed aw—”
“Hey,” Marcus snaps immediately, “if you’re going to point that at anyone, you point it at me. She got dragged into this because of me. All of this? It’s on me, do you hear me?”
You jump in fright at the echo of two gunshots towards the front of the warehouse, and in a split second, you watch Edward jump in surprise too, and give way to the panic that overrides the logic of a negotiation.
It all happens so quickly. You feel a shove from the right, the direct force of a body moving and colliding with you just as more shots ring out throughout the warehouse and you stumble back and away from where you had just been standing.
Edward falls back from the shots Teresa and another agent direct at him, the pair suddenly appearing from behind you and quickly advancing towards him, while Jane jumps forward to kick the gun away from the hand that weakly reaches for it.
The body that had collided with you is sprawled on the ground and your heart drops to the pit of your stomach at the familiar hand swept dark hair of Marcus. He doesn't get up. He doesn't move.
Bile builds in your throat as you drop to your knees, uncaring as the rough floor scuffs the skin of your knees through the thin material of your dress. You tug desperately at his jacket, rolling him over and clawing at his body until he sprawls over your lap, heavy and unmoving.
“Marcus? Marcus, look at me,” you beg softly, a strangled sob falling from your throat when his eyes eventually flutter open languidly and focus tiredly on yours. “What did you do? God, what did you do?”
His lips part, words building on his tongue, but before they can fall from his mouth he jolts in your arms, heaving and coughing and sputtering. It sounds fucking horrible.
You watch the blood ooze from his lips, creating a stark trail of bright red that melts into his faded stubble and slides down along his jaw. You push at his jacket and feel your heart plummet to the floor at the deep maroon patches outwardly soaking the crisp white shift from the holes in his torso.
“It’s okay,” you soothe shakily, wiping the blood away from his lips with your thumb and feeling your stomach jolt with the wet sticky feel of it. “It’s okay. Keep looking at me, okay? I’m here. Somebody help me! Marcus, please—hold on, please—”
“Pike!”
Someone takes him from your arms, lays him on the ground and covers the bullet wounds with their hands. Teresa is yelling out orders, something about getting medics in and SWAT and soon more people swarm the warehouse. You sit on your knees, hands warm, and when you look numbly down at them, you see the glisten of his blood coating your skin.
There's so much blood.
“Marcus?” You whimper quietly, his name sticking to the inside of your throat.
“Hey, come on,” a female voice speaks from the side of you, her hands winding around your arms and pulling you from the ground. Your widened eyes find hers as you stumble to stand on two feet, her red hair previously pulled into a ponytail slightly ruffled and out of place as strands fall across her face.
“Let’s give them some space, let them help him. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“I don’t—I don’t know,” you reply hoarsely, eyes falling back to where Marcus lay on the ground as even more people surround him.
“Look at me,” the redhead speaks, a gentle smile pulling at her lips as you do as she says. “Good. Do you feel any pain?”
“Uh, I don’t… I don’t think so.”
“Okay,” she says softly, winding an arm around your back and gently leading you from the warehouse. “We have people out here that are going to help you—”
Why are you shaking so much? So damn hard?
Your breath gets stuck in your throat, and your hand moves to cover the length of it in confusion, hoping the press of your fingers would help the oxygen move more freely into your lungs.
Instead of helping you find your breath, you feel the smear of blood along your skin and the heady metallic ring of it sinks into your senses, the urge to vomit suddenly curdling your stomach.
The shaking increases as you jerk your hand away from your neck as if it had cut you. You make a noise, something small and choked, and your knees weaken from the spin of your head.
“Hey, I need you to take a deep breath for me, can you do that? I’m here, I’ve got you.”
“I-I’m trying,” you choke out, suddenly aware of the hot tears spilling down your cheeks as the wind hits with a sharp bite as soon as you step out of the building. “Is—is he going to be okay?”
The redhead briefly glances back at the warehouse, and you think you find a small edge of uncertainty shine in her eyes, but it’s gone within a blink. She gives you another small, reassuring smile though it does little to steady the tremble sitting within your limbs.
“The medics are onsite, he’s in good hands.”
—
The plastic chair is uncomfortable beneath you, the thin scratchy blanket wrapped around your body doing very little to cushion the solid surface of it, yet you don’t move. You don’t think you could if you tried. You hate hospitals. You hate the sterile smell, the cold white walls, the rush of staff and the endless ring of alarms and codes.
This room isn’t too bad, though.
It’s a smaller waiting room, away from the hustle and bustle of the main hospital corridors, and away from the half dozen pairs of eyes that seemed focused on studying your every move. It’s nicer in here, both in style and temperature. The walls are a softer, more welcoming cream colour and a little wall mounted heater keeps the space filled with a nice warmth, but it does very little to calm you.
Your tea had long gone cold next to you, delivered by a startlingly quiet member of Lisbon’s team, Rigsby was it?, before he left you to your thoughts again. You didn’t reach for it once.
Instead, you stare blankly ahead, mind turning over with worry as Marcus is off somewhere in the hospital, somewhere bleeding and hurt and possibly dying. No one comes to talk to you. No one had come to comfort you since Grace had found this room and put you in here, and you think you prefer it that way.
You think she knows you would prefer it that way.
He’s hurt. Severely so.
He’s hurt because he pushed you out of the way, because he took the bullets that had been meant for you, whether they were accidental or not. He had moved with very little regard for himself, instinctively putting himself between you and potential death.
You should be the one in theatre. You should be the one broken and bleeding on an operating table. And yet, you’re not. Here you are, with nothing but bruised, scraped knees and a shot to shit nervous system on the brink of collapsing in on itself.
“Hey Picasso,” Jacob murmurs softly, his face appearing in your view as he crouches down before you, “I think we should get you home—”
Your head is already shaking before he can even finish. Leave? No. No, you can’t do that. What if something happens during surgery? What if he deteriorates and he has no one here to beg them to keep trying? What if—what if he dies on the table and you’re not here for it?
His face creases in sympathy, his hand warm as it comes to rest over your knee.
“Listen to me, alright? You with me?”
His head tilts, waiting until he’s sure you’re fully locked in and focused on him.
“He’s lost a lot of blood. He’s got a collapsed lung, and quite extensive internal bleeding. They said he’s gonna be in there for a while—hey, look at me.”
He ducks his head to help your eyes meet his, and you do your best to swallow down the lump quickly building thickly in the base of your throat.
“While he’s in there, getting the help he needs, I’d like to get you home so you can shower, and get into something more comfortable. Lisbon’s under strict instructions to call me if anything changes, and we’ll come right back once you’re done, alright? How does that sound?”
“Sounds like he could die,” you mutter, voice rough and hollow. “Is he going to die?”
His thumb softly swipes at the stray tear on your cheek.
“I have been assured they are doing everything in their power to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“It should’ve been me. It should be me.”
He gives a small, sad smile. “I may not have been a part of this team for very long and know him very well, but I think we both know that was never an option for him.”
“Is it my fault?”
“Absolutely not,” he says firmly, shaking his head, “and you know damn well he wouldn’t want you thinking like that. Now come on, the quicker we go and do this, the quicker we can get back.”
“You promise we’ll come straight back if… if he—”
“If I happen to get a call to say he…” he trails off, eyes dropping to where his hand rests on your knee before he gathers the strength to meet your eyes again. “If I get that call, we’ll come straight back, alright? Even if you’re all shampooed up and half naked. I swear.”
Your eyes dart between his, searching the soft forest green depths for any trace of a lie. You find nothing but sincerity. Your fingers wrap around his hand, briefly comforted by the steady warmth of it as he turns it in your hold and interlocks your fingers carefully.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
He helps you stand, releasing your hand in an effort to keep the blanket wrapped around your frame. He tucks it back under your chin, giving you a little grin.
“Hell, you being here half naked would probably bring him back before any crash cart could—”
“Jacob,” you half sob in surprise, unsure whether to be horrified or angry. Your face must display it all openly.
He flinches, face creasing from shame. “I know, I know. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I get weird with this kind of shit, let’s just go.”
Before We Knew Better 8 | Andrew 'Pope' Cody x reader
Rating: 18+ MDNI
Masterlist
Summary: When Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody was taken into care Smurf pulled some strings and got him put in a place close to Oceanside. That place was with you and your parents. Something Smurf would later regret when she realised that the bond you and Andrew forged in the month he was there was never going away. The years went by and the older boy became your best friend. Your protector. Your person. Fast forward and when Andrew gets out of prison he finds out Smurf’s hatred for you has gone to a whole other level.
Pairing: Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody x reader
Warnings: smut, angst, yearning, kind of stalker pope I'm not gonna lie, obsessive pope, smurf, mental illness, mentions of assault, alcohol, violence, season 4 pope is a warning of its own.
A/N: I actually love this chapter. Despite some of the content. I hope you all enjoy it. Thank you, thank you for all the feedback and likes and re-blogs. Finally got to beefy Pope. I don't know if I mentioned it enough times in this hahahaha. SPOILERS for season 4 up to mid episode 5.
“I want you here at home with me.” Her voice, sickly sweet with no real care in it made his skin crawl. “Where I can look after you.”
“No.”
“She can’t take care of you the way I can.” It wasn’t the first time he’d heard it but he wanted it to be the last. Nobody knew him better, cared or took care of him more than you did.
He wanted to argue the fact but any assurance he’s had that she wouldn’t hurt you had dies with Baz.
If she could so that.
She could do anything.
He needed you and Lena safe more than anything.
“You know she isn’t meant for this life, Andrew. She isn’t family.”
“She’s my family.” He knows it was a mistake as soon as he had rasped it, pained and heartfelt. The total opposite of her voice.
You were his family. The one he had chosen. The only one who had chosen him for no other reason than you had wanted to.
The statement and the truth of it written across his face filled Smurf with rage. A cold, quiet kind that he’d only seen a handful of times. The fake soft voice replaced by the cutting, abrupt one he was far more familiar with, especially recently.
“You’re being selfish Andrew.” She stood up from the place she had been sat on her bed. There was another party going on outside, for Lena’s return home. When he told her he had taken her back to the foster family he sensed straight away she wasn’t going to let this go easily.
She wasn’t always so obvious with it but she was desperate to have full control over him again.
“You know it’s only a matter of time before she gets caught up in shit she can’t handle. You’re going to get her hurt.” He didn’t miss the threat behind her voice. “Or worse…”
He didn’t say anything and so Smurf kept on, chipping away at him the way she had become an expert at. “You think Lucy couldn’t have made her disappear quicker than you’d have even knew she was gone?”
“Shut up.” He spits but he holds himself back despite the urge to grab her by the neck. Too frightened of what could happen. Lucy wasn’t just a murderer. She was involved in human trafficking and the thought sent a rage through him that left him frozen. “You threaten her again and you’ll finally see exactly what kind of man you raised.” He gets in her face, a darkness in his eyes she’s never had directed at her before.
“Don’t you see, Andrew?” She says it in the voice of a concerned Mother teaching him something. “That’s exactly why she would do it.” That was it. That look of bitter understanding in his eyes and she knew she’d got him.
She had been trying to cling to any last bits of control since he had gotten out of prison and spectacularly failed, she blamed you of course. But she was finally getting some control back.
And she just couldn’t help herself, couldn’t stop there. She had to seal it in his mind.
“The cops could turn her.” She triggers the memory of Cath, of what he did.
“I would never!”
Smurf could see it in his eyes. That he would happily kill her in that moment. It didn’t hurt her though. She could bring him back. She always could, just needed some quality time with him without you in the way.
So she could slither her way into him mind again and make her home there more permanent.
“Of course, you wouldn’t baby.” She reached up to stroke his hair but he snapped his head backwards, away from her. “But accidents happen.”
The pair stood there Smurf looking far too pleased with herself and Andrew’s rage breaking him down inside. Every single insecurity he fought so hard against, that you’d fought so hard against, came back.
“You move back home, stop seeing her and I’ll forget either of them ever existed.”
She made it sound so simple. Like it wasn’t one of the worst things he could imagine.
Andrew had already thought about how he was going to kill Smurf. When he realised the truth about Baz. When everything started fucking up once she was out of jail. He didn’t know when. But he would. In a way that his brothers would’t know it was him.
He couldn’t imagine a life without you but maybe it was time. Smurf was right in one way. He had been selfish to keep you a part of this for so long.
He nods despite the way his mind is screaming at him.
That this isn’t right.
That you love him and he loves you.
That he is worthy.
That he can keep you safe.
That everything will be okay.
The voice sounds like you.
And in the days that follow he hears you. He listens to you. He sits as still and silent as possible to try and repeat your intonations, that soft tone in his mind, the one that makes everything feel alright.
It would be his secret.
It would be his way of coping.
Deran is the first person you see. He shouts through the door that he will literally break it down if you don’t answer which is the only reason you do after almost thirty minutes of him knocking, calling through the door and blasting your phone.
“What the fuck is going on?” He says as he walks in. Seeing you, hair unbrushed, dark circles and a blank look in your eyes reminds him of a similar looking Pope he had just left. Bare foot, shirtless he’d walked to him and broken down. He had never seen his big brother like that. He had always had you to go to. It had shook Deran to see him like that.
“What?” You ask as you walk past him to the small sitting area at the back of your apartment, Pope had built a fence for privacy. He’d laughed when you ‘made it pretty’ with flowers.
Deran joins you there. “You and Pope?”
You stay staring ahead. “He said he can’t see me anymore.”
“Bull shit. This is Smurf you know that right?”
“Course I do, Deran.” You say irritably.
“Then you know it won’t last. He can’t stay away from you. He’s a mess.”
That hurt. You were so shared of how this could end.
“I can’t force him to be with me. She’s fucked him up long before he found me. I tried.” Your voice wobbles and Deran sighs heavily. “Whatever she’s said this time… it’s took.” You knew deep down it was the same old Smurf, seeing him vulnerable after Lena and digging her claws in.
“No.” Deran shakes his head. He doesn’t get it but you’re just too exhausted to try and explain the intricacies of the eldest Cody the way you understand them. Understand him.
“He’s always thought he wasn’t good enough. She never told him otherwise.” Your face scrunches up as you try to stop yourself from crying. “None of you did.” You lash out instead. Not by shouting, not by screaming or blaming him. Just simply by saying the things you always wish you had.
“Maybe you’re right.” Deran said and when you look over at him finally, tears in your eyes he looks just as sad.
“You’re all good enough. You and Pope especially.” You smile over at him and he scoffs. He always knew you were his favourite of Pope’s brothers.
“Don’t call him Pope. It’s weird.” He laughs and so do you despite yourself. “Get dressed. You need to get hammered. On me. Come on.”
“No. I can’t.”
“Yes you can. What’s the use of owning a bar if I can’t get one of my favourite people drunk for free?” He doesn’t tell you that Pope made him promise he would look out for you. Make sure you were okay. Talk to you, make you understand what he did was for the best.
All Deran knew was that in no world was it okay for you and Pope to be apart.
You turned down the bar so Deran sat with you outside. You drank beers until, exhausted you passed out after being helped to bed by him.
When he leaves your place he see’s a familiar silhouette at the end of the complex, hidden slightly by the fence in your yard. The perfect spot where said person could see both doors and windows.
He walks up to his brother.
“You’re an idiot.”
“Is she alright?” He doesn’t look away from where your bedroom window is lit up by the dim lamp you always left on when you were alone.
“Of course, she’s not alright man.” Deran says exasperated by the both of you. “Why are you doing this?”
“To keep her safe.” Pope says simply. “So she can have a normal life.”
“A little fucking late, Pope. You’ve loved each other since you were kids. All you’re doing is fucking hurting her.”
He didn’t attack him like Deran expected him to. That made it worse somehow. He just balled up his fist, the hand that was sporting the large gash he’d gotten when he lost it on the poor woman’s car.
She was just wrong time and place. Caught the brunt of his splintering mind as she watched the glass shatter around her. He must have looked every bit the monster he was to her.
He wondered if you were the same. Wrong place. wrong time. All those years ago.
If you hadn’t met the way you did, known him the way you do would you be scared of him? Would you have ran into him on a random afternoon when he lost control?
The pain of the cut reopening, the drip of the blood through his fingers wasn’t enough.
He needed… no deserved to be punished for what he’d done.
“I’m sorry.” Pope whispered. Deran knew it was for you.
“Fuck this.” Deran rolled his eyes and left his brother stood there knowing he would stay stood there all night.
Three months was the longest you hadn’t spoke to Andrew since you’d first met him decades ago.
That didn’t mean he wasn’t still there.
You saw his silhouette everywhere and sure at first you’d thought you were imagining it. Some trick of the mind showing you the thing you most wanted. But it soon became obvious he never really left.
In the way the lightbulbs you kept forgetting to replace suddenly worked again.
The way your gas tank was full when you had left for work earlier to give yourself time to refill because you knew it had been empty.
The way your favourite houseplant had been trimmed, watered and turned towards the sun whilst you forgot. Whilst you were barely taking care of yourself. A sign that someone was rooting for you.
Your ice trays are always full and the tangle of necklaces on your dresser are neatly laid out.
Cash was tucked into bags and jackets that you knew wasn’t there before because he knows you haven’t been using their card.
How could you? It was just a reminder of everything you could never have.
The loose railing at work is fixed within 24 hours when you nearly slip down the stairs one day in a late rush.
Your alarm clock also ran ten minutes early from that day. But maybe you were crazy. Maybe they were just coincidences. But some things were too obvious.
Like he wanted you to know it was him.
You laugh and then break down crying at the sponge from your sink on the windowsill.
He was being less and less conspicuous as time went on.
You’d finally been convinced to go out one night with your friend. Then the guy you’d met last time, the one that Andrew had scared away had been handsy, taken advantage of a drunk heartbroken woman. Lucky nothing more than him groping you had happened before your friend intervened.
The guy had a ‘fall’ that same night.
Ended up in the ER with a broken jaw, ribs and his right hand a mangled mess.
Nobody really approached you after that.
You were glad.
You know the care crosses into control in ways that would only make sense to people who stopped having boundaries with each other a long time ago.
So of course you allowed it.
Because you knew it must be helping him.
You always knew it was him in a crowd, of course you did. As if you wouldn’t know him by the slope of his large shoulders. Even as you noticed them grow larger. The gait of him walking expertly in sync with you in one of those damn hoodies and a cap.
He was as familiar as the sun to you.
Deran told you that Andrew had started fighting again. Cage fighting in those grotty underground fights that Smurf put him in like a dog she wanted to get the aggression out of.
He was the biggest you’d ever seen him. The shadow of him stood at your fence, larger, wider. The way he took up more space in the crowds.
You got stronger too in your own way. You didn’t cry as much. You were still in pain. So much pain you couldn’t get out of bed sometimes but you carried on.
Deep down you believed he would be back.
You just had to survive until then.
You had caved a couple of times. A quick message here and there.
You:
I hope you’re okay.
I miss you.
You:
I’m not mad at you.
I miss you.
If it wasn’t for all the ways he was still so present, for the fact that you knew him better than you knew yourself you’d have left him be.
There was a particularly bad storm one night and when there was a knock at the door your heart stuttered. The second you’d heard the first clap of thunder you’d thought of him.
Knew he’d have thought of you too.
All the times he helped you during those storms. How if the weather report warned of thunder and lightening he would be there with take out and a blanket. How if it came unexpectedly he’d drop everything, within reason to get to you.
You had to force yourself to move. Each step a silent prayer.
You answer the door and immediately burst into tears when you see Deran.
He wraps you in his arms immediately and you cling onto him as he strokes the back of your head.
“Shit, I’m sorry. I should have called first. He told me to come.”
Later when you’re sat on your couch Deran doesn’t dare tell you just how bad it’s actually gotten.
That Pope was borderline suicidal. Reckless and searching for violence in everything.
That he was dazed and barely spoke a word.
That he was basically a shell.
That loosing Lena was enough to break him but loosing you was too much for him.
He knew it wound’t change anything. Would only make shit more painful for the both of you.
“You wanna know a secret?” You ask Deran who nods. “I’m not even scared of storms. I was when I was a kid.” You smile with a far off look in your eyes. “I actually kind of like them now. I just never told him cos I liked that he’d always come. The only time he didn’t was when he was in prison or that time you were all in Mexico.”
Deran just laughs and shakes his head at you. Wraps his arm around your shoulder so you can lean into him.
He had become a rock for you and you for him. He told you more about his life than ever before, to distract you or just because he needed someone you weren’t sure but it helped.
One thing he didn’t tell you was that he had gotten Pope to start working in the bar. Partly to keep him busy.
Partly for free labour. And partly because he was convinced he would eventually be able to convince you to come. He wasn’t sure what kind of cupid shit he was playing at but he was so sure that if you just saw each other… really saw each other you wouldn’t be able to resist.
Andrew had been near you pretty much every day since the last time he saw you. You just didn’t know it.
He’d seen you on your walks, wiping sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand, and had to resist the urge to pull over and chastise you for not having water.
He’d watched you struggle with the porch light for ten minutes before finally giving up. He came back later that night and fixed it himself.
Sometimes he parked down the street, or stand outside just to watch the silhouette of your body move behind the curtains as you wandered your house unable to sleep.
He knew your routines better than he should have. He always had. He was the type to notice every minuscule detail, any threat anyway but when it came to you it was second nature.
Knew which windows you forgot to lock when you were tired. Knew you never checked the back seat before getting into your car.
Once, during a storm, he drove across at two in the morning because he suddenly remembered the kitchen window over your sink didn’t close all the way. Angry at being too distracted to have fixed it already. He stood in your dark kitchen dripping rainwater onto the floor while he forced it shut. Then he fixed it the next time you were at your parents house visiting.
He replaced the batteries in your smoke detector before they could start chirping because he remembered the way that sound annoyed you.
He started taking the same trail two cars behind yours after a man stared at you for too long one evening.
Your tires never stayed low for long anymore. Your favourite snacks never ran out.
It was pathetic, probably.
The way he still moved through the world like your safety belonged to him. Like loving you had rewired some primitive part of his brain permanently.
Even now, even away from you, he still caught himself scanning parking lots, imagining you walking through them alone. Still checked weather alerts and thought about whether your tires could handle the rain.
Still woke up in the middle of the night certain he’d heard your voice.
But he hadn’t planned for this. Sat at the bar talking to Deran. No doubt a scheme from his younger brother.
He didn’t get it. He didn’t know Smurf had had Baz killed, not definitely. Didn’t see the glint in her eyes as she threatened your safety.
Fury at his brother rose in him until you stood up and he saw you were wearing a new dress. His rage floated away on the hem of it as it brushed just above your knee.
It was a dress he’d never seen before. White cotton. You were slightly more tanned than usual. He had noticed you sat out more now.
His angel.
As always.
You started walking towards the door he was peeping through the window of and he ducked down. He lifted back up just in time to see you disappear into the corridor with the storage room and like a man possessed he followed you.
He see’s the edge of the white dress disappear around the door, he can smell your perfume and remember the way your eyes look into his. Seeing all the things he’s begged people to see before but didn’t. Never mattered as much that they didn’t once you had.
He can’t look into those eyes right now, can’t bare to.
But he needs you. He always will.
Slipping into the room behind you before the door shuts he hears you curse at the loss of light. It makes his chest ache at the thought of you being worried. It’s pitch black but he finds you. Thinks about how he always would.
You gasp as he steps behind you, his chest against your back.
“Shh. It’s just me, sweetheart.” He whispers against your skin as he burrows into your neck. Knowing the hypocrisy of him telling you not to be scared of a monster but you were someone who would never ever need to be scared of him.
“Andrew…” You sigh in relief but his hand slides up to cover your mouth.
“Shh…” He silences you gently, recognises the sad edge in your voice and it will break him.
One solid arm is around your waist until it slides up, over your breasts to rest on your chest, feeling your heart and swearing it beats the same rhythm as his.
His hands are all over you, he fists the cotton skirt of your dress into his hands as he wraps his arms around you. He doesn’t kiss you, just buries his face into the crook of your neck. Over the shell of your ear, your hairline… breathing you in. Three months without you this close felt like another three years. In another life he wouldn’t have left your side for a second.
He’s trembling and you reach down to cover his hands with your own. He lets you lace your fingers with his and he moans softly in your ear at the simple touch.
You don’t stop him when his hands trace patterns on your inner thighs making your knees weak but he just pulls you closer to him. Pushing you softly against the shelving unit. He’s memorising the feel of you under his palms, giving himself this one moment of weakness. If you’ll let him.
There was no question about it. You’d give him anything he wanted if he just stayed. Never wanting the moment to end.
“Miss you…” He murmurs as he pushes his forehead against your shoulder. You try to turn wanting to face him but he doesn’t let you.
“I miss you so much…” Just as much pain in your voice that it makes his eyes and throat burn as he forces away the tears.
The hard lines of his body press against yours and you feel how much more solid he is, bigger than you think you’ve ever known him and you so badly want to look at him. Tell him how good he looks but you don’t want to compliment something caused by his violent distractions.
You slide your hands over the muscles in his forearms instead as he tries to almost fuse your bodies together. One hand slides up his arm to reach behind you and when your fingers stroke through his hair, nails scratching gently into his scalp he turns his face into you, leaving desperate kisses down the back of your neck.
You shiver against him as one of his hands disappears under your skirt to stroke gently just above your panties. That silent question brings tears to your eyes and you nod as you push his hand further down. All the permission he needs and his hand slides into your panties, straight down to your slit.
The noise he let out was low and involuntary. The kind you knew him to make when he was trying his best to behave. He can never believe how wet you are. For him.
You had been the second you felt his chest against your back, heard that rough voice in your ear.
He sucks gently on your neck as you give yourself over to him. He rubs around your slit to gather the wetness, his thick fingers parting your folds, wasting no time before rubbing maddening circles on your clit. You moan and you head falls back onto his shoulder as his other hand joins, fingers delving into you, his strong arms a vice around you, keeping you in place. Keeping you stable.
“Please…” You beg but you aren’t even sure what for. For his words… for an orgasm… for fucking anything from him.
“Can I fuck you? Please.” He asks in a pathetic voice that has you clenching around his fingers. “You can say no. I don’t deserve you… You’re so beautiful.”
“I’m yours, handsome. Always yours.”
Something about that confirmation flicks a switch in him and no sooner has he pulled his hands out of your panties you hear the cling of his belt. His zip lowering before he pushed the skirt of your dress up your back, gently guiding you to bed over slightly.
You’re shaking with need when he pushes into you in one long stroke, knowing you can take him.
“I’m sorry…” He whispers but his voice isn’t as tortured as before.
His pace is fast, frenzied as he fucks into you hard, the new muscle and weight of him behind you, the shelving unit rattling in front of you. You feel him gather the material of your dress, twisting it. Feel it tighten as he wraps it around his wrist and knuckles, using it to pull you back into him.
You can only moan imagining how his hand and arm looks doing it.
He’s whispering incoherent things that you can’t make out, no matter how hard you try to quieten your little gasps every time his hips push against your ass.
“You’re mine. No matter what. You’re mine.” He growls in your ear as he bends over you fisting your ponytail in his hand before straightening back up.
He pulls gently on your ponytail again, drawing you back against his chest until there’s not an inch of space left between you. The sudden closeness punches a helpless sound from your throat. You feel yourself tighten around him instantly.
Even in the dark he knows you’re close.
His hand stays wrapped loosely in your hair, patient, guiding, until your neck arches back fully against him, the crown of your head settling between his broad pecs. You can feel the weight and warmth of him everywhere now. His chest rising behind you with heavy breaths.
If it wasn’t pitch black you know he would be looking down at you, eyes dark and fill of lust.
Then his mouth brushes softly against your forehead.
A kiss so gentle whilst he pounds into you it undoes you completely.
You come with a broken cry, body trembling against his, and he groans quietly at the feeling of it, pulling you even tighter against him like instinct.
“Yeah… that’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your ear, rough voice shaking. “Fuck, you feel so good for me.”
His hand slips from your ponytail only to wrap around you again, secure and heavy, holding you through it while his breathing turns uneven against your skin. You feel yourself getting wetter, gushing as you come around him, milking his cock so well that he can’t help but come inside you.
His cock is pulsing inside you and you whine as you both feel the aftershocks.
He’s collapsed against you, breathing heavily against the nape of your neck leaving kisses wherever he can reach. Allowing himself this time to pretend that nothing else outside of you exists.
“Shit… I’m s…sorry.” You hear him from behind you before he pulls out of you, putting your dress and panties back into place. It feels so unlike what you’re used to from him afterwards. You tense, not even turning, steeling yourself for what you know is coming. The moment he leaves again.
“It’s okay…” You whisper as he fixes himself.
“Im so sorry.” He says softly. He’s just stood there behind you and you spin so quick your weakened legs almost falter but he steadies you. His large hands strong and painfully familiar. You tilt your head up and his lowers, his forehead finding yours like he couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried. And when you both exhale, softly, pure relief he presses his face against yours.
Cheek to cheek like you fit into the indents of him and him to you. His grip tightens on your waist as his lips brush the corner of your mouth ever so slightly but then he pulls away. Abruptly with gritted teeth like it’s painful not to kiss you.
And then he’s gone. He knows he has to before he forgets why he has to.
You stand in the dark hearing him shouting, hear a loud crash from the kitchen and open the door to peek out.
“You don’t get it Deran! She…I CAN’T let anything happen to her. Not because of me.” You hear Andrew shouting before everything goes too quiet for you to hear anything and you use the moment to slip out of the bar.
You don’t cry.
You think about how he’s still there. Still orbiting you in all the ways that matter. Her claws weren’t as deep as you thought.
And for the first time in months, the ache inside you feels a little close to hope.
A lot of surprising things had happened to you in your life. It was anything but boring being so heavily involved with a Cody. But nothing. And you mean nothing had ever surprised you as much as seeing Smurf at your door a few days later.
She’s in a casual grey hoodie. Very unlike herself. She looks worn out.
“How do you know where I live?” Is the only thing you can think of to say.
“Baby I’ve always known where you live.” She scoffs and you can tell she’s a little drunk. Great. She walks into your home like she owns the place in true Smurf fashion. Just side steps past you into your apartment.
What’s Andrews is hers, you suppose.
She looks around before heading to the kitchen and the way she looks around before doing so at least gives you some security that she hadn’t been inside before.
“You win.” She sighs as she drops into one of your dining chairs, the same one Baz had been in. The memory felt like an ice cold rod down your spine.
“What the fuck are you talking about.” You ask you sit across from her. Not wanting her shit. It had been a hard three months.
“He needs you. Not me.” She leans back in her chair before pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. “He’s been a wreck without you. You might think I’m a selfish bitch but I love my sons. I can’t watch my baby boy like this anymore.”
You study her. The silence long enough for her to need to flick ash into your houseplant twice. The one Andrew had paid special attention to keeping alive you. One thing you had learnt during your time with this family was to never take anything this woman said with face value.
Something had happened. Something that Smurf couldn’t control. Smurf would not be admitting this if not.
“What did you say to him? To make him stay away?” You say it with such certainty that that is the only reason he would have that she rolls her eyes.
She looks mad but there’s something else in her eyes that looks a lot like shame. She just shrugs like she wants it to be known she doesn’t care. That what she’s about to say doesn’t affect her.
“Told him he was going to get you hurt… or killed.” You’d suspected something along those lines. “Told him I’d forget that Lena and you existed if he didn’t see you again and moved back home.”
“Fuck Smurf you never fail to amaze me with how astoundingly fucked up you are.” You knew it was something. But hearing what had made all the progress you’d made crash down broke your heart.
“I have cancer.” She says it like she’s telling you she has a nail appointment.
You freeze. Not sure what to say.
“We might not see eye to eye but Andrew’s gonna need you when I’m gone.” The look in her eye, not vulnerable but as close as she got made you see her in a way you hadn’t for a very long time. A mother. “Sure as hell not leaving him with that junkie Angela.”
“What?” Your heart stutters.
Angela.
You probably hated her only a little less than Smurf. Her and Julia had become friends around the same time you first met Andrew before you’d even met his family. Even from a young age you could read her. Always out for what she could gain. Whether it was Andrew’s violence or Julia’s generosity. The Cody reputation.
She’d kissed Andrew when they were younger since they were the same age. You remembered fully hating her from the second Julia told you about it. She hated you back because Andrew never left your side and that’s what she wanted. She was poison just like Smurf. Just a different strain. Not as potent but still something to avoid.
It didn’t stay a childish hatred though.
She eventually was the reason Julia’s addiction spiralled. She was one of the people who poisoned Julia against you when you were the only one she let help her.
The thought of her around Andrew. Around J made your blood boil.
The glint in Smurfs eyes made it all clear.
“Don’t worry, baby there’s nothing going on there. He’s only ever had eyes for you. She’s just hanging around him, using him for a place to stay. She hasn’t changed. But he’s vulnerable so he can’t see it.”
“That bitch has always been able to smell any vulnerability a mile off.”
Smurf smirks around her cigarette as she nods. As if she’s not exactly the same. Just better at it.
“He’s probably just trying to help her… like he didn’t Julia.”
Smurf smiles. “You’ve always known my Andrew. Only other person besides me who knows what’s going on inside that head of his.” You want to argue.
You don’t.
She can tell you have so much you want to say and aren’t. She laughs again.
“You’re smart. You weren’t like all the other floozies the boys brought home. I liked that.” She stubs out the cigarette in the soil and you immediately pull it out and stand to throw it through the window.
You snort as you sit back down. “You never liked me.”
She just shrugs slightly with a smirk. “And you never liked me.”
“We agree on something then.”
She laughs before she stands up. You had never heard this woman laugh as much in your entire life.
Your eyes meet hers, and something settles between you both. Not a truce exactly. Just an understanding that he was the most important thing.
“Come on. I want that conniving bitch out of my house.”
“I can’t just turn up.” You say. Part of you is worried he will still turn you away through fear.
“Sure you can.” She turns to look at you. Straight faced and serious. “You’re family.” There’s something about the way she says it. Like it’s just a statement or order maybe? To look after him. As if she had ever had to tell you to do that. “I’ll wait in the car.”
“What the fuck.” You whisper as she leaves.
That was never something you thought you’d hear from that woman’s mouth.
“She’ll be in the kitchen making a god damn mess.” Smurf tells you as enter the house. “I’ll be by the pool if you need me.” She says sarcastically. You knew her and you would be business as usual now.
Your heart is racing when you walk into the kitchen. Not sure how the sight of Andrew and Angela would feel. The small insecurity, that what if… what if he didn’t choose you.
The other reason your heart was racing was the fact that you might have Andrew back in your arms tonight. Finally.
The second you saw her, alone, thankfully all you saw was red. She was making herself at home like she always had.
When she spotted you her face fell and you couldn’t help but smirk.
“Miss me?” You say sarcastically.
“Should have known you wouldn’t be gone for long.” She sighs like she’s extremely put out by your appearance. Good.
“Should have known you’d come try to leach of the Cody’s some more.”
“I came to find Julia.”
“Cut the shit. You expect me to believe you didn’t know she was dead?”
“I was in jail.” Her mannerisms were still that of a moody teenage girl and you knew for certain she hadn’t changed.
“Exactly.” You say. It was all the same people, all the same circles of course she heard about her best friend dying. You were livid. “Pack your shit.” You cant deny you have more confidence knowing Smurf agreed.
“No. Pope wants me here.”
You grit your teeth and let out an exhale, trying to stay calm.
“Andrew is trying to be nice to his dead twin sister’s best friend. You know why? Cos he’s actually a good person.”
Angela scoffs.
“Don’t fucking laugh.” You spit. “You don’t know him. You see a place to stay and an easy way to score.”
“I’m sober.” You don’t believe her. You shrug your shoulders and shake your head.
“I honestly don’t give a fuck.” You walk up to her slowly until you’re right in front of her “You’re done using this family.”
“You always thought you were better than us all. You stuck up bitch. Mommy and daddy paid for everything. You’ve no idea what a hard life is. I understand him in a way you never could.”
Angela’s getting angry now and it’s because she knows, she remembers that Andrew has always and will always choose you.
You just shake your head. “You know nothing about me.” Your family were by no means rich, it was always pay check to pay check which is why they couldn’t help you when pope was in prison. You didn’t want them worrying. “It’s actually Andrew that pays for everything. Won’t take no for an answer.” You grin as she looks at you like she wants to claw at you.
He doesn’t. Not everything but she doesn’t need to know that and you just want to make her mad.
“Pack. Your. Shit.” You growl, a glare Andrew would be proud of. “Or I’ll do it.”
“You’re a fucking bitch. Julia always hated you.”
“No she didn’t.” You laugh in her face because you know it’s not true. You loved Julia. And she had loved you.
Andrew and Julia’s bond went beyond anybodies, you’d always known that. Never tried to touch it. She was just happy to have someone else who cared about him.
“You better get out of my face, sweetie you’ve no idea what I’ve had to do to survive in the last two years.” Angela says.
“Make me.” You say and just as Angela pulls back her arm Andrew’s large figure appears behind her grabbing her arm with a grip that makes her cry out.
“Don’t you fucking dare.” He growls.
It’s the first time you’ve seen him in three months and instantly you notice how sad he looks. How the scowl that he wore around everyone else had deepened. Noticed the faded bruise on his cheekbone and the healing cut above his eyebrow.
You were right. He is bigger. More solid. He uses that strength as he drags Angela into one of the bedrooms you assume she’d been staying in and pushes her in so hard she bounces off the wall. “You heard her… pack your shit.” He slams the door behind her so hard you feel the floor shake.
And then he walks back over to you looking you up and down. Making sure you’re okay. Making sure you’re real after aching for you every second you were apart. You close the gap between you both, reaching out for him.
You feel like you’re back where you both started as he looks at you with those sad eyes like he’s expecting you to laugh and tell him you’re joking. He looks every bit the kicked puppy backed into a corner unsure if the hand reaching was to harm or to heal.
You could tell the last few months, loosing Lena, loosing you, Smurfs manipulation back tenfold only to find out she had cancer had splintered his mind in some way.
The confidence you’d helped him build piece by piece gone and all you could think was where to start. How to build him back up like you had done time and time again. His eyes fall shut as he pushes his face into your palm.
“I thought you said she doesn’t get to say how things are supposed to be, huh?” Angela’s agitating voice comes from behind him and he tenses. His hands going to your waist, he doesn’t even turn to acknowledge her, just makes sure he’s blocking you. “But she is?”
“I think you already got your answer.” Smurf says from the open door. You can only imagine how pleased with herself she looks. Andrew does move then, turns instinctively to face her not letting you move beside him when you try.
“You guys are still just as fuckin’ weird.” Angela shouts, defeated. You watch her leave, glaring back her.
The front door slams.
“Hallelujah.” Smurf sighs. “Well done, baby.” Only then does Andrew let you step out beside him. A confused look on his face. You look down at the floor suddenly feeling like you had betrayed him in some way by helping Smurf. But you would explain.
“You don’t need to worry, okay baby?” She’s talking to Andrew now. “Our deal still stands.” She looks over at me. “But me and her have our own now.”
You nod slowly. Unsure if you’d done the right thing.
When she leaves you turn to him wringing your hands. “I’m sorry.” You say. “I know this must look…”
“I heard everything you said to Angela.” He says simply. His mouth pinches up in one corner, his eyes worried. “You aint got to be sorry… I do…”
You shake your head pulling him into you, hands stroking through his hair and rubbing his back comfortingly.
“Shhh… it’s okay, handsome.” You shush him. His arms just hang by his sides but not in a way that he doesn’t want to hold you. Just that he doesn’t feel like he deserves to and you realise you’ve really got your work cut out for you this time. “She told me everything.”
He cries as his arms finally wrap around you so tightly that momentarily the air pushes out of you but you say nothing. Just hold him.
As you turn your head in the embrace you see Smurf outside laid on her sun lounger, bathed in darkness. Her face remains unreadable, but the resignation in her eyes is impossible to miss. The kind that comes from realizing some things were decided long before you ever tried to stop them.
You and Andrew had woven yourselves too tightly into each other to ever come apart cleanly.
an: it’s been a long time since I wrote this guy, so go easy on me! this was just an idea I had this afternoon, so I wrote it down. dedicated to @intheorangebedroom — she’ll know why ❤️
—
The movie ended about an hour ago.
The screen went black, and then the TV turned off, and the room was left in a dusky, liminal space, where nothing held its true color, only variations on the color that you knew existed.
The stripes on the worn blanket you were sitting on, the colorful skulls that hung on the wall from an exhibition you saw last month, the art you had framed – it was all tinged in a greyish-blue that served as a holding space for the tension steadily rising between the two of you, from your spots on the couch.
You had met him at a café – a lone American sitting at the bar while the locals sat outside. Your elbow had bumped into his when you went inside to pay, and your apology had turned into a conversation, and then into an offer to meet up.
He – Francisco, as he introduced himself – was traveling for a few weeks, and in a show of courage that had you surprising yourself, you offered to be his guide.
Maybe it was the glint of interest in his eyes. Or maybe it was the hint of dark curls under his hat, ones that had you wondering how soft they were. Maybe it was the look on his face – first an assessing, intensely soulful look that pinned you in place, then a surprisingly vulnerable one that held you there.
Whatever it was, you offered and he accepted. Day trips had turned into night walks, had turned into this meeting at your place for a home-cooked meal, which had then turned into….this.
This aching space, where anything was possible.
This muted space, that was devoid of color but so rich in other things: in the low, gravely drag of his voice, in the heady, masculine scent of his skin, in the gentle caress of his fingers playing idly with yours.
Slumped together on your sofa, shoulder to shoulder, a low pitch of conversation is exchanged between you in the dark room. Your breath is shallow, your heart racing, your mind hoping – yet you sit still and let him play: his fingers sliding between yours, his thumb brushing over your skin, his touch tracing your knuckles.
He is so close you can feel him talking as well as hear it. So close you can smell a whiff of the detergent he uses.
Turning your head in reply to something he says, your warm breath mingles in the shared space between your mouths. His breathing seems just like yours, a cross between holding it in fear of breaking the moment, and taking sips just to breathe each other in.
The room around you is pregnant with intimacy, with the occasional street noise that drifts in on the wind, and in this aching quiet, his hand lifts to cup your jaw, the tension between your bodies swelling to new heights….
And then, he kisses you.
His mouth is tender, exploring. Weighted, firm. His lips press fully against yours, capturing you in place, fingertips brushing against the hinge of your jaw. Your mouth parts to invite him in, and he accepts with a slow slide of his tongue, tasting, tasting, tasting. The kiss deepens with a sigh, your body melting backwards to pull him on top of you and he follows your guidance, seeking out your closeness and your flavor, his hands beginning to wander, just like yours.
The comforting, solid weight of his body presses you into the couch, his hips finding a home between the cradle of your thighs. You kiss, and kiss. Lips sealing together, mouths opening wide, tongues sliding together to savor taste.
The room sees it all – a blank canvas for the bright bursting thing happening between you two. The thing that’s been there from the start, finally coming to fruition. Everything drips – the grey walls bathed in intimacy, the muted tones awash with arousal, the clinging cotton covering your core.
Your laps grind together, your aligned bodies melding as his strong arms wrap around you to hold you close, and your ankles hook over his lower back. Your fingers slide through his curls and they are exactly as soft as you thought they’d be, like slippery silk.
You give them a tug, and are rewarded with his lowest, neediest groan yet.
Weighted with want, rumbled into your open mouth.
The movie ended an hour and a half ago, and his form joins the dusky tones of the room when he kneels between your bare thighs, your jeans and panties hooked around one ankle while it’s his tongue this time that sparks and lights, washing your body in arousal so strong it hurts.
He delves deep, licks wide, flicks and swirls and laps.
With your back arched, he devours.
His broad back is reflected in the black screen of your TV, the filthy image of his grey t-shirt pulling tight between his shoulder blades in his hungry hunch, his dark curls tucked between your spread thighs. Your fingers curl to grasp at the blanket beneath you and you roll your hips into his hungry mouth until your moans break the weighted silence, joining the night sounds from outside.
He joins you on the couch after that, even though it’s not big enough for what he has in mind. It’s a two seater, a small thing, but he makes it work when he stretches out on top of you and smears your own wetness against your mouth with his searing kiss, and reaches between the press of your bodies to unbuckle his belt.
There are other people in your building – a neighbor whom you share a wall with, who you only hear on football match days. A woman beneath you, the shouts of her children heard sometimes through the vents. Still more in the floors beneath them, and in the streets outside, and in the expanse of the city as it spreads across the earth – yet your entire existence is reduced to this one room when he opens your mouth with his just as he slides forward to break you open with a filling, weighted grind.
Your teeth catch his lower lip when you whine underneath him, and you can tell he likes it, this confirmation that he’s a lot to take. He grins against your mouth – decadent and filthy, slightly cocky and mischievous – and begins to fuck you on your couch like he’s been planning it since day one, from that first meeting in the bar.
He fucks with intent, with purpose. With experience, with competence. But also just like that first meeting, his intensity gives way to something more base, something feral and open and vulnerable. Like he can’t help the need that pours out, or the way he seeks your warmth.
His hips rock forward, demanding you take him in your pinned place underneath his body. His strokes are a rolled grind that has you lifting yours to meet his, forcing him deeper as your nails dig into his lower back, holding on.
The room absorbs every filthy sound: the humid panting of breath, the needy, low moans, his grunts that match the rhythmic punch of his hips. Filthy confessions pour from his mouth – your pussy feels so good, I wanted to fuck you the first time we met, bet your mouth was made for me too, your fucking pussy is so tight I’m gonna cum, you’re going to make me cum.
Every piece of praise washes over the sensitive hollow beneath your ear.
It’s like rebirth, like baptism. Like your life was as muted and dull as the small room around you and he found you and tugged you into the bright bursting daylight, plunging you into a colored life of sensation, of aching desire, of feelings too strong to be real.
When he comes, you join him, a tear sliding from the corner of your eye.
The movie ended two hours ago, and dawn breaks on the horizon somewhere outside. It trickles in through your open window, a slice of barely illuminated gold.
Sated and spent, he lays on top of you and your fingers drift mindlessly through his damp roots, over his soft shirt, along the firm planes of his skin. It’s a tight fit, an uncomfortable one that you don’t mind, when he shifts his weight off you to tuck himself into the back of the couch, holding you close against him.
While he dozes, you stay awake.
Bird sounds replace the quiet, light illuminates the darkness. From your spot crushed against his chest, you watch his pulse beat under his skin, strong and steady. Leaning in, you inhale his scent from the place on his body drenched with it – the hollow of his throat.
Slowly, lightly, as light slips into the room and brings color with it, you brush your fingers over the freckles that dot his skin just above his collar. There is a cluster you’ve been obsessed with since you first saw him, and you find them, dusted across his skin.
Resting your mouth against them, you let your eyes close as you press a kiss that lingers.
A full press of your mouth — one that lingers, then stays, as you fall asleep.
Genre: slow-burn • dark!romance • drama • modern AU (no outbreak) • enemies to lovers •hurt/comfort
Warnings: 18+ • minors do not interact • age gap (reader early 20s, Joel late 40s) • arranged marriage • emotional manipulation • controlling parent • themes of coercion and loss of independence• power imbalance • mentions of violence (mafia context) • isolation • slow-burn tension • eventually smut • grief / parental death • complex morality • virgin/inexperienced reader • emotional distress • physical violence/restraint
Chapter summary: In the quiet aftermath of violence, something between you and Joel begins to change. What was once obligation starts to feel like something far more intimate, even as old loyalties rot beneath the surface and questions of blame, trust, and choice refuse to stay buried, and the fragile distance that once defined you starts to soften into something far more dangerous. But when trust begins to grow where fear once lived, what does that make the two of you now?
Word count: approx. 12 k words
Note: Hello my lovelies! Thank you all so much for staying with me and this little story so far, and for being so supportive and involved. I am feeling a little off lately, for different reasons, and writing and engaging myself on this platform has been a huge comfort for me. Reading all your lovely, funny and incredibly insightful comments and messages is always an immense joy and probably the biggest motivation to keep going with it.
This chapter took me awhile (again, I am so sorry!) because i felt the need to change bits here and there and I still feel like it lacks a bit of what I had initially envisioned for it. But I sincerely hope you might still enjoy it and without further ado, here we go.
As always, please let me know what you think, and I hope you enjoy! ♥️
Storyline: Her father calls it peace — a truce sealed with her name. She’s promised to Joel Miller, a man whispered about in back rooms, the one meant to end the bloodshed between their families. Obedient, quiet, she’s spent her life learning how to stay small inside gilded walls. But peace demands obedience, and Joel Miller doesn’t seem like the kind of man who asks nicely. Somewhere between fear and fascination, she starts to forget which side she’s on.
Chapter 9: The Reckoning
—
You were six the first time you understood that fear could humiliate you more than it frightened you.
The house had already gone dark hours ago. The long corridor outside your room lay in strips of moonlight and shadow, the marble cold beneath your bare feet as you stood there in your nightgown, one hand still curled tight around the edge of the blanket you had dragged with you. You had woken from a dream you could no longer remember properly, only the feeling of it still lodged hard beneath your ribs. Something chasing, something lost, something terrible just beyond the point of waking. The sort of fear that feels enormous when you are small and alone in the dark.
For a while you had tried to be good about it. You had lain still in bed and stared at the ceiling and told yourself not to cry. You had pulled the covers up to your chin. You had counted to fifty the way Anna sometimes told you to when you were upset. But the fear had not gone anywhere. It had only changed shape, settling colder and heavier inside you until the silence in your room felt unbearable.
So you had gone looking for your father. Even then, some instinct in you still believed that fathers were meant to be a kind of answer.
Victor Moretti’s door stood half-open, the light cutting a pale gold line across the hall. You knocked once, softly, because you already understood enough to know that nothing about him should ever be approached too loudly.
There was a pause. Then you heard his voice, flat and tired.
“What is it?”
You pushed the door open just enough to look in. Your father was sitting at the desk by the window, his spectacles low on his nose, a ledger or contract open beneath his hand. He did not rise when he saw you. Helooked at the clock on the mantel and then back at you, as though the lateness itself were already an accusation.
“I couldn’t sleep,” you said quietly.
His eyes moved over you once: you in your nightgown, blanket in hand, with bare feet. Small and frightened and inconvenient in the doorway.
“You should be in bed.”
You tightened your grip on the blanket. “I had a bad dream.”
Victor exhaled once through his nose. “You are too old to come standing in my doorway over a dream.”
At six, you did not yet have the language for humiliation, only the feeling of heat rising behind your eyes and the sudden terrible wish to become smaller than you already were.
“I just—” you began, then stopped.
He had already looked back down at the papers on his desk. “I’ll send Anna,” he said. “Go back to your room.”
You did not move immediately. Maybe because you were still hoping for a different ending, for him to look up properly or to notice you were shaking. To say something gentler than that. To hold out a hand. To ask what the dream had been. To do any of the shapeless things children expect without knowing how to name them.
Instead, Victor’s voice sharpened by one degree. “Do not make me repeat myself.”
You nodded quietly before he could say anything more. Then you turned and walked back down the corridor with the blanket gathered in both fists, your throat aching with the effort of not crying until you were safely out of sight.
Anna came a few minutes later. She tucked the covers around you, cooled your forehead with a cloth you did not need, and left the lamp turned low by the bed. She was kind. You knew that. But kindness borrowed from staff is not the same thing as being wanted in your fear.
You had learned something that night you would go on learning for years. That nights like this were to be swallowed quietly. That fear was better hidden than offered. That if comfort came at all, it would come secondhand. And that love, whatever else it might be, was not the thing waiting for you when you woke afraid in the dark.
—
Warmth found you before waking did. The slow, even heat at your back, the weight of something solid along the length of you, the steady rise and fall beneath your cheek that your body seemed to know before your mind did. You lay very still inside it, suspended somewhere between sleep and consciousness, where sensation arrives first and understanding lags a few seconds behind.
A hand rested broad and heavy at the middle of your back, another was curled near the back of your head, not gripping, not restraining, only there in the loose, protective way of someone who had fallen asleep still half-keeping watch.
Joel.
The knowledge moved through you slowly, almost soundlessly, and with it came the memory of the night before in scattered flashes: the nightmare; the panic; the terrible, breathless feeling of falling apart inside your own skin; his voice cutting through it; his arms gathering you in before your body even knew how badly it needed somewhere to go. And then afterwards, the half-spoken apology, the confession you hadn’t meant to make, the certainty in his voice when he told you none of it was your fault and your father would never touch you here again.
Then this.
You were in your own bed. Morning had not fully arrived yet. The room was still washed in that thin, gray light that comes before the world commits to day, enough to shape the furniture and the curtains and the edge of the dresser, but not enough to burn away softness. Scout was somewhere near the foot of the bed, you realized dimly, because every so often you could hear the faint jingle of his tags when he shifted in sleep.
And Joel was still here. You became aware of him in pieces after that, each one gentler and more undoing than the last. The rasp of his shirt beneath your fingers. The warmth of his throat near your temple. The line of his forearm where it curved around you. The solid breadth of his chest under your cheek, broad enough that you could feel your own breathing slowly beginning to match his without meaning to.
He was asleep still, or close enough to it. You could tell by the heaviness of him, by the way his breathing remained deep and even. By the fact that he was holding you not with the alert caution he used when you were hurt and watching him, but with the loose instinct of a body that had kept its promise even after the mind had given in to exhaustion.
For one long, strange moment you only lay there and let yourself feel it. Then, because your mind had always been cruelest at the edges of tenderness, another memory slipped in beside the first.
The wedding night. Then, your whole skin had flinched from the fact of him touching you. Now, waking inside the shape of that touch unsettled you for an entirely different reaso: Because you liked it.
Not liked in the easy way stories make it seem. Not simple, not free of everything that had happened between you. The memory of the wedding bed still lived where it lived, but alongside it now was this impossible second thing: your body registering the warmth of him, the masculinity of him, the sheer physical comfort of waking held against the length of him, and not wanting to move away.
You shifted only slightly, trying to ease the ache in your shoulder, but even that small movement was enough. Joel’s hand at your back tightened by a fraction and his breath changed. Then he woke in the quiet, unstartled way some men do, as if consciousness rose up through him rather than taking him by surprise.
You felt the exact moment he became aware of where he was. Of who you were. Of the fact that you were awake and lying against him exactly as he had fallen asleep holding you. Then his hand stilled completely.
You lifted your head just enough to see his face. His eyes were open now, still darkened by sleep and that gray half-light, his hair slightly disordered, his expression caught for a beat in something unguarded, like caution.
“Hey,” he said at last, his voice low and rough from sleep.
“Hi,” you whispered back.
Neither of you moved. Joel’s gaze flicked over your face once, quickly and thoroughly in the old instinctive way he had developed over the last days.
“How’re you feelin’?”
You considered the question honestly. Your head still ached, though not with the same blinding force as before. Your ribs were sore. Your shoulder was a heavy, persistent reminder of itself. But beneath all of that, or maybe around it, there was something else now, something calmer.
“Better,” you said softly. “A little.”
His mouth shifted. “I’ll take a little.”
The quiet that followed was not awkward exactly. Or maybe it was, but only in the gentlest way. Not because either of you wanted out of it. More because neither of you seemed to know how to step forward without disturbing what had somehow settled between you in the night.
Joel looked at you for another second, then lowered his voice even further. “Did I hurt your shoulder?”
It took you a moment to understand what he meant. Then you realized he was asking about this. About the way you were folded into him, about the fact that at some point in the night he had climbed fully into bed and held you there until sleep took you both.
“No,” you said quickly. Too quickly, almost. You swallowed and tried again, softer this time. “No. You didn’t.”
His hand, still resting warm and broad at your back, did not move. “I wasn’t sure if you’d remember any of it,” he said.
“I remember enough.”
His eyes searched yours once, as if checking whether that was a good thing or a bad one. You had no idea what your face gave away. Perhaps more than you meant it to, because his gaze dropped briefly. To your hair against his shoulder, maybe, or to the hand of yours still curled loosely in the front of his shirt, and when it came back to you there was a so much care in it, one that seemed to understand exactly how precarious this morning was.
“`S your head bad?” he asked.
“Not as bad.”
He nodded once. There was another pause. Then, very carefully, “You want me to let go?”
The question should have made the answer easy, except it didn’t. Because now that he had asked it, you were suddenly aware of everything at once: how close you were, how your leg lay caught along the line of his, how easy it would be for him to move away, how different the room would feel the second he did. And underneath that, deeper and harder to admit, the truth you had already discovered before he woke: you did not want him to.
Your hesitation must have lasted only a second or two, but it felt like enough to fill the whole room. Joel`s eyes held yours and you saw the exact moment understanding flickered there, followed immediately by restraint.
You lowered your gaze because looking at him had become suddenly too much. “You can stay,” you murmured. Then, because the words felt too bare on their own, “If you want.”
When you looked back up, something in his face had softened into a kind of disbelief so controlled it almost wasn’t visible at all.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rougher now. “I want.”
The admission was simple, barely above a murmur, but it changed the air anyway.
Joel’s hand moved then, but only enough to settle a little more securely at your back, not drawing you closer so much as answering the permission you had given.
For another few breaths neither of you spoke. The light in the room had begun to shift, soft gray turning slowly toward morning. Scout made a low sound in his sleep and resettled himself at the foot of the bed.
You could not think of anything safe to do with your eyes after that, so you let them drift toward the collar of his shirt instead. The fabric was rumpled from sleep and your own grip. One of the buttons near his throat had come loose at some point, enough that you could see a narrow glimpse of skin there, warm in the morning dimness. The sight of it sent something small and startled through you, an unmistakable pulse of physical awareness sharpened by closeness and the knowledge that you were allowed, at least for this moment, to remain here.
It must have shown somewhere in your face, or maybe your silence had changed shape, because Joel’s voice gentled further still.
“What is it?”
You almost laughed from nerves alone. “Nothing.”
He gave you a look that said he believed that about as much as Marta ever did. “You’ve got a real bad habit of sayin’ ‘nothing’ when it’s clearly somethin’.”
Despite everything, a breath of amusement escaped you. “Marta says the same thing.”
The corner of his mouth lifted properly then, enough to alter his whole face. “Then maybe you oughta start listenin’ to the both of us.”
You looked at him. At how different he was here, unarmed by daylight and this bed and the fragile intimacy of a morning neither of you had planned. And because the memory of the wedding night still existed somewhere inside you — because you could remember exactly how hard and unreadable he had seemed then, how unreachable — seeing him like this now felt almost disorienting.
The same man. The same breadth of him. But everything else was different now. So different that the contrast struck you almost harder than the warmth itself.
Then, you had lain rigid as wire beneath his hands, every inch of your body braced for whatever would come next. Now, you were already folded into him before your mind had even fully surfaced.
Then, silence had felt unbearable, sharp enough to cut. Now, the quiet between you seemed almost sacred, full rather than empty.
Then, his size had been a threat you measured in instinctive fear. Now, the same size made your body understand something it had never known how to trust before: shelter.
Now, lying here with his arm around you and sleep still low in his voice, he felt dangerously close to becoming a place.
Joel seemed to sense the shift in you. He did not ask for more. Instead, after a moment, he said, “You want breakfast up here?”
You blinked, startled by the simple practicality of it. He went on in that same low tone, as if easing the both of you toward safer ground. “Marta’ll bring it up if I ask. Or coffee first, if that’s all your head can stand.”
The image was so ordinary, so domestic — breakfast in bed, coffee, morning — that for one ridiculous moment it felt stranger than anything else that had happened between you.
“I don’t know if I can eat much.”
“That’s alright,” he said. “You don’t have to eat much. Just enough not to make the doc start yellin’ at me.”
This time your laugh came easier and Joel’s gaze changed when he heard it. “There you are,” he murmured, almost to himself.
The words caught somewhere low in you. You dared to look back at him. “I didn’t know you were funny.”
“Wasn’t aware I’d ever claimed otherwise.”
“You definitely implied otherwise.”
“That so?”
“Yes.”
He considered that with an expression so grave it was almost absurd. “Sounds like a serious misunderstanding.”
You smiled despite yourself. And because the moment had somehow become even softer for the small absurdity of it, Joel lifted one hand from where it had rested near your shoulder and, very slowly, brushed his thumb once beneath your eye.
You went still. The touch was barely there, just enough to catch what must have been the dried trace of an old tear at the edge of your lashes, but it burned through you with the force of something much larger.
Joel seemed to realize what he had done in the same instant you did. His hand paused. His eyes searched yours, ready to stop if he had overstepped. You did not pull away, though.
He eventually let his hand fall back quietly to the blanket between you, and whatever passed in that silence after was too delicate to be named without damaging it.
At last he said, “I can get up, if you need a minute.”
You knew what he meant. Not only the practical fact of it — the awkwardness of getting out of bed, of needing the bathroom, of facing the day — but the wider permission inside it. Space, and distance. The chance to retreat from whatever this morning had become.
And yet when you imagined the bed without him in it, the room seemed immediately colder.
You shook your head. “Not yet,” you said slowly.
Joel held your gaze for one long second. Then he nodded once, very gently. “Alright,” he said.
He did not move away, he did not pull you any closer either. He simply stayed where he was, one arm still warm around your back, both of you suspended for a few more borrowed minutes in the strange, tender quiet of morning.
He moved first in the end, though with such care it hardly felt like movement at all.
“Let me get Marta before she decides we’ve both died in here,” he said softly.
You let out a deep breath. “That would probably upset her.”
“Deeply,” he agreed.
Still, even then, he didn’t simply pull away. His hand stayed at your back as he eased himself up onto one elbow, watching your face the entire time as if measuring whether the loss of his warmth hurt you in some new way. Only when he was certain you were steady did he slowly uncurl from around you and sit up at the edge of the bed.
The absence of him came all at once after that. Cool air where there had been heat. Space where there had been a solid, reassuring line of him. You became absurdly aware of the shape your body had been holding against his and no longer was.
Joel stood and dragged one hand back through his hair, still rumpled with sleep, then looked down at you with that same quiet, searching attention he seemed no longer capable of hiding.
He studied you one moment longer, then crossed to the door and opened it just enough to speak into the hall in a voice kept deliberately low. You couldn’t hear every word, only the rough cadence of it, familiar now in a way it had not been before. A moment later the door shut again and he came back into the room.
“Marta’s sending coffee,” he said. “And breakfast.”
You shifted carefully against the pillows, testing how much your body objected to the simple act of being more upright. Everything still ached, your ribs most of all, but the sharpest edges had dulled, replaced by that deep, bruised heaviness that belonged to healing more than fresh damage.
“I think I can manage a little,” you said softly.
Joel reached for the pillows behind you before you had to ask. “Hold on.”
He moved them with the same deliberate care, one hand braced lightly near your shoulder while the other adjusted the stack until you were angled more comfortably. When he was done, he paused, looking at your face rather than the pillows, as though the arrangement only counted if your breathing told him it did.
“Better?”
“Yes.”
His hand lingered for half a second near your shoulder before he let it fall. Then he sat on the edge of the mattress again, one knee turned slightly toward you.
The room had brightened while you weren’t looking. Morning was no longer gray but pale gold at the curtains. Dust moved lazily in the light. Somewhere below, the house had begun its quieter daytime life. Scout had raised his head at some point and was now watching the two of you with the grave suspicion of a dog who feared breakfast might be happening without him.
You followed Joel’s gaze to him.
“He’s judging us,” you murmured.
Joel glanced at the dog, then back at you. “He’s judgin’ me,” he corrected. “He knows I’m the one between him and any possible scraps.”
The answer made you smile again.
There was a knock a minute later, gentle but efficient. Joel stood before you could, before you could even think about wanting to. Marta came in carrying a tray large enough to suggest she’d ignored every instruction to keep things light. Coffee. Tea. Toast. Soft eggs. Fruit. And something that smelled faintly buttery and warm beneath a folded napkin.
Joel took the tray from her before she crossed too far into the room and set it across your lap with such care that you became newly conscious of how intimate even that was: the simple domestic fact of a man arranging breakfast for you in bed as though it were nothing worth remarking on. He tested the angle, adjusted it once, then handed you the tea first rather than the coffee.
“This one first,” he said.
“Bossy,” you murmured.
One corner of his mouth lifted. “Only with you,” he said quietly, and there was the faintest thread of teasing in it. “Somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t pretend you’re stronger than you are.”
You felt heat creep up your neck and quickly took the tea then, your fingers brushing his only briefly. Still, the contact sent a small, involuntary awareness through you. You took a small sip.
“Too hot?”
“No.” You lowered your eyes to the cup. “It’s fine.”
He said nothing to press you, only poured his own coffee and sat back down in the chair now, though he dragged it close enough to the bed that it still felt as though he hadn’t really left.
For a while, the scene held itself in small things. The clink of a spoon against china, steam lifting between you, Scout settling with a dramatic sigh. You managed half a slice of toast, then a little egg, then more tea than you would have thought possible.
The whole scene was so quiet, so ordinary, that it made something in you ache as it felt real enough to want. Joel seemed content to let the quiet do its work until he caught you pausing too long over the tray, your attention no longer on the food at all.
“You alright?”
The question was gentle. You looked down at the toast in your hand and then set it back onto the plate.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” he asked gently.
“For all of this,” you said, carefully. “I know you already told me it isn’t my fault, but it was my father, Joel.” Your fingers twisted harder in your lap. “It was his name. His people. His plan. He used me to get to you, to get into your house, to hurt people here —.”
“No,” he said. The word was quiet, but absolute.
You tried to make him understand, though you barely understood yourself. “Joel—”
“No. What the hell are you sorry for?”
The roughness in the question wasn’t anger at you. It was anger for you, which was somehow harder to bear. You opened your mouth and found too many possible answers crowding there at once: the blood, the house, the breach, your father’s name, your own.
He saw you searching and leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, close enough now that his voice dropped to something almost private.
“You didn’t do a damn thing wrong.”
“You don’t know that,” you said, too softly, your gaze lowering to your hands in your lap.
His gaze sharpened. “Yeah,” he said firmly. “I do.”
The room seemed to narrow around the two of you. Your throat tightened, but now that it had begun you could not seem to force it back down.
“When you moved me back to my room…” You broke off, breathing unevenly. “I thought—” Your eyes dropped somewhere to the hollow of his throat. “I thought maybe you just didn’t know how to tell me you didn’t want me near you anymore. That you were being kind because I was hurt. But that once I was better enough, you wanted the distance.” A breath shuddered through you. “Because of what he did. Because of what I brought here.”
“Sweetheart,” he said softly, and there was something almost disbelieving in it, “is that what you thought?”
You tried for a shrug and failed halfway through because your shoulder reminded you of itself.
“I didn’t know what else to think.”
For a second he only looked at you. Then he set the coffee down and rose from the chair. He moved the tray carefully and sat on the edge of the bed again, facing you fully now. He then reached across the bed, not abruptly, not as though he assumed the right, but slowly enough that you could have pulled away if you wanted to. His hand came to rest lightly over yours.
“Look at me.”
You did. His face was tired, yes. And marked through with the last days in ways sleep had not mended. But there was no hesitation in him now.
“What Victor Moretti chooses to do,” he said, each word measured and low, “belongs to him. Not to you. I don’t care whose blood you’ve got. I don’t care what name you were born under. None of this is on you.”
Your eyes burned suddenly. He saw that too, and some of the steel in him eased just enough to keep the words from cutting where they meant to heal.
“You were used,” he said, quieter now. “That is not the same thing as guilty.”
“But I —“
“No, honey. Listen to me. I moved you back because I thought it was what you’d want,” he said. “Your own room. Your own space. I thought keeping you with me any longer, after…” He stopped, his jaw tightening briefly before he found the shape of the sentence again. “After everything, might’ve felt like I was making the choice for you.”
Your eyes lifted to his.
“It never had a damn thing to do with wanting you gone.” Joel’s thumb moved once, a small stroke over your knuckles, a touch so careful it undid something in you all over again. “What Victor did is on Victor. Not on you.” His voice roughened, but never lost its steadiness. “You did not ask for this. You did not bring this on anybody. And you sure as hell do not answer for the choices that man made.”
Your breath caught again. Joel’s gaze did not leave your face.
“No father,” he said, slower now, “should ever use his daughter that way.”
You shook your head once, almost instinctively, as if you still could not bear the tenderness of it. Something in your face must have changed, because his expression softened in answer.
“I was tryin’ to do right by you,” he said quietly. “That’s all.”
Your fingers trembled where they were still underneath his.
“I thought…” you began, and had to stop to steady your voice. “I thought maybe that once you knew, you’d—”
“What?” he asked gently.
The word barely made it out. “Regret me.”
For one second Joel only looked at you, as if he could not quite believe those words had been living inside you. Then his hand slid fully to your cheek, his rough palm impossibly gentle against bruised skin.
“No,” he said again, and this time the word felt almost like a vow. “No. Never you.”
You nodded, though the movement was small and uncertain against him. His hand stayed on your cheek only a moment longer before slipping away again, giving you back the space to breathe. You missed his warmth on your skin instantly.
“I’m sorry you ever thought otherwise,” he said.
For one moment neither of you spoke. Then, because the morning had already changed too many things to go on pretending none of them had happened, you asked the question that had been pressing against your ribs since before breakfast.
“What happens now?”
He didn’t lie to you. You saw that decision pass through him before he answered.
“Now,” he said carefully, “you keep getting better.”
That was not an answer, and the fact that he knew it showed in the way his thumb moved again, almost absently, over your knuckles.
“Joel—”
“I know.” His voice gentled again. “I know that’s not what you meant.”
He looked down at your joined hands for a moment, then back up.
“There are things being dealt with,” he said. “Tommy and Elias are on it. I’m on it. But I’m not putting any more of that on you right now.” His expression changed, just slightly. “You want the truth, I’ll tell you the truth. But not all at once, and not while you still look like you oughta be sleepin’ another six hours.”
You should have bristled at that. But the rest of you heard what lay beneath it too clearly: not dismissal, not condescension, but an almost stubborn need to protect what little steadiness this morning had managed to create.
“You keep deciding what I can bear,” you said dryly.
Joel took that without flinching. “Maybe. And maybe I’m gettin’ that wrong,” he went on. “But I’d rather have you angry at me than watch you wear yourself bloody trying to carry all of it at once.”
The words sat between you. Then, because he had given you honesty, you gave him some too.
“I’m not angry.”
His eyes searched your face curiously. “No?”
You shook your head. “No. Just… afraid, I think.”
His hand tightened once over yours, then eased. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”
For a while after that, you said nothing, and Joel didn’t rush to fill the silence. He left his hand where it was. The tea cooled beside you. Outside, light moved slowly across the floorboards. Scout, having determined no food would be forthcoming from grief or tenderness, laid his head back down with the air of a martyr.
At last Joel glanced toward the tray and then back at you. “You think you can manage a little more?”
The abrupt practicality of it, the way he turned the room back toward something survivable, made something warm and fragile twist under your ribs. You picked up the toast again. And while you ate, Joel stayed on the edge of the bed and his hand still warm over yours.
He was still carrying the warmth of her when he stepped into the office.
Not physically anymore, that had gone the moment he’d straightened from her bed and forced himself out of the room before he could stay there longer than was wise. But the memory of it remained in a way he could not seem to shake: The weight of her against him in the dark. The weak clutch of her hand in his shirt even half-asleep. The way she had looked at him over breakfast, bruised and worn through and trying, still trying, to apologize for damage done to her.
The lamp in his office on the desk burned low over open files and route sheets. Coffee sat cold in two mugs. An ashtray had been filled and emptied and filled again. Tommy stood by the desk with one hand braced against the wood, jaw rough with a night he hadn’t slept through. Elias was at the window, sleeves rolled, face set hard enough to crack stone.
Both of them looked up when Joel came in.
He shut the door behind him. “Tell me.”
Tommy didn’t waste time. “We’ve got the whole of it now.”
Joel crossed to the desk but didn’t sit. His eyes skimmed the open pages, then lifted again. “From Alvarez?”
Elias gave a short nod that held no satisfaction at all. “From Alvarez. From the burners. From the shell accounts Carter pulled apart. And from one old ledger he thought nobody’d ever think to connect.”
Tommy pushed a page toward him. “He didn’t start as Miller,” he said. “Not really. Years back, before he ever came over, he was workin’ under Moretti-adjacent crews on the Gulf side. Logistics. Quiet runs. Dirty money, basically. Bodies maybe, though he’s still duckin’ that part.”
Joel’s eyes moved once across the page. Over the dates. The names. Fragments of a life that should have stayed buried and had not.
Tommy went on. “When he left that side and came over, everybody figured he’d cut clean enough to be useful. And he was useful, a long time. Kept his head down, worked hard, made himself valuable.” He tapped the file once. “But Victor never really let go of him.”
Joel’s gaze lifted. “How?”
Elias answered this time, voice flat. “Debt first. Then family.”
Tommy drew a slow breath through his nose. “Alvarez has a sister outside Naples. Her husband is dead. Two kids. Victor’s had people near them for years, looks like. Not close enough to draw attention, just close enough that Alvarez knew he could reach them if he felt like it.”
Joel looked back down at the page again. There was a photograph clipped there. Alvarez coming out of a side office three years ago, younger in the face, more whole. Harmless-looking, if a man didn’t know better.
Tommy said, “Victor also kept old books on him. Jobs from before. Names, transfers, some things that’d bury him if they ever surfaced in the wrong rooms. He didn’t need much. Just enough to remind Alvarez the past wasn’t dead.”
Joel let the silence sit. Outside the office, the house went on in muffled sounds. A door somewhere downstairs. Footsteps crossing stone. Life, continuing. His jaw tightened once and he swallowed hard. Tommy must have seen something in his face, because his voice altered slightly when he went on.
“It started small. Victor didn’t ask for blood first,” Tommy said. “He asked for timing. Route windows. Stagger sheets, things like that. Enough so trucks wouldn’t cross wrong people and cause ‘misunderstandings.’ That’s how Alvarez tells it anyway. First thing he handed over was West Lake.”
Joel’s hand settled flat on the desk. Tommy nodded toward the papers. “He told himself it was just scheduling. Just avoiding conflict. No hits were ordered, not directly. But Victor took those windows and built from there.”
Elias pushed off the window and came closer, anger riding close under his skin now. “Then Riverside. Exact route, exact hour, where the detail thinned. After that, he gave them the garden timing too.”
Joel’s eyes snapped to him. Elias held the look. “Enough to know when she was out there lighter guarded with the dog.” His mouth hardened.
“And Alvarez knew what it was becoming?”
Tommy answered carefully. “Not all at once. But he knew enough.”
Joel looked at him. There was a long beat in which no one moved.
Then Joel asked, “When could he still have come to us?”
Tommy glanced once at Elias, then back. “After West Lake, maybe he could still lie to himself. After Riverside, no.” He tapped the desk again. “By then he knew what Victor was building. Knew these weren’t harmless timings. Knew people could die. Knew the house might get touched next.”
Joel’s voice stayed level. “And he still said nothing.”
“No,” Tommy said simply.
Elias’s answer came over the top of it, sharper. “Not one damn word.”
Joel looked down at the spread of documents again.
A compromised man. A frightened man. A weak man. There were plenty of those in the world.
But fear had never been the true dividing line. Plenty of men were afraid and still came forward before the blood dried. Plenty of men were threatened and still chose to be honest while there was time to save something. Alvarez had not.
He had watched each step become uglier than the last and kept trading silence for one more day of safety. One more excuse. One more lie. And upstairs, because of that silence, she had woken in his arms apologizing for the sins of a father who should have died before ever laying claim to the word.
Joel’s hand curled once against the edge of the desk.
Elias saw it. “We should end him.”
Tommy shot him a look but didn’t deny the instinct. “Eventually, maybe.”
“No,” Elias said. “Now. Everybody who hears what happened is gonna want to know what it buys a man to hand over the house.”
Joel lifted his head. Elias met his eyes and kept going, because he knew better than to back off now.
“He can have reasons. Fine. I don’t care. Men are always scared. Men always got somebody they wanna save. He still watched it happen. He still let her get taken. If that doesn’t end in blood, what exactly are we teachin’ the rest of them?”
Tommy straightened from the desk. “And if you kill him now, what exactly do you learn from a corpse? He’s still got names we don’t have. Intermediaries. Moretti side crews. Safe routes. Old hooks Victor’s still holdin’ in other men.”
Elias’s jaw flexed. “Then use him fast.”
“That’s the idea,” Tommy said calmly.
Joel still said nothing. His gaze drifted once, involuntarily, to the far corner of the office where nothing waited for him at all. He saw instead the shape of her under the blanket this morning. Hair mussed from sleep. Eyes still shadowed with the night before, but clear enough to search his face when she asked what came next. He had wanted, with an intensity that made no sense, to put his hand back against her cheek and keep the question away from her a little longer.
Wanted her room, her bed, the tray across her lap, the domestic quiet of it to stay untouched by the rest of this. Wanted her back under his arm where fear stopped shaking her bones.
It was getting harder to pretend that what he felt was only protectiveness. Harder still to pretend the attraction wasn’t there too, woven through all of it. The feel of her fitting against him in the dark. The awareness of her in the morning when the room first warmed with light. The way he had to make himself stop looking at her mouth over breakfast when she spoke softly and then apologized again for things that had never been hers to bear.
It made him meaner here.
His voice, when he finally spoke, was calm enough to make Tommy go still. “The first time Victor leaned on him, Alvarez was compromised.”
Neither man interrupted.
“The second time he kept quiet, he was a coward,” Joel said. “By the third, he was a traitor.”
Elias’s expression darkened in something like grim satisfaction. Tommy only listened.
Joel went on. “Fear explains him. But it doesn’t clear him.”
“No,” Tommy said quietly. “It doesn’t.”
Joel sighed. “But he’s worth more breathing for the next few days than dead in the dirt this morning.”
Elias exhaled through his nose, angry but not stupid enough to argue the point before it was finished. Joel looked between them.
“Here’s what happens. Alvarez is done. Rank gone. Protection gone. He speaks when we ask, and if he holds back anything at all, he learns very quickly what the difference is between me being strategic and me being angry.”
Tommy nodded once. Joel tapped a finger against the documents.
“Carter keeps pulling every payment chain. Every shell, every side account. I want every name he touched in the last eighteen months. Victor used him because he thought the seam was old and quiet. I want to know how many more quiet seams he thinks he still has.”
“Done,” Tommy was watching him closely now. “And Victor?”
The name sat in the room like a blade laid flat on a table.
Joel did not answer immediately. Because the truth of it was simple enough in one direction: Victor Moretti had reached into his house, into his peace, into the body of his own daughter, and used all three like they were pieces to be moved. There were ten ways to answer that kind of insult. Most of them final.
But none of those ways mattered as much as the fact that she was upstairs, alive, healing, and just barely beginning to trust that being held did not have to end in harm.
He would not tear the world open around her again unless he had to.
When he spoke, his voice was low. “Victor doesn’t get touched until I know exactly where every one of his hands is.”
Tommy gave a short nod. “Understood.”
Elias’s answer came a beat later. “Yes, sir.”
Joel looked back to the files. “When I move on Victor, I want it clean. I want every weak edge sealed before he realizes the line’s closed.”
Tommy folded his arms. “And Alvarez?”
Joel’s expression did not shift. “He keeps breathing until he stops being useful.”
No one in the room misunderstood what came after that sentence, even if it wasn’t spoken aloud.
Tommy let out a slow breath and reached for one of the route sheets. “Then we’ve got work.”
Joel nodded once. When the first wave of orders had been given and the next set of names parceled out, Tommy glanced up from the desk. “Is she feelin` better?”
Joel didn’t answer at once. He remembered her voice in the dark. I’m sorry, Joel.
He remembered the way she had looked at him this morning when she finally found the courage to say she thought he wanted distance from her because of what Victor had done. He remembered her body softening by degrees when he told her no father should do that to his child.
“Yeah,” he said.
Tommy’s mouth twitched once, not quite a smile. “`m glad.”
Joel reached for the top page, scanned it once more, then set it down. “If Alvarez gives you anything new, I want it immediately.”
By the time Maria came to fetch you, the light had shifted again.
It was later in the day, though not yet evening. The house had settled into that quieter middle stretch when the loudest work had already been done elsewhere and only the softer movements remained. You had slept for an hour after Joel left the office. Enough to wake with less weight in your limbs than before, less of that bruised, underwater feeling that had made every thought seem slower than it ought to be.
Marta had helped you dress before she left you to rest again, muttering the whole time about how recovery was not a race and you were not to behave as though upright posture itself were a moral achievement. The result was a soft sweater, a long skirt, and a shawl Maria now insisted on adjusting once more around your shoulders the second you stepped into the corridor.
“You’re starting to act like Marta,” you murmured.
Maria smiled faintly. “That should worry you more than it worries me.”
Maria walked at your pace without comment. Not slowing in a way that would insult you. Not hurrying you either. Just matching the rhythm your body could bear. The stairs were taken carefully. The hall below opened into pale afternoon light, and when the front door was opened for you the air outside felt cooler than you expected, carrying the clean scent of earth and hay.
The stables were not far, but even the walk there forced a new awareness of your body. You were healing, that much was true. But healing was not grace. It was measured, awkward, slightly humiliating work. Your ribs reminded you of themselves when you breathed too deeply. Your shoulder still ached if you let it swing naturally for too long. By the time you reached the stable yard, a little of the early steadiness had already begun to thin.
Maria noticed, of course, and without making a fuss, she steered you toward the sun-warmed bench beside the open stable door instead of farther in. The horses shifted in their stalls with quiet sounds of breath and movement. Somewhere deeper inside, one hoof struck wood softly. The place smelled of leather and hay and warm animal sleep.
Maria sat beside you. For a while neither of you said anything. You watched a shaft of light slide slowly across the stable floor. A groom crossed the far end of the yard, nodded once when he saw Maria, then vanished again around the side gate. Somewhere nearby, a horse snorted and settled.
At last Maria said, “You look better.”
You kept your gaze ahead. “Benji told me I looked less dead.”
That got a laugh out of her, brief and genuine. “Well. From him, that’s practically poetry.”
You smiled. The quiet returned after it, softer now, and because Maria did not rush to fill it, the thing you had been carrying came back as soon as there was room for it.
“What is he going to do?” you asked carefully.
Maria did not pretend not to understand who you meant. She folded her hands in her lap and looked out toward the yard. “About Victor?”
You nodded. The name sat badly in your mouth even unspoken.
Maria drew one slow breath. “I don’t know exactly.“
Your eyes lifted slightly toward her then.
“But,” she added, “I do know Joel.”
She was looking ahead still, expression thoughtful rather than stern. “He’s angrier than I’ve seen him in a very long time,” she said. “That much is true. And Tommy is too, though he hides it differently. Men like that do not take breaches of trust lightly to begin with. This…” She paused. “This was personal in a way none of them can pretend otherwise.”
Your hands tightened a little in the folds of your skirt.
“I don’t know what I’m afraid of most,” you admitted suddenly. “That he’ll do something irreversible. That my father will push until there’s no space left for anything but blood. That this will turn into a war neither of them can step back from.” Your throat tightened. “Or that Joel looks at me now and only sees where the weak point was.”
Maria was quiet for one beat too long, and in that beat you regretted saying any of it aloud.
Then she said, very evenly, “No. He does not.”
The certainty of it made you look at her again. Maria’s face had softened, but only slightly. Her kindness was never vague. It always arrived with bone beneath it.
“Victor using you does not make any of this yours to answer for,” she said. “And whatever Joel sees when he looks at you, it is not a weak point. If anything, you’re the reason he’s holding himself together at all.”
You wanted to believe her. That was the humiliating part. How badly you wanted to.
You lowered your eyes to your own hands. “He says that too.”
“Yes,” Maria said firmly. “And perhaps you should try the radical experiment of believing him.”
A breath of something almost like amusement touched her voice, enough to keep the words from becoming scolding.
You shook your head faintly. “It’s not that simple.”
“No,” she agreed. “It usually isn’t.”
The yard shimmered a little in the pale light. A horse shifted behind you, leather creaking softly somewhere in the dim. Maria adjusted the shawl where it had started to slip from one shoulder, the gesture so automatic it felt almost familial.
You let yourself look out into the yard again before speaking. When you spoke again, your voice had gone smaller.
“I’m afraid of a lot of things.”
“I know.”
You swallowed. “I’m afraid that my father will never stop using me as leverage. That this is all I’ll ever be to him. Something to place where it hurts most.” The next part came harder. “And I’m afraid that Joel will have to become someone worse because of it.”
“Joel has always been capable of being terrible,” she said quietly. “That isn’t new.”
You looked at her sharply, but she didn’t take the words back.
“I don’t mean cruel for the sake of it,” she said. “I mean decisive. Dangerous. Sometimes frightening. Men do not get to where he is by being made of softness.” Then, after a pause, “He can be ruthless. But ruthless is not the same thing as reckless. And whatever he does next, he won’t do it blindly where you’re concerned.”
The afternoon air had cooled further by then, just enough that you pulled the shawl closer around yourself.
“I keep thinking that once everything is said plainly, whatever this is”—you stopped, because even now you could not quite define it without feeling foolish—“will be gone.”
Maris gave you a curious look, but said nothing.
“I`m worried,” you continued quietly. “That my father won’t stop now that he’s crossed this line. That Joel will answer it, and that one day someone will come through a door and tell me he didn’t come back.”
Maria turned her head then. “So that’s the fear,” she said softly. “Not only what Joel might do. What might be done to him.”
The words should have embarrassed you. Instead they only made your eyes sting unexpectedly. You laughed once under your breath, though there was no real humor in it.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Maria was quiet for a moment. “No,” she said at last. “But I don’t think Joel does either.”
That startled you enough to pull your gaze back to hers. You saw one corner of her mouth lifted.
“What do you mean?” you asked softly.
“Do you really think that man has been sleeping in chairs and reading novels at your bedside because he feels inconvenienced?”
You didn`t know what to say. Maria went on, still calm, still almost conversational.
“Do you think he carried a breakfast tray into your room this morning because he was looking for a graceful way out? That man has been half out of his mind for days, and not because any of this means little to him.”
Heat rose quickly into your face, and you looked away. “That isn’t what I said.”
“No,” Maria said plainly. “It’s what you are afraid of.”
The stable seemed quieter after that. You watched a loose strand of hay lift and settle again on the breeze. Somewhere inside the stable, one of the horses stamped once and then went still.
At last Maria said, “Whatever this began as, it isn’t only that anymore.”
You stared ahead at the pale shape of the yard beyond the stable doors.
“I don’t know what to do with that either,” you admitted.
Maria’s answer came almost at once. “You don’t have to do anything with it today.”
It was such a small mercy, such an ordinary one. You did not have to solve it now. You did not have to be wiser than your own fear by dusk.
You turned toward her then and managed the faintest, most exhausted smile. “You’re very good at this.”
Maria smiled back, but hers held a touch of sadness in it too. “No. I’m just old enough to know that people usually make things harder by demanding clarity too soon.”
She reached over then and squeezed your hand briefly. Not tenderly in the way Joel touched you. More firmly. More matter-of-fact. A woman’s reassurance.
After another minute, Maria stood and offered you her hand.
“Come on,” she said. “Before Marta comes looking and decides I’ve overexerted you on purpose.”
You let her help you up. The walk back was slow again, but easier somehow than the way out had been, because something in you had unknotted by a degree or two.
As you crossed the yard, Maria glanced sideways at you once.
“For what it’s worth,” she said, almost lightly, “he’ll be insufferable if he finds out you made it all the way to the stables without him.”
You looked at her, and she gave a tiny shrug. “Men like to imagine they are indispensable. It keeps them busy.”
The image of Joel hearing that and trying not to show the exact shape of his reaction was so immediate that you smiled again. Maria saw it and, wisely, said nothing more.
The front hall held the last pale stretch of daylight through the long windows, turning the floorboards gold in strips. You had barely stepped inside before Tommy looked up from where he stood near the console table, one hand braced around a coffee mug gone half-cold.
“Well,” he said, taking you in with a glance that tried for casual and only half-managed it, “look at you. Out here takin’ tours now.”
Maria unwrapped her gloves with calm precision. “Yes, Thomas. I took her to the stables. Not across enemy lines.”
Tommy snorted. “Marta’s gonna say I let you overdo it.”
“Marta says a great many things,” Maria replied. “Most of them with conviction.”
“That woman’s gonna bury me one day.”
“She’ll be right to.”
The exchange was so dry, so practiced, that for one small second it startled a laugh out of you. Maria glanced sideways at you with quiet satisfaction.
And then Joel stepped into the hall from the study. He stopped the moment he saw you. His eyes moved over you once, taking in the shawl around your shoulders, the faint flush in your face from the cool air outside, the careful way you were still holding one side of yourself.
“How was it?” he asked gently.
The question was simple enough. Still, the way he asked it made it feel like he meant something larger than the walk alone.
“Fine,” you said quietly.
Joel’s gaze rested on you for one second longer, warm and unconvinced. Maria spared him the effort of arguing. “She did well,” she said. “Which means she is now going upstairs before someone starts pretending she isn’t tired.”
Joel almost smiled at that, though his attention never really left you. “You need help upstairs?”
The answer rose automatically. “No, I’m alright.”
His eyes flicked once to the stairs, then back to your face. There was no challenge in him, no insistence.
“Alright,” he said at last. But he stayed where he was until you had made it to the landing.
The bath helped more than you expected. It did not wash the ache out of your ribs or undo the heaviness in your shoulder, but the water was hot, and heat reached places gentleness alone could not. By the time you had sunk carefully down into it, the whole room had gone softly blurred at the edges from steam.
For a little while, you let yourself simply exist there. No one watching, no questions waiting. No carefulness except your own. The bruises looked darker in warm light. At your jaw. At your throat. Steam had blurred the mirror by the time you reached for the soap. You were grateful for that. You did not particularly want to study yourself tonight. Only to feel clean, and warm. More human than you had an hour ago.
You moved carefully, washed slowly. You let the heat do what it could.
Victor crossed your mind once, sharp and ugly as a pulled thread. Joel followed after, quieter. Not as a thought you meant to have, only as a presence your body seemed already to expect by evening now. The contrast between the two men sat in you without asking to be named. One had made use of your fear. The other had made room for it.
You closed your eyes and tipped your head back against the tub. You thought of Maria’s voice in the stable yard. Whatever this began as, it isn’t only that anymore.
You thought of Joel at breakfast, his hand over yours, the quiet force with which he had said Never you.
That did not make anything simple. It did not undo the wedding night, and it did not answer what Joel was to you now, or what you were meant to do with the fact that his presence steadied you in ways that still felt dangerous to admit.
But it did quiet one thing. The old instinct to turn every wound inward, to make yourself answer for what had been done to you. To carry it as if guilt were the same thing as control.
You were tired of that.
You eventually dried off and changed into a fresh nightgown, your hair damp at the ends and the room beginning to cool around you again. you were sitting at the dressing table, brushing slowly through the ends of your hair, when the knock came. Soft and familiar now.
You set the brush down. “Come in.”
Joel had meant only to check on you before he left. That was what he told himself on the way up the stairs. That and the fact that Tommy was waiting downstairs, and Carter would be there within the hour, and there were three separate problems still bleeding into one another beyond the walls of this house.
He told himself all of that. Then he opened the door. And forgot, for one dangerous second, every useful thought he’d had on the stairs.
You were turned half-away from him at the dressing table, one candle lit beside the mirror though there was still a little evening light left at the curtains. Your hair was damp, darker at the ends. The room smelled faintly of soap and warm water. You had changed into something soft and pale that left your throat bare and made the bruising there look even more delicate, more wrong.
You looked soft. So soft.
He saw the bath had eased some of the strain out of your body. He saw, too, that you were still moving carefully, as if each gesture had to be negotiated before it was made. Vulnerable, yes. But also very quietly beautiful. Enough so that he had to push the thought down before it showed anywhere on his face.
He had no business feeling weak for you while you still looked like this. No business noticing the damp curve of your hair against your neck, or the way the candlelight gentled your skin, or the unbearable domestic intimacy of finding you in your room at dusk, fresh from a bath, as if this were any kind of ordinary marriage.
But his body noticed, that was the trouble. His body noticed, and whatever had been shifting in him these last days made the noticing harder to dismiss than it ought to have been.
You turned then and saw him fully. Whatever was in your face at first — tiredness, maybe surprise — softened by a fraction when you realized it was him.
Joel shut the door behind him more carefully than he needed to.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said.
“You didn’t.”
Your voice was quieter in the evening. Sleepier maybe. His gaze flicked once to the brush on the table, the dampness at your hair, the line of your shoulders beneath the fabric. Then he made himself look only at your face.
“How’re you feelin’?”
“Better,” you said. Then, because you knew enough by now to head off the look he was about to give you, you added, “Tired, a little. But not in a terrible way.”
One corner of his mouth moved. “That sounds like progress.”
You turned a little more toward him on the stool. “Maria took that as proof she could bully me into fresh air.”
“She usually takes everything as proof of that.”
That won a faint smile from you, and God, he was in trouble, because he felt that smile like relief.
He stayed near the door a second too long, aware now of the way the room had narrowed around the simple fact of the two of you in it. A husband in his wife’s room. Evening. Candlelight. Her hair damp from a bath. Nothing improper in it. Too much intimacy in it anyway.
“I need to step out for a while,” he said at last, almost reluctantly.
Something changed in your face.
“Business,” he added, quieter. “A few things that can’t wait till mornin’.”
You nodded once. “Alright.”
Joel glanced once toward the window, where the last of the light had gone thinner still. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
The answer was gentle, but it didn’t ease him the way it should have. He realized, standing there in the growing quiet of your room, that leaving felt wrong in a way it hadn’t a week ago. Not because he doubted your strength. Not because he thought you incapable of a few hours alone.
Because he did not want to.
He stepped a little farther in instead, eyes catching for one brief second on the towel you’d left folded near the washstand, the brush at the table, all the small signs of your presence settling into the room again. Signs he wanted, absurdly, to remain near.
“You can send for me if you need anything,” he said.
Your gaze dropped once, then rose back to him. “Thank you.”
The room went quiet after that. Only full of things neither of you had yet decided how to say. Joel was already beginning to step back toward the door when your voice stopped him.
“Will you come back?”
He turned at once. You seemed to realize, a second too late, how many things that question could mean. Your fingers tightened slightly in the fabric at your lap.
“I just meant—” You looked toward the bed, then the book resting on the bedside table. “Will you come back later? To read.”
For one suspended beat, something in his chest gave way so completely it almost hurt. He looked at the book, then at you. And because he knew better than to let too much of what that question did to him show, he answered in the gentlest voice he had.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll come back, sweetheart.”
The tension in your shoulders eased, barely, but enough for him to see it.
Joel’s hand tightened once around the doorknob, then loosened again. “Try to rest till then,” he said gently. You gave the smallest nod.
He left before he could stand there any longer and make a mess of the restraint that was still, for now, the only thing keeping him steady.
But all the way down the stairs, and all the way back into the harder shape of the evening waiting for him, he carried the image of you exactly as you had looked when he opened the door: damp-haired, candlelit, soft with sleep and recovery and something more dangerous than either of those —
wanting him to come back.
You were awake when he knocked.
“Come in,” you said, your voice already softened by drowsiness.
Joel stepped inside with the book in one hand and paused just past the threshold, as though he needed the first second only to look at you and make sure you were still there exactly as he had left you.
You were propped against the pillows, the lamp turned low beside the bed. A certain tiredness had seemed to have settled back into you. Scout had claimed his usual place at the foot of the bed, one eye opening briefly at Joel’s entrance before closing again with the absolute confidence of a dog who had already decided this ritual was permanent.
He paused just inside the door, the book still in one hand.
“You’re still awake.”
You looked up at him. “Did it take long?”
“Long enough,” he said.
Only then did you really take him in: the loosened collar, the tiredness at the corners of his eyes, the way the evening still seemed to cling to hi.
“You look tired,” you said softly.
One corner of his mouth moved. “That bad?”
You shook your head faintly. “No. Just…” Your eyes dropped for a second, then lifted again. “A little worn.”
Something in his face shifted at that, just enough to show the words had landed somewhere warmer than either of you expected.
He closed the door behind him quietly. “You askin’ after me now?”
There was a thread of teasing in it, but light. Easy. It made your heartbeat stumble anyway. You looked down at the blanket, suddenly aware of yourself.
“I only meant—”
“I know what you meant,” he said, and his voice had gentled before the sentence was done.
You glanced back up at him, and before you could stop yourself, you said, almost under your breath, “You came back.”
Joel went still for one brief second. Then the faintest hint of something — surprise, maybe? — passed over his face.
“Yeah,” he said. “I told you I would.”
You nodded, though the motion felt smaller than you intended. “I know.”
For a second neither of you moved. Then, because the moment had gone soft enough to frighten you both a little, you looked toward the book and said quietly, “Are you going to read?”
That won a real smile from him, brief and unmistakable.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” he said softly. “I’m gonna read.”
So he did. His voice filled the room once more in that low, measured way of his, never trying too hard. He read as though the words mattered, and the space between one sentence and the next mattered too.
You lay back and let it happen. The fire had burned low enough now that the room held more glow than flame. Scout breathed in slow, contented rhythm at your feet. Every now and then Joel turned a page, and each time the sound seemed to mark another small degree of the day loosening its grip on you.
You watched him for longer than you followed the book. The line of his wrist where it rested against the open pages. The tiredness still gathered at the edges of his eyes. The way his voice changed slightly when he forgot himself and sank too far into the rhythm of reading, becoming softer without seeming to mean to. There was something almost unbearably intimate in it now. Because he had said he would come back, and then he had.
For a while, that was all there was. The low cadence of his voice. The room gone still around it. The familiar comfort of him beside you.
Then he stopped.
You opened your eyes just enough to find him looking at you over the top edge of the page.
“You’re driftin’,” he said softly.
“Maybe.”
He smiled and closed the book carefully, keeping his hand inside it to hold the place.
“Joel.”
He looked at you at once. “Yeah, sweetheart?”
You pushed yourself a little more awake, not enough to sit up fully, only enough that your eyes stayed properly on his face. The lamplight caught at the tired lines of him, the loosened collar, the broad shape of his hand still resting over the book.
For one second you almost let it go. The question. The need of it. You could have chosen the easier thing, the softer thing, and let the evening end here.
But a quieter, harder instinct not to be moved around in the dark anymore lived somewhere inside you.
“I need you to tell me what happens next,” you said.
Joel went very still. You held his gaze, even while your heart began to beat harder.
“I know you think you’re sparing me,” you said, your voice quieter now but steadier for it. “And maybe you are. But I can’t keep being handled around this like it has nothing to do with me.” Your fingers tightened slightly in the blanket.
For a long moment, Joel said nothing. You could feel him weighing your words, weighing you, weighing perhaps all the things he would rather carry himself if he thought he could spare you the weight of them.
At last he set the book down on the bedside table.
When he looked back at you, his face had changed into a kind of grave attention that told you he had heard exactly what you meant.
“You want the truth?” he asked quietly.
“Yes.”
Joel let out one slow breath through his nose and leaned back slightly in the chair, not away from you, only enough to gather himself before speaking.
“Alright,” he said. “Then I’ll tell you this much.”
His voice had gone lower now. It was the voice of a man laying out something he would not dress up to make it easier.
“Your father had a hand in it.”
Even expecting it, hearing it aloud made something cold move under your ribs. Joel saw it immediately while his gaze stayed fixed on your face, as if measuring exactly how hard each word landed.
“We traced the leak back to one of my man,” he went on. “He’s the one who fed them what they needed. Route timings. Windows in security, things like that. Enough to build the thing in layers and make it look like separate hits instead of one plan.”
Your throat tightened. “Because of my father?”
Joel’s jaw shifted once. “Because Victor kept hooks in him. Old ones. Debt, loyalty, fear — it doesn’t much matter which part he hought excused it. He still made the choice.” A beat. “And your father made use of that.”
The room had gone very quiet. Even Scout, impossibly, seemed not to move. You looked down at the blanket for one second, then back at him. “And now?”
“Now,” he said at last, “he doesn’t get near you again.”
Joel leaned forward then, forearms braced lightly on his knees, his eyes never leaving yours.
“I’m still deciding the rest,” he said. “But I’m not gonna lie to you, and I’m not gonna shut you out of it anymore. You asked me straight, so I’m answerin’ you straight.” His voice roughened slightly, but never lost that hard steadiness. “Whatever I do next, the first thing I’m doing is making sure Victor Moretti never gets another chance to use you against anybody again. Least of all me.”
You swallowed once. “Alright.”
Joel’s face changed at that, just barely. “That enough for tonight?” he asked.
You looked at him for a long moment. No, not really. Nothing about any of this was enough. Not the answers. Not the grief. Not the relief. But its was something. So you nodded.
Joel stood then, slowly, as though unwilling to startle the moment into breaking.
“Get some sleep,” he said softly.
His hand rested for one brief second on the bed near yours. Not touching. Just there.
“Whatever happens,” you murmured, the words soft and catching slightly at the edges, “with him…” You swallowed once. “I know you’ll do what you think is right, And I’ll understand.”
For a second he could not answer. He didn`t know what to do with that much trust, offered like that, without ceremony, without bargaining, without any protection around it. It was a heavier thing than anger. A heavier thing than permission. You were not asking for blood. You were not telling him what kind of man to be.
You were placing the choice in his hands and telling him you would still see him after.
Joel looked at you for a long moment, at the bruised softness of your face against the pillow, at the exhaustion pulling you under even now, at the fact that after everything Victor Moretti had put into the world, his daughter was still capable of something this defenseless.
“You don’t need to think about any of that tonight,” he said at last, his voice so low it barely seemed to disturb the room. He reached out then, only to smooth the blanket a little higher where it had slipped from your shoulder. His knuckles brushed your skin in the smallest pass.
“Just sleep.”
Your lashes trembled once, but you didn’t argue.
Joel stood there a second longer, his hand still resting lightly over the blanket near your arm. Then he brushed one damp strand of hair back from your temple. The gesture was brief and carefu, gone almost as soon as it was there.
“I’ve got it,” he murmured, though whether he meant Victor, the night, or you, he couldn’t have said.
You nodded.
Joel picked the book up again but did not open it. He stood there a second longer, then turned quietly toward the door, carrying with him the unbearable knowledge that something between you had shifted, and would not shift back.
titus danforth x f!reader
Word Count: 10.8K
Rating: E
Summary: You get invited to an unexpected wedding.
Warnings: (SMUT MDNI 18+), professor reader, idiots in love, mentions of death (not super descriptive), obscene wealth, alcohol, feelings, mutual pinging, yearning, sexual tension, jealousy, (both reader and titus), sorta mean/pissed off titus, pet names, some fingering, oral sex (69ing so f & m receiving), lite spanking, dirty talk, praise, unprotected p in v, possessive sex?, hallmark ending (HEA <3), don't want to spoil too much about the ending
A/N: No spoilers! Anything that happens in this is not in the 2nd movie. Creative liberties galore! GIF found HERE by @sammy-bryant. dividers as always by @saradika-graphics
Thank you for reading!! if you reblog with commentary i love you so much <3.
BREAKING NEWS
An anchor spoke with hushed urgency usually reserved for national crises:
"The entire Le Domas family, heirs to the Le Domas Dominion board‑game empire, have been discovered dead inside the ancestral estate of patriarch Tony Le Domas. And at the center of it all is one name—Grace MacCaullay, the bride who married into the dynasty just hours before the massacre. Authorities are calling this a murder‑suicide, one of the most shocking in recent memory. Grace MacCaullay, 28, was found dead on the estate grounds with a gunshot wound to the head, and a gun in her hand. She was still wearing her wedding dress."
They replayed the police body‑cam footage—officers approaching a blood‑spattered bride sitting on the mansion steps, smoke still rising from the ruins behind her. When the officers asked her what happened, she gave only one chilling word:
"In‑laws."
The anchor continued, "They arrested Grace that day and rushed her to the hospital, where she was being held after her arrest. She was placed under police hold, sedated, and monitored, but somehow, she escaped the hospital and made her way back to the estate—back to the scene of the slaughter and killed herself."
The anchor closed the segment with a practiced, solemn tone:
Why would a woman with no prior history of violence destroy an entire family? Investigators argue the most straightforward explanation is: either she harbored a long‑standing vendetta against the family or that she suffered a sudden, catastrophic mental breakdown.
You exhaled in your apartment, almost laughing at the neatness of it all. Because you knew what the anchors didn’t. One of the families from the high council had clearly killed her, taken her body, and brought her back to the Le Domas estate themselves. They placed her exactly where she needed to be for the narrative to hold. They arranged the scene so investigators would find her in the perfect position, with the perfect weapon, wearing the perfect dress for a tragedy the public would swallow whole.
You whispered the final line along with the anchor, but with a knowing edge:
"Murder‑suicide."
You couldn’t help but wonder: Had Titus and Ursula won the seat back?
You were walking across the Columbia University campus, the early October sun casting long shadows across the quad, your bag slung over one shoulder. Midterms were looming, and your mind was halfway through your upcoming lecture when a voice cut through your thoughts and called out your name after the word 'professor.'
The voice was smooth, and you turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored navy suit, crisp white shirt open at the collar, no tie. His shoes were polished cordovan leather. His hair was dark, neatly combed, with just a hint of silver at the temples.
He smiled, a practiced but warm expression. "I'm sorry to interrupt. I was told I might find you here."
"I'm sorry, do I know you?"
He extended his hand. "Conrad Harrington. I'm Ursula's—" He paused when he saw your own eyes widen before you could stop them. "I'm Ursula's fiancé."
"Fiancé?" The word came out sharper than you intended. Hadn’t they called off their engagement years ago?
"I know this must be confusing." He glanced around at the students streaming past, the noise of the quad. "Is there somewhere we can talk? Just a few minutes."
You nodded, not trusting your voice. He pointed to a wrought-iron bench under a large tree, mostly empty in the afternoon lull. You both walked over and sat down. The iron was cool through your skirt. Conrad leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
"I'm sorry about your mother, by the way. She was nothing but kind to me when she worked at the estate," he said with complete sincerity.
A slow pressure gathered in your chest. "Thank you. She only had wonderful things to say about you."
He nodded, seeming to take comfort in that.
"Ursula and I got back together," he said. "About 3 months ago. We've been quietly... reconnecting."
Your first instinct was bitter: Why didn't Ursula tell you they had gotten back together? You knew you were being a hypocrite. And…the last time you'd seen her, she'd been calmly murdering her father. Not exactly a heart-to-heart moment. Hardly the occasion for catching up. Yet you would have expected something. A cryptic comment maybe. Instead: nothing. Her silence felt deliberate.
"And you're engaged now? Just like that?"
"Just like that." He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "I know how it sounds. But I've wanted to marry that woman since the first night I met her. She was the one who kept saying no when we were dating. Kept pushing me away." He looked at you directly. "Maybe you know why."
He was clearly gauging how much you knew.
"I know enough," you said.
He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. "Well… she never wanted to put me through that…the chance of drawing the wrong card. She thought she was protecting me by breaking up with me."
"Then why did she change her mind?"
He looked away, across the quad, his eyes unfocused for a moment.
"I don’t know…but I’ve always told her I'd take the risk. I don't care."
"So you're willing to play? To possibly draw the card and end up—"
"I'm willing to take the chance," he interrupted, turning back to face you. "I’m madly in love with her. And in fairness, there are other games. Multiple. Not just hide and seek. The odds aren't as bad as you'd think."
"And you’re willing to give your soul if you survive?"
"I would do anything to be with her."
Damn… Ursula must have some magic pussy, you thought.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cream-colored envelope. "We're getting married. October 24th. In Aix-en-Provence."
You stared at the envelope, not taking it. "October 24th? That's barely 2 weeks away. Are you serious?"
"I've waited 9 years for this. I'm not waiting any longer." He pressed the envelope into your hand. "I was in town for business. Ursula told me you teach at Columbia. I thought... I thought I'd bring this to you myself."
"Wait." You looked up from the invitation. "Does Ursula know you're here… or that you’re inviting me?"
Conrad's smile had a nervous edge. "No."
You felt the sting even though you didn’t want to. Ursula was getting married, and you weren't part of it. And that was fine, logically. People didn’t invite everyone to everything. That was normal. Except it didn't feel normal. It felt like you were standing outside looking in, and there was a whole version of Ursula you weren't going to get to know. You realized that maybe the 12 years of ignoring Danforth’s had done more damage than you thought.
"You want me to show up unannounced?" you frowned.
"It will be a surprise. A good one."
"Ursula hates surprises."
"I know." He said it softly, almost like a confession. "But look—" He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "I don't know what happened between you and their family. I know there was some rift…but Ursula loved your mother. She was devastated when she died. And with her father passing recently... she's trying to put on a strong face, but I think she would like it if you were there. I really do."
You looked down at the invitation. The gold lettering shimmered in the afternoon light. For a long moment, you didn’t move. Then a memory surfaced, unbidden. You were 19 again, sitting on the edge of Ursula’s bed at Danforth’s English estate. She was brushing her hair, telling you about her favorite place in the world.
"Aix-en-Provence", she’d said. The house there is the only place I have ever felt completely myself." You had never made it out there. You had visited the other estates—the sprawling manor in the English countryside, the villa on Lake Como, the chalet in the Swiss Alps, the schloss in Austria…but never Aix.
"I'll consider it," you finally said.
Conrad stood, smoothing his jacket. He looked relieved. "That's all I ask. The invitation has all the details. If you can make it... I think it would mean more to her than she'd ever admit."
He started to walk away, his shoes clicking on the cobblestones. You stood up, the invitation crushed against your palm.
"Conrad," you called out. He turned, and you lowered your voice, even though no one was close.
"Did they win the seat?"
He held your gaze. The easy smile faded. His eyes went flat for just a second, the mask slipping. Then he said, quietly, "If you come to the wedding, you can ask them yourself."
He turned and walked away, disappearing into the stream of students heading toward the library. You pocketed the invitation and started walking, the crunch of leaves beneath your shoes grounding you in the present. The news report replayed in your mind like a loop you couldn’t shut off.
Grace MacCaullay.
The Le Domas family.
Massacre.
Murder suicide.
You pulled out your phone, checked your calendar, and booked a flight to Marseille, connecting through Paris. The ticket was refundable. You told yourself you could always cancel.
But you knew, even as you typed in your credit card number, that you wouldn’t.
MARSEILLE, FRANCE
The hotel was charming in that way only a French boutique hotel could be—aged stone walls, wrought-iron balcony, the faint scent of lavender drifting in through the open window. You had barely slept. The connecting flight from Newark to Marseille had been delayed, and by the time you had checked in and collapsed onto the crisp white sheets, it was nearly midnight. The rehearsal dinner had been long over.
Now, at 1 pm, you stood in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the room, the black dress hanging from the closet door. You had bought it 3 days ago, something about the cut drawing you in with the high neckline, and the way it skimmed the collarbone. You liked that it left the shoulders bare in that subtle, architectural way, and that the slit ran just high enough to be alluring without being obscene. You slipped it over your head, the material cool against your skin. It zipped up the side (a hidden zipper that you managed on the third try), and turned to face the mirror to stare at your reflection.
What the fuck were you thinking? Ursula might actually kill you for this.
You reached for the glass of wine you'd poured ten minutes ago from a local Côtes de Provence rosé you'd grabbed from the minibar and took a long sip out of nerves. You picked up the invitation, reading the instructions for the hundredth time:
Arrival strictly between 2:30 PM and 3:15 PM. Present this invitation at the first checkpoint. Follow the drive to the second gate. A valet will direct you.
You grabbed your clutch, which was a small black satin pouch, just big enough for your phone, lipstick, and a compact. The invitation went in last, and you checked the room one more time, then grabbed your room key and headed out. The hotel concierge called you a taxi, a clean white Mercedes that pulled up to the curb. The driver was an older man, maybe sixty, with a thick mustache and a shrug that seemed permanent. You gave him the address from the invitation, and he raised an eyebrow.
He pulled away from the curb, navigating the narrow streets, and suddenly the city gave way to countryside with rolling hills covered in vineyards, clusters of stone farmhouses, the occasional glimpse of a distant chateau. The road wound upward, the vegetation becoming denser, more wild. After about 40 minutes, he turned onto a private road marked only by a small stone pillar with a wrought-iron gate. A guardhouse appeared. A man in a black suit stepped out, clipboard in hand. You rolled down the window and handed him the invitation. He examined it, glanced at you, then at a list on his clipboard. He nodded, handed it back, and the gate swung open.
"Ils ne rigolent pas," the driver muttered. This is some serious security.
"Apparemment," you replied. Apparently
The drive continued for another mile, winding through a forest of olive trees. The second gate was even more imposing, with iron bars at least twelve feet high, flanked by stone walls that disappeared into the trees. Another guard, another check. This one took longer. He scanned the invitation with a device, then made a phone call. After a tense minute, he waved you through.
The driver let out a low whistle. "Putain. C'est un château, pas une maison." Holy shit. That's a castle, not a house.
"Je sais…" you whispered in awe. I know
The house emerged from the trees slowly, deliberately, as if revealing itself on purpose. It was a sprawling limestone manor, three stories tall, with a mansard roof of blue-gray slate and tall French windows that caught the afternoon sun. Wisteria climbed the eastern facade, its purple blossoms hanging in heavy clusters. A gravel courtyard opened before it, already filled with ultra‑luxury European vintage cars. A fountain in the center of the courtyard featured a stone nymph, water cascading from an urn she held.
The driver pulled up to the entrance, slowing as clusters of elegantly dressed guests drifted toward the doors. He turned to you, his eyes wide.
"C’est un marriage," you said, forcing a smile. It’s a wedding.
He shook his head, muttering something about the rich as he helped you out. You handed him a generous tip (30 euros), and he tipped his hat.
"Merci, madame."
"Merci."
You stood on the gravel, the crunch of stones under your heels echoing loudly in the quiet. The front door was ajar, a butler in uniform was standing patiently nearby. You took a deep breath and stepped inside, your heart pounding in your chest. The foyer was a symphony of marble and light. A grand staircase curved upward, its banisters wrought iron with gold leaf accents. A crystal chandelier hung from a two-story ceiling, casting prisms across the walls. To the left, a salon opened up, filled with guests, champagne flutes in hand. The murmur of conversation washed over you, punctuated by occasional laughter.
As the gathering buzzed around you, a waiter appeared, offering a tray of champagne. You accepted a flute, grateful for something to hold, and glanced around at the familiar faces. Hazel, Ursula’s aunt, caught your eye first. She was a gaunt woman dressed in a navy silk dress, a string of pearls resting against her collarbone. Her husband, a portly man with a flushed face, stood beside her, engaged in conversation with someone you didn’t recognize. She seemed to notice you, her eyes flickering with recognition and surprise behind her gaze, as if they hadn’t expected to see you after all these years.
A few more familiar faces began to emerge from the crowd, and thankfully, you recognized a couple of Ursula's friends from that Nantucket trip. More people started to notice, and others who recognized you started to come over and strike up conversations. The usual barrage of questions had begun to flow, predictable, shallow, and almost anthropological in their curiosity. But what really got you was the look on their faces when you mentioned you lived in Harlem. It was as if they’d forgotten that Columbia University was in Morningside Heights, just next to Harlem—yet, here they were, acting as if the neighborhood were some distant, unfamiliar place. It was a curated ignorance that only the affluent could afford.
You noticed another family cluster: the Wainwrights, cousins of the Danforth’s, notorious for their real estate empire. The younger son, a man in his forties with a receding hairline, stared at you for a while before turning away. You took another gulp of champagne. Then another.
And then, across the room, you saw fucking Kip.
He was leaning against a marble pillar, a scotch in his hand, talking to two women in pastel dresses. Kip, who looked like a grinning predator in a tailored suit. You hadn’t seen him since his 'wedding,' which was fine because he had always found ways to corner you and whisper things that made your skin crawl during prep school. He was a piece of shit. He looked up, and his eyes met yours. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.
You turned on your heel and walked in the opposite direction, weaving through the crowd, putting as many bodies between you and him as possible. You found a quiet corner near a window overlooking the gardens and pressed your back against the wall, your champagne flute now empty.
Your hands were shaking, and you set the flute on a passing waiter's tray and grabbed another.
Where was Titus?
You scanned the room, the clusters of guests, the winding staircase. No sign of him. Was he with Ursula? Getting ready? You fidgeted, adjusted your earrings, and smoothed your hair. You felt exposed, vulnerable, like a rabbit in a field of wolves…so you kept drinking, the champagne a thin shield against the rising tide of panic. Then the wedding coordinator stepped into the center of the foyer and clapped her hands twice. The murmur died down.
"If I could have everyone's attention, please. The ceremony will begin in five minutes. Please proceed to the garden through the south doors. Guests are requested to be seated." The crowd began to move, a slow tide of silk and cologne toward the open doors at the end of the hall. You followed, the champagne glass still in your hand, and set it on a small table as you passed.
The garden was breathtaking.
The aisle wasn’t strewn with petals; instead, a long strip of dark stone, polished to a mirror sheen, cut through the grass like a blade. At the end of it stood an archway of blackened iron twisted with deep‑red amaranth and dark olive leaves. The arch was set against a backdrop of the Luberon valley, the hills rolling in shades of green and gold under the late afternoon sun. Chairs (black iron with deep wine‑colored cushions) were arranged in neat rows on either side of the aisle. A string quartet was already playing, something soft and classical. The temperature was perfect. Maybe 66 degrees, the air carrying the scent of lavender and earth. The sky was a clear, endless blue.
You took a seat in the middle row, on the end of the left side, so you could be close enough to see but far enough from the aisle that you wouldn't be caught in the wedding party's sightline. You clasped your hands in your lap, your fingers cold despite the warmth. The officiant, a man dressed in a simple black robe, walked down the aisle and took his place beneath the arch. Almost abruptly, Conrad followed and walked down the aisle with his parents—they walked him to the altar, his father shaking his hand, his mother kissing his cheek, and then they stepped to the side, taking their seats in the front row. They hadn’t bothered with a wedding party, which you loved. No bridesmaids fussing with hems, and no shitfaced groomsmen. It was just Conrad, standing under the arch, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes fixed on the house.
Then the quartet paused. The officiant cleared his throat.
The first notes of Bittersweet Symphony began to play, the strings carrying that iconic melody. The guests stirred. The officiant raised his voice.
"Please stand for the bride."
Everyone rose as the chairs scraped against the gravel, and you stood with your heart in your throat when the doors of the house opened, revealing Ursula emerging.
She was a vision in red. The dress was a deep wine, almost burgundy, with a fitted bodice that flowed into a full skirt. The fabric caught the light, shimmering like liquid fire.
"Wow, look at her in that dress," someone murmured nearby. "It's like she stepped out of a dream." Her hair was pinned up, with a few curls escaping to frame her face, and she wore a circlet of dark metal that caught the light, each garnet glimmering like drops of blood with every step she took as she moved.
But it wasn't only the dress that made your breath catch.
It was the man walking beside her.
Titus.
He looked devastating, wearing a perfectly tailored suit, and with a deep red pocket square that matched Ursula's dress. His arm was linked through hers, guiding her down the aisle. Your eyes burned, and as you blinked, a tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it, so you brushed it away quickly, hoping no one saw.
Ursula looked beautiful. Stunning. And the fact that it was Titus walking her down the aisle, her twin brother, her other half—it made something ache deep in your chest. You wished Chester could have seen this moment. And, the most beautiful part, was Conrad's face. He was watching Ursula with an expression you had only seen in books or in movies. Complete and total awe. His eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted, and there was a softness in his gaze that bordered on reverence. He wasn't looking at his bride. He was looking at a miracle.
Titus led Ursula up to the arch, then paused and turned to face Conrad. For a moment, the three of them stood in a small triangle before Titus took Ursula's hand and gently placed it in Conrad's. That’s when you noticed he was wearing his father’s ring. You smirked, because you realized that it meant the twins had secured their seat back on the High Council.
Titus was about to take his seat when he paused, his eyes catching sight of you. Your heart stopped with them because there was something in his expression—something darker, something that made your blood run cold. He wasn’t happy to see you, and without a word, he looked away and took his seat, as if dismissing you. Regret flooded your mind…it was a mistake to come here. You sat there, rooted to your spot, your hands clutching the edge of your chair, feeling the weight of his displeasure press down like a heavy stone.
The words echoed quietly in your mind as the ceremony continued, the officiant's voice a distant drone, the lavender-scented air suddenly suffocating. You kept your eyes fixed forward, but all you kept thinking was:
You were not welcome here. Not by Ursula. And certainly not by Titus.
The ceremony ended in a blur. You stood when everyone else stood, clapped when they clapped, smiled when they smiled. But your body moved on autopilot while your mind churned in a dark spiral, replaying the look Titus had given you.
You needed a drink.
The bar was tucked in a corner of the ballroom (because of course this house had a ballroom), all dark wood and brass, staffed by a man who looked like he'd seen a hundred broken hearts and knew better than to ask questions. You ordered a whiskey, neat, and knocked half of it back in one swallow. The burn was grounding.
Ursula and Conrad were making their rounds, stopping at tables, accepting congratulations. You watched her from a distance, the way she moved through the crowd with practiced grace, her dress trailing behind her. You also noticed her look of complete shock when she noticed you.
She started heading straight for you, and your stomach dropped.
Ursula didn't slow down. She weaved through the guests with a smile fixed on her face, but her eyes were locked on you. She reached the bar, grabbed your wrist with surprising strength, and pulled you away before you could protest.
"Ursula—"
"Not a word," she hissed, dragging you through a side door, down a narrow corridor, and into a study lined with bookshelves.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
You let out a breath, a nervous laugh escaping your lips. "Congratulations. You look stunning. The dress is—"
"Explain yourself."
You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Your husband invited me."
She looked ready to combust. "I'm going to kill him."
"You really shouldn't make jokes like that," you said, raising an eyebrow. "You know. Considering."
For a heartbeat, she stared at you. Then, despite herself, a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.
You pressed your advantage while you had it. "Look, I know why you didn't invite me. I wouldn't have invited me either." You held her gaze despite the way your heart was hammering. "But I didn't want to miss this. And I know my mother would have loved being here."
Ursula's expression shifted—the anger draining from her face like water through cupped hands. She turned away from you, her shoulders stiffening. For a long moment, she didn't speak.
"Don't," she finally said, her voice tight. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Use her as a distraction." She spun back around, and her eyes were glistening now, though her jaw was clenched hard enough to break teeth. "You don't get to—you can't just—"
"I'm not," you said quietly. "I'm telling you the truth. She would have been here if she could. And since she can't be, I wanted to be. For the both of us."
Ursula's hand came up to her face, and she turned toward the bookshelves, her shoulders trembling slightly.
"I can’t believe I’m married." You let the silence stretch for a moment, watching her shoulders gradually still. When she finally turned back around, her eyes were red-rimmed but dry since Ursula had clearly decided tears were not on the agenda.
"Neither can I," you said softly, and despite everything, she let out a short, surprised laugh. "Conrad seems like a really wonderful person. I can tell he’s madly in love with you.”
She studied you for a moment, then nodded. "He is. He looks at me, and it's like he already knows exactly who I am and loves me anyway." There was something almost vulnerable in the admission, like she was surprised by it herself. "He's... a much better person than I am. Which, granted, isn't a high bar, but still," she smiled sadly. "I love him so much it scares me. I'm still waiting for the universe to correct its mistake."
"It's not a mistake," you said firmly.
She tilted her head, one eyebrow arched in that signature way of hers. "Are we done with the feelings portion of the evening, or...?"
"Are you afraid?" you whispered.
"Of what?" She turned back to the mirror, smoothing down her dress with deliberate precision.
"Of what might happen tonight."
She was quiet for a long moment. "He won't pull the Hide and Seek card," she said with absolute certainty.
"How can you know that?"
"Because Titus made sure he wouldn't."
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. What did that mean? Your mind raced.
"I have to go," she said. "Smooze with people. Total buzzkill."
"Good luck. Try not to commit any felonies."
"No promises." She rolled her eyes. "I also need to go find the wedding planner and tell her that some absolute nightmare of a person showed up uninvited, so she needs to hide you in the back somewhere near the kitchen.
You grinned. "I appreciate that."
Ursula was already moving toward the door, mentally preparing herself for the social minefield of in-law pleasantries.
"I'm happy you two won the seat back," you said, lowering your voice. Ursula paused at the doorway, turning back with a knowing smile.
"That was all Titus. He made sure of it. Made sure a lot of things happened the way they needed to."
For a moment, she looked like she might say something more, but then the sound of voices drifted down the hallway. She gave you a quick wink before disappearing past the door.
The ballroom had transformed into a glittering maze of conversation and champagne. You'd spent the last 10 minutes circling through clusters of guests, your eyes perpetually scanning for Titus. You hadn't seen Titus since the ceremony. Part of you hoped he'd disappeared entirely, that you could slip away before dawn and pretend this whole night never happened. But you knew better. The weight of his stare from the aisle still clung to your skin like a brand.
You finally found him on the terrace, leaning against the stone balustrade that overlooked the gardens, a glass of wine in his hand. He was watching the sunset paint the valley in shades of amber and rose, his profile sharp and unreadable in the golden light. For a moment, you just stood there, taking him in.
Then she appeared.
She was young—couldn't have been more than 22, with the kind of effortless beauty that came from good genes and better skincare. She had red hair, the kind of shade that caught the light like it was made for it, and she was wearing a champagne-colored dress with piercing blue eyes. She materialized at his side like she'd been summoned, her hand already reaching out to touch his arm.
"Titus, darling," she cooed, her accent distinctly British, upper-crust. "I've been looking for you all evening. You simply can't hide away like this. It's terribly unfair to the rest of us."
"Hello, Margot," you overheard him say.
Of course her name was Margot.
You watched her laugh—a tinkling, practiced sound that probably worked on approximately 98% percent of the male population. She leaned closer, her fingers still on his arm, and you felt something hot and acidic crawl up your throat.
"I'm starting to think you're avoiding me."
"Hard to avoid someone who keeps finding me," Titus said, a slight smirk playing at his mouth. "Though I'm not complaining."
"Well, I'm terribly persistent when I want something,"
"I've noticed," Titus said.
Margot laughed again (that same crystalline sound that made your molars ache). You realized that your nails were digging crescents into your palms. What infuriated you most wasn't that she was beautiful. It wasn't even that she was young and effortless and everything you'd expect the average man to want. It was that Titus was engaging with her. That he wasn't stepping back. That he was considering it, you could see it in the way his gaze lingered on her face, in the way he didn't immediately shut her down.
You moved toward them before you could think better of it. "Excuse me," you said directly to Titus, your voice cutting through the evening air like a blade. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"
Titus turned to you, and his expression shifted…and not in the way you wanted. His eyes, which had been warm moments before, went cool and distant, that familiar wall slamming down between you two. Margot’s head whipped around, her expression shifting from flirtation to indignation in half a second. She looked you up and down, dismissively, as if cataloging your outfit choice.
"We’re sort of having a private conversation," she said coolly. "Shouldn't you be tending to the bar?" she asked, her tone dripping with rudeness. "Or did someone send you to collect glasses?
What a cunt.
"Isn't it past your bedtime? Us adults need to have a little chat," you smiled, sweet as poison.
Her face flushed crimson. For a moment, she looked like she might say something cutting.
"I'll find you later," Titus said, his gaze already shifting away from you, and towards her. "We just need to have a quick chat.”
Her hand found his shoulder, her lips brushing against his cheek in a kiss that lingered. "Don't take too long," she murmured against his skin, her eyes flicking toward you with unmistakable triumph.
Titus didn’t look at you right away. He just exhaled, and when he finally turned, his expression was carved from stone.
"I don’t really actually have time to chat," he muttered, already stepping away from you.
You followed him, pulse hammering. "I would’ve thought you’d be happy to see me."
"Why?" he shot back instantly, not even glancing over. "Since when is that the dynamic?"
He didn’t wait for your answer. He just kept walking, long strides carrying him back toward the house. As he moved, he slipped seamlessly into host mode—nodding to guests, offering clipped greetings, shaking hands. Each polite smile he gave them only highlighted how little warmth he had for you.
You trailed behind him, feeling like a ghost tethered to his shadow.
"Titus," you hissed, trying to keep up. "Why are you being this way?"
He stopped mid‑stride, turned his head just enough to look at you over his shoulder.
"What way?" he asked, voice flat. "You’re going to have to be more specific."
This was the man who once had looked at you like you were something dangerous and precious in equal measure. Who had touched you like he was afraid you'd shatter. Who had said your name like it meant something. You wanted to scream. Instead, you grabbed his wrist and tugged him down a side hallway that was currently empty, quiet, and far from the party’s hum. He let you pull him, but only barely, like he was indulging a child.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" you demanded, keeping your voice low. "You've been cold since the ceremony, and now you're—"
"I'm being what?" he interrupted, his tone deliberately measured in that way that made your skin crawl. "Honest?"
"You're being cruel."
He laughed—a short, bitter sound that echoed off the stone walls. "Cruel would be telling you what I actually think right now." He turned away from you, running a hand through his hair, and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might break. "So I'm being merciful, actually. You should thank me."
"Thank you for what? For ignoring me? For flirting with that vapid—"
"Don't." His voice cracked like a whip. He spun back around, and his eyes… God, his eyes were furious. "Don't you dare sit there and act territorial when you've been fucking that linguistics professor."
"How did you—" you started.
"Does it matter?" He stepped closer.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" you hissed, because you hadn’t told anyone about David. The only way he could know was if he was keeping tabs on you with the Danforth’s private investigator.
"I’m not. Kindly get the fuck out." He stopped himself, jaw working, clearly trying to regain control. "I can’t believe you’ve been letting him touch you. He’s beneath you. You could do so much better."
Suddenly, it all made so much sense. This was why he had been ignoring your phone calls and texts.
"I'm not—" You felt heat rise in your chest, exasperation mixing with something else. Something that felt dangerously like guilt. "First of all, we slept together once. I haven't done anything physical with him since I came to visit your father in Newport. And you don't deserve to hear this, but the only reason I slept with him was that I was trying to get over you. I ended things with him weeks ago." Titus went very still. "It's 2026," you continued, your voice shaking slightly. "A woman having casual sex is completely reasonable. Men do it all the time. I'm not going to apologize for it."
He scoffed, and your hand caught his jaw to stop him from turning away. Your fingers pressed into the sharp line of his cheek, guiding his face back toward yours.
"Titus," you said, breath unsteady. "Look at me." You stepped closer, closing the distance he'd been so carefully maintaining. Your hand was still on his jaw, but this time you didn’t stop there. Your other hand found his—the hand, the one with his father’s ring. His fingers twitched under your touch, like he wasn’t sure whether to pull away or hold on. "I'm happy you won your seat back. I'm happy the bride is dead if it means you're where you belong. I don't care how that makes me sound. I only care about you."
"That's—you can't mean that."
"I do. I'm in love with you, Titus. I don't know how any of this works. I don't know how to be with someone like you. I don't know if I'll fit into your world or if I'll burn it down trying. But I want to try. I want to be with you. If you'll let me."
Silence stretched between you, thick and trembling.
"I can't focus. I can't think. Every time I close my eyes, I taste you," he murmured.
"Then stop trying to think."
He stared at you, his chest heaving, his hazel orbs searching yours for any hint of a lie. Finding none, his mouth crashed into yours, and he kissed you like he was drowning, and you were air. His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back. You gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound, pressing you against the wall behind you. His hips pinned yours, and you felt the unmistakable hardness of him straining against his trousers.
You kissed him back with equal ferocity, your hands sliding up his chest, fisting the lapels of his suit jacket. He groaned, low and guttural, and hitched your leg up around his hip. The fabric of your dress rode high, exposing your thigh
"I don't deserve you," he gasped against your lips, and then his mouth was on your throat, teeth grazing the pulse point, tongue soothing the sting. You moaned, tilting your head back, giving him more access. His hand slid down your side, over the curve of your waist, gripping your ass through the thin material of your dress.
"I don't recall asking what you deserve."
He kissed you again, his mouth slanting over yours again and again until you were both breathless. Then he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, his breathing ragged. Titus grabbed your hand, and you let him pull you out of the corridor, through the grand foyer, past clusters of guests who barely registered as a blur of jewel tones and curious glances. His grip was firm, his pace urgent, and you followed without hesitation.
At the base of the grand staircase, you saw her. Margot stood near the bar, a glass of champagne frozen halfway to her lips, her eyes locked on you and Titus, and you saw the exact moment her composure cracked. Her jaw tightened, her knuckles whitened around the stem of the glass, and behind her carefully painted smile, something ugly and furious writhed.
You paused on the landing, met her gaze, and winked.
The fury that flashed across her face was almost violent, a mask slipping just long enough for you to see the raw, possessive rage beneath. You hated admitting that the taste of her jealousy was exquisite. You turned away, letting Titus pull you up the stairs, your heart soaring. He led you down a corridor lined with oil paintings and sconces casting warm pools of light, past doors closed and open, until he stopped at one near the end. He pushed it open and guided you inside.
His room stole your breath.
It was a vision of French European elegance with walls paneled in cream with delicate gold filigree, a crystal chandelier catching the dying evening light and scattering it like stars across the ceiling. The bed was massive, a four-poster draped in ivory silk and velvet, the sheets crisp and inviting. French doors opened onto a small balcony, the sheer curtains billowing in the breeze. A marble fireplace, unlit but stunning, dominated one wall, flanked by armchairs upholstered in pale rose damask.
Titus turned to you, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and hungry. He reached for the zipper of your dress, and you let him, your breath catching as the fabric loosened and slid down your shoulders. It pooled at your feet, and you stood before him in nothing but your heels and the delicate lace of your underwear.
"You're…" he made a low guttural sound, "the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." You looked at him…his eyes wild with want, his lips swollen, his composure shattered. The man who had guided his sister down the aisle with such grace now looked feral with need.
"Show me," you begged, taking off your panties and heels.
He shed his clothes with rough, urgent movements—jacket, shirt, trousers, all discarded in a trail behind him. His body was lean and hard, muscles shifting beneath freckled skin, his cock already thick and straining, the tip glistening. He stepped toward you, his hands finding your waist, and he backed you toward the bed until your knees hit the edge. He pushed you down onto the mattress, the silk cool against your bare skin, and followed you, his body covering yours. His mouth found your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. When his lips closed around your nipple, you gasped, your back arching, your fingers tangling in his hair.
"Titus—"
"Say my name again." He suckled harder, his tongue flicking the sensitive peak, his teeth grazing just enough to send sparks through your nerves. He moved to the other breast, giving it the same devastating attention, his hand sliding between your thighs. His fingers found you slick and ready, and he groaned against your skin.
"I missed you," you cried out.
"Me too, Angel,"
He pushed two fingers inside you, curling them just right, and your vision went white at the edges. You cried out, your hips bucking against his hand, and he watched your face with feral satisfaction.
"Please—I need—"
"What do you need, darling?" His voice was honey and gravel. "Tell me."
"I want to put my mouth on you."
And you did, you had been dreaming about it for months. He pulled his fingers out slowly, bringing them to his mouth and licking them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. Then he lay back on the bed, settling against the pillows, his cock standing thick and proud.
"Come here," he said, his voice rough. "I want to eat your pussy at the same time."
You crawled over him, straddling his chest, facing his cock, and then shifted forward. You lowered yourself slowly, feeling his breath hot against your cunt, and when his mouth latched onto you, you moaned—loud and fucking shameless. You leaned forward, pressing your chest against his stomach, taking his cock in your hand, guiding the tip past your lips. His tongue found your clit immediately, circling, flicking, while his hands came up to grip your ass. He spread your cheeks, pulling you tighter against his face, and then—slap.
The first spank made you gasp around him, your eyes watering. The sting bloomed hot across your left cheek, and you felt him smile against your cunt.
"That's it, good girl," he murmured, the vibrations traveling through your core. "Take it. Take all of it."
You swallowed him deeper, your throat relaxing, taking him to the base. His cock hit the back of your throat, and you hummed, loving the way he groaned in response. His hands kneaded your flesh, then slap again—harder this time, on your right cheek. The slap sent a jolt of pleasure-pain through your body, his tongue working your clit with the same rhythm. You were drowning in sensation...the thick length of him filling your throat, the sting of his palm against your ass, the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth feasting on your pussy.
Your hips began to rock, grinding against his face, taking him deeper down your throat. He groaned against you, the sound muffled but satisfied, and his tongue pressed harder, faster, circling your clit with devastating precision.
"Fuck, missed the taste of you," he breathed, pulling back just enough to speak. You moaned around his cock, your eyes rolling back, your thighs trembling. His tongue grew more erratic, matching the building tension in your belly, each suck pushing you closer to the edge.
"Titus," you panted, "Fuck—"
"Come on my face," he commanded, his voice ragged.
The knot in your belly snapped. Your orgasm crashed through you, violent and blinding, your walls clenching as waves of pleasure wracked your body. You screamed around his cock, your throat convulsing, your hips bucking against his mouth. He didn't stop—he lapped at you through it all, drawing out every pulse, every shiver, until you were limp and gasping above him.
He pulled you off gently, guiding you to lie beside him, and pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his breathing ragged. "I don't want to come in your mouth," he said, his voice strained, thick with need. "I want to watch your perfect face and see your eyes when you come." Titus flipped you onto your back before you could recover, positioning himself between your legs. His cock pressed against your slick, swollen entrance, and he pushed inside you in one smooth motion, making you both gasp.
Titus filled you so perfectly, stretching you, claiming you. He set a rhythm that was deep and slow, his eyes never leaving yours. Suddenly, he lifted your legs, placing one ankle on his shoulder and tucking the other in the crook of his arm.
The new angle drove him deeper, and you cried out, your nails raking down his back, leaving red trails on his skin. "Look at you," he breathed, his pace quickening. " You're mine. Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Whose pussy is this?"
"Yours. It's yours, Titus. Only yours."
He grunted, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. The bed creaked beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady rhythm. "And that fucking professor? Did he ever make you feel like this?" Titus wanted to own every part of you.
"No one has ever made me feel like this. No one. Just you."
His control snapped.
He fucked you harder, deeper, his hips slamming against yours, his breathing ragged, his sweat glistening on his chest. The room smelled of sex—salt and musk and the sweet, heady scent of your arousal mingling with his. The air was thick with it, with the sounds of your moans and his grunts, the wet, obscene sound of him driving into you again and again.
"I'm close," he growled. "Fuck, I'm so close. I need to feel you come again.”
The pressure built again, coiling tight in your belly, your walls clenching around him. You came with a sob, tears streaming down your cheeks, your body convulsing, your face contorted with the intensity of it. The pleasure was too much, too intense, a beautiful agony that left you gasping, your vision blurring. Titus watched you fall apart, his eyes locked on yours, his expression almost reverent. God, you were fucking gorgeous. His thrusts grew erratic, his breath coming in harsh pants, and you could feel him pulsing inside you, his peak approaching.
"I-I’m gonna pull out," he said, his voice breaking.
"Don't. It's safe. Stay inside me. Come inside me."
He groaned, a sound torn from somewhere deep, and you felt him release—hot, thick, and completely flooding you. His face twisted with pleasure, his eyes rolling back, his mouth falling open in a silent cry. His body shuddered above you, his hips pressing deep, holding himself there as he emptied into you. Titus collapsed on top of you, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat, the air around you heavy and warm.
He pulled out slowly, and you felt his spend trickle down your thigh. He disappeared into the attached bathroom, returning moments later with a warm, damp cloth. He cleaned you gently, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hips, and your belly as he worked.
You checked your watch and sighed.
"Cocktail hour is almost over. We need to go back down."
Titus lay beside you, pulling you into his arms, his chest pressed against your back, his lips brushing your shoulder. "Just a few more minutes. I want to hold you a little longer."
You nestled into him, feeling his heartbeat slow beneath your ear, his arms wrapped around you like a shield.
"Titus?"
"Hmm?"
"I love you."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then his arms tightened around you, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
"I love you too."
The words hung in the air, fragile and precious, a promise neither of you fully understood but both of you desperately wanted to keep.
You pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face in the darkness of the room. His eyes were closed, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his chest still rose and fell with controlled breaths.
"Titus?"
"Yes?"
"Why is Ursula so sure that Conrad won't pull the hide and seek card?"
He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing slow circles on your back. "When the bride was killed," he began, his voice low and measured, "Mr. Le Bail’s lawyer let us know that because we'd re-won the seat, we were allowed to adjust our family contract. The terms, the rules, all of it. Ursula and I had made a deal that whoever killed the bride would be the one to make whatever adjustment we pleased."
Your heart was already beginning to race, sensing where this was going.
"I requested," he continued, his arms tightening around you since he was still afraid that confirming that he killed her would make you look at him differently, "that our family continues to participate in the hunts. We're bound to this. To the High Council. To Mr. Le Bail. That's not something that can be undone, and I wouldn't ask for that. But I did ask that the hide and seek card...the game itself be removed from possibility. For future spouses. For spouses of future Danforth children. For generations to come in our immediate family."
He’d done what?
Titus paused, letting the enormity of it settle. "Ursula deserved to marry Conrad today without the fear of his possible immediate death.”
Your eyes burned. You pulled back to look at him fully, seeing the weight of what he'd done written across his features.
"You did that for Ursula," you whispered.
"She’s my sister. I would do anything for her… but I also did it for me," he said quietly, and the admission hung between you like a confession. You understood immediately what he wasn't saying outright—what he couldn't quite say, not yet. By removing the hide and seek card, he had secured something far more precious than Ursula's peace of mind. He'd secured the possibility of a future where he could have a wife without the constant shadow of that particular death sentence looming. Children who wouldn't grow up knowing their future spouses might be hunted down on their wedding day.
"I'm not asking for anything right now," he said quickly, reading what he thought was panic in your silence. "I'm not saying this to... I'm telling you because you asked."
But that wasn't quite the whole truth either, was it? You could see it in the way his eyes finally opened, in the way they searched yours. He was asking for something. Not explicitly, not with words...but with the architecture of his choices. He'd restructured his family's future, rewritten the rules of their darkest game for Ursula… and for you?
"You killed the bride," you said slowly, "and made sure that if you ever had someone to protect, you could actually keep them. That makes a lot of sense to me."
He didn't say anything.
All the fear, all the darkness of this world you'd been pulled into, and here was Titus, this man bound by blood and obligation to a cult of monsters, using the only leverage he had to carve out a small sanctuary for the people he loved.
You emerged from the room together, your dress re-zipped, your hair smoothed back into something resembling order. Titus had a faint mark on his neck that you'd left with your teeth... which was a small claim staked in the landscape of his skin. Neither of you bothered to fix it.
The evening had shifted outdoors again for dinner. Long tables had been arranged in a horseshoe formation across the manicured grounds of the Danforth estate, strung with lights that transformed the darkness into something ethereal. A jazz trio played from a pavilion, their music drifting across the gardens. The air smelled of night-blooming jasmine and the rich aroma of the meal being served.
Titus's hand found the small of your back as you descended the stone steps; his touch was proprietary in a way that made several heads turn as you passed. The family table was positioned at the center of the horseshoe, and Ursula sat at the head, with Conrad on her right. His parents occupied the seats beyond him—his mother beaming with the particular radiance of a woman who'd just watched her son marry a woman she clearly found fascinating, his father nodding approvingly at something one of Conrad's siblings was saying. Titus guided you to the empty seat to his left, pulling it out for you and kissing your shoulder as you sat.
"Well, this is interesting," Ursula murmured, leaning forward slightly so only you and Titus could hear. Her eyes glinted with amusement, and Conrad grinned openly, as if he'd just won some private bet with himself.
Conversation flowed around the table with that easy rhythm, and you watched Ursula look so happy. Marriage seemed to suit her, or perhaps it was simply the absence of fear. Knowing that Conrad wouldn't be hunted, wouldn't be forced into a game where the stakes were his life, had carved away some essential tension from her shoulders. By the time dessert arrived (a decadent chocolate confection with edible gold leaf served under the stars), the evening had taken on the quality of a dream. The kind where terrible things existed in the margins but couldn't quite touch the center of the frame.
After hours of dancing, the other guests departed as the night deepened, taxis picking people up and cars winding down the long drive away from the estate. But the Danforth family remained—not just Ursula and Titus, but their uncles, aunts, and cousins, scattered across the grounds in small clusters, lingering over drinks and conversation. Tradition, after all, demanded their presence.
Pernella appeared with the ornate wooden box, setting it in front of Conrad with ceremonial precision. The room fell silent. Everyone knew what this meant. Or at least… they thought they did.
"The final tradition," Pernella announced. "A game must be played before the evening concludes." Conrad reached toward the box, and his fingers hovered over the cards printed with various games.
He drew a card, and his face went carefully blank as he looked at the card. Around him, the family leaned in with the hunger of wolves scenting blood.
"Chess," he said quietly, as if the word itself was a curse. "We have to play chess. You're going to destroy me."
"Almost certainly," Ursula agreed, her eyes glinting with the promise of violence barely concealed beneath civility. The family settled into chairs around the board while Ursula and Conrad took their seats. You moved to stand near Titus, your hand finding his, and his fingers closed around yours, anchoring you.
Conrad played competently, his strategy sound, his defense solid…but he was outmatched. You could see it in the way he began to frown slightly, the way his fingers lingered on pieces before moving them, as if he could somehow alter the outcome through sheer force of will.
It took 37 moves.
Ursula's final move was elegant: a bishop sweep that left Conrad's king with no escape routes. Checkmate. The word hung in the air like a benediction, and the assembled family erupted in applause. Conrad laughed, shaking his head in admiration, and reached across the board to kiss Ursula's hand.
Titus pulled you close as the family began to disperse, heading back to their hotels or respective homes. Ursula and Conrad were jetting off to the Danforth St. Tropez hotel tonight to begin their honeymoon. His lips brushed against your temple.
"Don’t go back to your hotel," he whispered. "Stay the night. Don't leave."
You turned to face him, seeing the vulnerability beneath the demand, the fear that you might vanish like some fever dream.
"Okay," you said simply. "I'll stay."
His exhale was relief incarnate.
FIVE YEARS LATER – MANHATTAN, NEW YORK
Titus sat propped against the headboard, his 3-year-old son nestled against his chest, completely absorbed in the story of Max and his wild rumpus.
The copy of Where the Wild Things Are (gifted by Auntie Ursula) was being read for what had to be the thousandth time. The original gift was a first edition copy for 'display only,' currently sitting on a custom-built walnut bookshelf with a note inside from Uncle Conrad that read: "If he spills juice on it, we’ll simply buy another. Childhood should not be constrained by scarcity." Your son, blissfully unaware of the book’s value, had once used it as a ramp for his toy firetruck.
"Again!" his son demanded as Titus closed the book, his small fists clenching with the desperation only a toddler could muster.
"You have school tomorrow, buddy. It's past your bedtime."
His son's face crumpled in protest—a perfect mirror of your stubborn expression, down to the exact furrow of the brow. Titus lasted approximately 6 seconds before caving completely.
"One more," he sighed, already flipping back to the beginning. "Just one."
Twenty minutes later, after a second book (a pop-up version of The Very Hungry Caterpillar), Titus finally managed to extract himself from his son's room. He kissed the boy's forehead, whispered goodnight, and quietly closed the door. He found you sitting up in bed, re-reading the De Occulta Philosophia libri III by Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa, hand resting on the swell of your belly. Titus found it intoxicating…the way you could lecture on ethics and consequence one moment, then move through the woods during a hunt with lethal grace the next. Your mind, your courage, your refusal to be intimidated by the world he'd been born into. There was something deeply, inexplicably sexy about it: the woman who taught the world about morality while living in its margins. The contradiction itself was arousing—the duality of you. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve you, and he suspected he never would.
The moment he entered, you looked up at him with an expression that could have frozen the Hudson River solid.
"Don't," you said flatly.
"I haven't done anything."
"You're about to do something. I can see it on your face."
Titus held up his hands in surrender as he changed into sleep clothes.
"Storytime was longer than usual," you observed.
"I read him one more book. He gave me your eyes and deployed them as a weapon. I'm a weak man."
"You're a pushover," you corrected, turning a page with perhaps more force than necessary.
He slid into bed beside you carefully because these days, he moved around you like you were made of spun glass. Pregnancy had been harder on you this time with more aches, more exhaustion, more hormones. The family doctor had made the fatal mistake of using the phrase 'geriatric pregnancy,' and you had nearly killed him on the spot when he suggested you stay at home during this pregnancy. You had never wanted the traditional role. Titus had known that from the beginning. No staying home, no surrendering your career or your autonomy. But…Titus had begged you to start maternity leave at 4 months this time. After losing his mother in childbirth (who had been around your age), he was hyper‑vigilant, protective to the point of paranoia, and absolutely unapologetic about it.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Like I'm carrying a small person who has taken up kickboxing as a hobby," you said tersely. "In my ribs."
"She’s spirited," he said proudly. "Very Danforth of her."
You shot him a look that suggested his attempt at levity was not appreciated. Titus didn’t even blink at the look you gave him. He never did anymore. If anything, he seemed almost amused by it…like he’d long ago accepted that your hormones were a force of nature he would simply endure with gratitude.
Why wouldn’t he? You’d given him everything. Your loyalty, your brilliance, your son, and now your daughter. If the price of that devotion was absorbing every hormone-fueled barb you hurled his way, he would endure them all without complaint. Because you had surrendered your very soul to Mr. Le Bail and the traditions of the High Council, which most people would flee screaming from.
You had chosen him. You were his wife.
His.
And Titus would never forget that.
"You know what Ursula and Conrad sent for the nursery?" he tried, pivoting strategies. "A hand-carved Italian crib. From the 1800s. Apparently, it was blessed by a cardinal."
"Those two are ridiculous," you sighed, accepting the privileges that came with being his.
"Completely ridiculous," Titus lied, because it was totally the type of gift he would give. He was Ursula’s twin after all, and excessive generosity ran in their blood. He reached over to gently place his hand on your belly. "But they're happy. In Paris. No kids. Just art and wine and each other, playing chess at midnight."
His sister had never wanted children. However, she adored being an aunt far too much. Spoiling your son was her sport of choice, and she played it with Olympic‑level dedication.
"Must be nice," you murmured. "Why did we decide to do the whole kid thing again?"
Titus's mouth quirked into that familiar smirk...the one that had gotten you into this situation in the first place.
"Well," he said, leaning closer, "the making them part is fun. Very fun, if I recall correctly. Especially how we made our daughter..."
"I seem to remember you being pretty enthusiastic about the idea," you teased.
"Yes. I take full responsibility for participating in the act you initiated," he grinned, giving you a smug look.
You shot him a look… but it was true, because you had begged for his cock that night during a vacation in Mendoza. Your daughter was conceived (accidentally) from an orgasm that had crashed through you without warning, a sharp, blinding wave that tore a cry from your throat while Titus filled you up, moaning your name after a wine-filled dinner.
He reached out, placing a warm hand on your belly. Your daughter responded immediately with a firm kick.
"You’re going to spoil her just like you spoil him," you exhaled, half‑annoyed, half‑fond.
"Oh, absolutely," Titus said. "I plan to be intolerable about it."
He leaned over carefully and kissed your forehead, then your temple, then your perfect belly. "Goodnight, my princess. Go easy on your mother."
From inside, there was another kick against his palm. She loved his voice.
"She says no promises," you translated dryly.
"Let’s get you a nice massage tomorrow."
"The one from that woman in Tribeca?"
Titus's smirk was slow and deliberate. He knew exactly which one you meant. The therapist who charged $1200 per session and whose hands were legendary among Manhattan's elite.
"The one you said was 'obscenely expensive' last month?" His voice was warm with amusement.
You felt heat creep up your neck. "My back is killing me, and she's supposed to be the best for pregnant women. I've heard—"
"Say no more." He was already reaching for his phone. "I'll have it arranged for tomorrow afternoon."
"Titus, you can't just—"
"Already done." He set the phone down, that satisfied smile still playing at his lips. "3 o'clock."
You wanted to argue. You should have argued. There was a time when you would have. When you had practically cried moving out of your Harlem apartment, when you had fought him tooth and nail over every luxury he tried to press into your hands. You wanted to earn your life, not have it handed to you like some kept woman.
So he compromised. He sold his Upper East Side penthouse and let you pick the neighborhood—the charming $15 million brownstone in Greenwich Village you fell in love with at first sight. He let you design every room, choose every detail. Titus let you make it yours. And somewhere between fighting him and building a home with him, you had stopped seeing his generosity as weakness and started seeing it as devotion.
"You're getting soft," he murmured, watching you with those beautiful eyes of his. He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "My queen, accepting her crown at last."
"I'm being practical," you corrected, but there was no heat in it. "My back hurts. The massage is medical."
"Of course it is." His hand drifted down to rest on your belly again, right where your daughter was growing. "And tomorrow, after your 'medical massage', we're having dinner at that new place in SoHo you mentioned.
That place was impossible to get into. "Titus—"
"Already booked." He kissed your temple. "You're carrying my child. You get whatever you want."
You should have protested. You should have reminded him about normalcy… but instead, you leaned into him and let yourself enjoy the feeling of being taken care of by a man who would move mountains for you and your children.
"You're going to ruin me," you whispered. He already had, but he didn't need to know that.
"Absolutely," he agreed. "That's the plan."
Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | You're reading the final part
Thank you for following me on this journey! <3 I really struggled with this "finale", so I hope it delivered! I ended up using a scene I deleted and archived weeks ago. The writing process is a struggle. Also, let's pretend that Ursula and Titus told their family that you were allowed to stick around for the game since you're with Titus. Cause since reader isn't family... I don't know how possible that would have been, but let's just pretend lol. Readers dress: Sloane Black Dress | NADINE MERABI
BONUS: DAD TITUS! LOOK AT HIS SMILEY FACE <3. Thank you @wesandresons for these cutie shots of my husband.
a03 | taglist open <3 | fic masterlist | playlist | extras | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter
.⋆♱ summary: June comes to an end without your path and Joel’s crossing again. As if your encounter had never happened. But both of you have been carrying a weight neither of you dares to name out loud. A similar ache. A wound just as deep.
.⋆♱ a/n 1: They were supposed to see each other again in this chapter, but one thing led to another, so we’ll have to wait until chapter four, guys. Sorry. By the way, I hope you enjoy the little surprises hidden in this chapter… and that the ghosts don’t scare you too much. 👻💕
.⋆♱ a/n 2: If you haven’t put a face to Father Miller yet, you can do it here.
.⋆♱ a/n 3: Noah Kahan - All Them Horses (ouch)
.⋆♱ warnings: Early signs of psychological abuse and gaslighting, mentions of deceased family members, supernatural elements, Bill appears (so Frank can’t be too far away… or can he?), brief mention of the beginning of a panic attack, Joel calls Bill an asshole once, Bill is a very particular man, deep internal angst, and please don’t confuse excessive control with love!
.⋆♱ wc: 13.654 k
June was ending, and the house had not quite learned how to belong to you yet.
It was livable by then, which was not the same as finished. The worst of the moving had passed; no more men carrying furniture up the stairs, no more Peter standing in the hallway with a list in one hand and someone else’s mistake in the other, no more boxes arriving faster than either of you could open them. What remained was quieter and more stubborn. A rolled rug waiting outside the dining room. Two picture frames still leaning against the wall because neither of you had agreed on where they should go. Books stacked on the landing. Linens folded over the back of a chair. The small, unfinished evidence of a life being arranged by degrees.
But some rooms surrendered sooner than others.
Peter’s study was almost complete within the first week. Of course it was. The desk had been placed exactly where he wanted it, the books shelved by some maniatic logic you did not ask him to explain, the lamp angled toward the chair, his father’s photograph set near the window with just enough discretion to pretend it had not been given pride of place. The dining room had followed soon after, because Peter cared about rooms where people would be received. Crystal in the cabinet. Silver counted and put away. A long table centered beneath a light fixture you had not chosen, though Peter’s father had sent a note calling it one of the house’s finer original features, which seemed to settle the matter for everyone except you.
Your own things remained upstairs much longer.
At first, you told yourself you were waiting for the right day. Then for the right room. Then for enough time to do it properly. But the truth was simpler and less flattering: unpacking them felt too much like making a promise. The canvases stayed wrapped. The paints stayed sealed. Your sketchbooks sat in uneven stacks near the end of the hall, carried from one place to another without ever being opened, like something you were not ready to admit you still wanted.
Peter had suggested the larger spare room twice.
It made sense. That was exactly the problem. It faced the street, had built-in shelves, decent walls, enough space for an easel and a cabinet and whatever else a proper studio was supposed to require. Peter liked it because it was practical, and because practical things seemed, to him, almost automatically right.
But the room you chose was not practical at all.
It was the smallest room in the house, tucked beneath the slope of the roof at the very end of the upstairs hall. Peter had dismissed it on the second day as storage, and he had not been entirely wrong. The ceiling dipped too low on one side, the window was narrow, and one floorboard near the wall complained every time you stepped on it. Still, the room stayed with you. You kept finding reasons to pass it, then finding reasons to pause.
It was the light.
Not the kind that made a room look grander than it was. This light came in quietly, touched the floor without glare, and left the walls with the feeling of something waiting rather than expecting. The bigger room asked to be used well. This one only seemed to ask to be used.
So after lunch, with Peter downstairs and the house resting in the dull heat of late afternoon, you carried in the first box.
Then another.
By the time the sun had begun to lower, the hallway outside was crowded with the things you had spent days avoiding. Sketchbooks, wrapped canvases, jars, tins of charcoal, brushes bound with string, a wooden case of pastels with a broken clasp. You opened the window, though it did little besides let in the smell of grass and warm wood, and knelt among the boxes with no real system except the need to begin somewhere.
That was where Peter found you.
You did not hear him come up the stairs. You were sorting through brushes, deciding which ones were too far gone to keep, when his shadow crossed the floor.
“So this is where you went.”
You looked over your shoulder.
He stood in the doorway with his jacket gone, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie loosened but not removed, as if the day had been permitted to end only halfway. There was a folded page in one hand and his phone in the other. He looked tired, though neatly so, the way Peter always did, as if even fatigue had been taught to sit properly on him.
“I didn’t go very far,” you said.
“No. Just vanished upstairs with half the contents of the hallway.”
“I was being productive.”
“I can see that.” His gaze moved past you into the room. “Or something adjacent to it.”
You looked at the floor around you, at the open boxes, the jars, the paper spread near your knees. “It looks worse before it looks better.”
“That’s usually what people say when it’s about to stay worse.”
You smiled and turned back to the brushes. “Come in or don’t, but don’t judge from the doorway.”
Peter stepped inside and immediately had to lower his head where the ceiling sloped. You saw it happen without meaning to and felt your mouth curve.
He stopped. “What?”
“You look too tall in here.”
“I am too tall in here. Everyone is too tall in here.”
“I’m not.”
“That’s not the defense you think it is.”
You laughed softly and set another brush into the jar beside you. Peter glanced up at the ceiling with faint suspicion, then at the window, then at the boxes, trying to understand the room the way he understood most things, by measuring what it could reasonably become. You watched him do it and knew the exact moment the numbers failed him.
“This one?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“For your… studio.”
“Yes.”
He looked back toward the hallway. “What happened to the larger room?”
“Nothing happened to it.”
“It has shelves.”
“I know.”
“And space.”
“I know that too.”
“And a window that doesn’t require me to stand like a question mark.”
“That sounds like your problem.”
Peter looked at you, then at the room again. “I’m just trying to understand, baby.”
“No, you’re trying to improve.”
“That’s often the same thing.”
“It really isn’t.”
He folded the paper in his hand and slipped it into his pocket, giving the room more attention now. He stepped around a box and crouched near the canvases, careful not to touch anything at first. That was one of the things about him that made these moments harder to sort through. Peter could be careless with feelings when they complicated his plans, but he was rarely careless with objects once he understood they mattered. His hand hovered over a wrapped canvas, then withdrew.
“Why here?” he asked.
You pushed yourself up from the floor and crossed to the window, wiping your hands on your dress before remembering the charcoal too late. “Because of this.”
Peter followed your gaze. “The window?”
“No, the light.”
He looked at it.
You waited.
The afternoon had begun to lower itself across the room. Nothing dramatic. Just a thin, pale wash over the floorboards and the wall where the easel would go. Dust moved through it when the air shifted. The light did not make the room beautiful in any obvious way. It simply gave it patience.
Peter studied it with the concentration of a man determined not to fail a test he had not been told he was taking. “It’s… I don't know? Soft,” he said finally.
You turned your head toward him.
He noticed. “What?”
“That was almost right.”
“Almost?”
“You’re getting warmer.”
“I said soft. That sounds exactly like something you’d say.”
“It is soft. But that isn’t why.”
He exhaled through his nose, amused now. “All right. It’s soft but not because it’s soft.”
“That makes sense to me.”
“Of course it does.”
You leaned back against the edge of the windowsill and looked around the room. “The bigger room feels like it expects something but this one doesn’t.”
Peter’s smile faded a little, not from annoyance, but because he was trying to follow you now. “Expects something.”
“Yes.”
“What does a room expect?”
“Depends on the room.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is, actually.”
He glanced at the window again, as if the light might settle the argument for him. “And this one?”
You touched the edge of the sill with your thumb. The paint there had chipped slightly, a small rough line beneath your skin. “This one feels like it would let me make a mess without being disappointed by it.”
Peter looked around again, slower this time. The low ceiling. The narrow window. The boxes at your feet. The bare wall waiting for something that had not happened yet. When he looked back at you, there was no teasing in his expression.
“You could make a mess anywhere,” he said.
“Could I?”
“I mean it. It’s your house too.”
The sentence was kind. It should have settled cleanly. Instead, it remained in the air between you, generous and slightly misshapen, because the house had never fully felt like yours and because both of you knew, in different ways, whose money had placed it around you.
You looked down first. “I know.”
Peter stood there a moment, then came closer. “I wasn’t trying to tell you where to put it.”
“A little.”
He accepted that with a small tilt of his head. “Maybe a little.”
“You like knowing where things go.”
“I like when things make sense.”
“That’s different.”
Peter looked back at the window. “I still don’t see it.”
“ That's fine because you don’t have to.”
“No?”
“No. You just have to trust me.”
He looked at you then, his expression quiet enough that the answer did not come immediately. “I can do that.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Can you?”
“For this room?” he said. “Yes.”
He reached the window and looked down into the side garden. From there, the view was mostly trees and the narrow strip of grass between the house and fence. Nothing impressive. No mountains framed perfectly in the distance. No porch. No street. It was one of the reasons you liked it.
Peter glanced sideways at you. “So this is where you’ll paint.”
“If I paint again.”
“You will.”
The certainty in his voice made you look at him. “You sound very sure.”
“I am.”
“You haven’t seen me paint in months.”
“That doesn’t mean you stopped being someone who paints.”
You did not answer immediately.
The words had been simple enough, but they reached farther than expected. Maybe because he had said them without performance. Maybe because he was not looking at you when he did, but still out the window, giving you the privacy of not having to react too quickly.
“I don’t know if it works like that, Peter.” you said.
“No,” he said, turning to you now. “But I know something about you.”
There were moments when Peter said things like that and you remembered the man you had fallen in love with before everything around that love had grown heavy with planning. He could still find the tender place when he wanted to. He could still stand close enough to it that your guard lowered before you had given permission.
You looked away with a faint smile. “That was actually a good answer.”
“I do occasionally have those.”
“Occasionally.” You teased.
“Careful.”
You laughed and crouched to lift another jar from a box. Peter bent at the same time to help, but the ceiling forced him awkwardly aside and he muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“That didn’t sound like nothing.”
“It was a private comment between me and the architecture.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being attacked by a roof.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Barely, apparently.”
You laughed again, and this time he smiled fully, as if the sound had rewarded him. He took the jar from you and set it on the windowsill with exaggerated care, then picked up another. For a few minutes, the two of you worked in a rhythm that did not require much conversation. You passed things to him, he placed them where you pointed, sometimes correctly, sometimes not. A tin of charcoal went on the floor. The pastels by the window. Brushes in jars. Sketchbooks against the wall. The room began to shift from storage into something more deliberate, not finished, but chosen.
Peter held up a cracked rubber band with two fingers. “Do you need this?”
“No.”
He dropped it into an empty box. “Progress.”
“Don’t get too excited.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“You love throwing faulty things away.”
“I love not keeping broken rubber bands.”
“That’s because you lack sentiment.”
“I have feelings but I simply refuse to assign it to… trash.”
“It was holding my charcoal together.”
“It has served its country.”
You took the charcoal from him before he could continue. “You’re very pleased with yourself.”
“Very much.”
The ease of it stayed for a while. Peter sat on the floor eventually because there was no dignified way to keep crouching in that room, and the sight of him among your open boxes with his tie loose and one knee bent awkwardly made you smile more than once. He complained, but not enough to leave. He asked what things were. He listened when you answered, even when he did not understand. He picked up one of your sketchbooks but did not open it, only weighed it in his hand before setting it down beside the others.
“You never showed me most of these,” he said.
“No.”
“Were you hiding them?”
“Not hiding.”
“What, then?”
You took a moment to answer. “Just… keeping them.”
Peter considered that. “From me?”
“From everyone.”
He nodded once, and to his credit, did not push. Instead he reached for your hand where it rested near the box between you. His fingers turned your palm upward. A smear of blue pastel had crossed the base of your thumb at some point, though you did not remember touching the color.
“You’ve already marked yourself,” he said.
“It happens.”
He rubbed his thumb lightly over the blue. It blurred beneath his skin, spreading softer across your palm.
“You’re making it worse,” you said.
“I think I’m improving it.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“It has less of an edge now.”
You looked at him. “Was that an artistic observation?”
“I’m learning.”
“Slowly.”
“Painfully.”
You laughed, but it quieted when he did not let go of your hand. His thumb remained at your palm, moving once more over the smeared color, then stilling there. The room had changed without any single moment announcing it. The boxes, the half sorted jars, the sloped ceiling, the warm air from the open window; all of it seemed to draw in around the two of you until there was less space than before.
Peter looked at your hand, then at your face.
You could have said something. You almost did. Some small joke about the floor or the ceiling or the fact that he was sitting on a crumpled sheet of packing paper but the words did not come.
He leaned in and you met him halfway.
The kiss started softly. His hand came to your jaw. Yours found the front of his shirt. The first press of his mouth was familiar enough to make you respond without thinking, but the second was not careful. He shifted closer, and the kiss deepened with a speed that surprised you, not rushed, just certain, as if the interruption from the weeks of settling into rooms that did not yet know either of you had left something unspent between you.
Your fingers tightened in his shirt.
Peter made a low sound against your mouth, half breath, half restraint, and something in your chest tightened in answer before you could decide what to do with it. His hand slipped from your jaw to the back of your neck, holding you there with more intention now. You leaned into him, and one of the jars near your knee rattled when your dress brushed the box beneath it.
He pulled back enough to breathe. “Careful.”
“You’re the one in my way.”
“I’m in your way?”
“Yes.”
His mouth hovered close enough that his smile touched yours. “This is your room. Poor layout is your responsibility.”
You kissed him again, partly to stop him talking.
This time, he came with you. His arm went around your waist, drawing you closer in a movement that made the room feel smaller and hotter at once. You caught yourself with one hand against the floor, the other still fisted in his shirt, and for several seconds there was no conversation left in either of you. Peter’s mouth moved over yours with more heat now, less patience, and when his hand settled at your hip, his fingers pressed through the fabric of your dress in a way that made your breath catch.
He heard it.
His lips left yours and moved to the corner of your mouth, then lower, near your jaw. You closed your eyes. The house outside the room disappeared by degrees. Only the slant of the floor beneath your knees, the warmth of him, the smell of his shirt, the faint scrape of his stubble when he kissed the side of your throat.
“Peter,” you said but it did not sound like a warning.
His hand tightened at your waist.
Then his phone rang.
The sound cut through the room with such precision that both of you went still. It didn’t feel like a sound so much as a hand closing around the back of the moment and pulling it apart.
For a second, neither of you moved. His mouth remained near your skin. His hand stayed exactly where it was. The phone rang again from his pocket, sharp and insistent, belonging to another version of him, another room, another life that had no patience for timing.
You opened your eyes.
“No,” you said quietly.
Peter lifted his head. His gaze found yours, darkened still by the moment you had been pulled out of. “I have to get that.”
“No.”
The word came out before pride could stop it.
His expression changed.
Not smug. Not victorious. Softer than that, and more dangerous because of it. He looked at your hand still twisted in his shirt, then back at your face. The phone rang a third time.
“Sweetheart.”
“Don’t go, please.” you said.
The words were worse than dramatic. They were simple, and because they were simple, they told too much.
Peter stayed where he was.
For one suspended moment, he looked as though he might ignore the call. His thumb rose to your lower lip, brushing there once, distracted and warm, as if some part of him had not yet accepted the interruption. Your breath caught again, and his eyes flicked to your mouth.
The phone rang again.
He closed his eyes briefly. “Damn it.”
You let go of his shirt slowly.
He kissed you once, hard and brief, not enough to continue anything and too much to end it cleanly. When he pulled back, he remained close, his forehead nearly touching yours.
“Two minutes,” he said.
“You always say that.”
“Three, then.”
“Peter.”
“I’ll come back.”
The promise landed in the small room with more weight than it should have, and maybe he heard that too, because his expression softened before he stood. He had to duck beneath the ceiling on his way out, one hand already pulling the phone from his pocket. He checked the screen at the doorway. Whatever name he saw there changed him before he answered, like a door had shut somewhere behind his eyes.
“Peter Craven,” he said, turning into the hall.
His voice lowered as he walked away, measured and controlled before he had even reached the stairs. You stayed where you were, one hand resting on your knee, your breathing still uneven. The room held the heat of what had been interrupted. The blue pastel had smeared across your palm and onto the front of your dress where your hand had fallen.
Downstairs, Peter’s voice became indistinct.
You listened for longer than you meant to.
Then you reached for the nearest sketchbook and pulled it toward you, more to give yourself something to hold than because you were ready to open it. Your fingers left a faint blue mark on the cover. You looked at it for a second, then pressed your thumb over the mark until the color spread.
After that, you opened the book anyway.
The first page was blank in the way something isn’t empty so much as waiting.
For a while after Peter left, you stayed on the floor with your legs folded beneath you, listening to the house settle around the absence he had left behind. The room felt different without him in it, though not empty. Only quieter in a way that made everything easier to handle. Downstairs, his voice moved through the walls in low, measured fragments, familiar enough that you stopped trying to understand the words and let it become part of the house, no more immediate than the distant sound of a car passing outside or wood shifting somewhere in the heat.
You opened the nearest box and pushed the paper aside. You took each thing out and set it where it seemed to belong. Not perfectly, just only enough to begin. The light had softened at the window, catching the glass rims of the jars as your hands moved between them, and little by little the room stopped looking like a place where things had been stored and began to look like a place where something might happen.
You brought the chair closer to the window, then moved it back because the first angle was wrong. The legs scraped against the floorboards with a sound that made you pause, listening, but Peter’s voice continued below without interruption. You turned the chair again, more toward the easel, then lifted the easel itself and set it where the remaining light fell across it cleanly. When you stepped back, the arrangement held. There was nothing remarkable about it yet. A chair, an easel, a few jars on a sill but still, for one brief second, you could see yourself there in the morning, barefoot, coffee gone cold beside the brushes and your hand moving before doubt could catch it.
The image made you smile.
It surprised you, that smile. How quietly it came. How little it asked of you.
Downstairs, Peter laughed at something said on the phone, the sound too far away to fully reach you. You turned back to the boxes before it faded and knelt again, reaching for the one partly tucked behind the rest.
It was smaller than the others.
You had not noticed it before, or maybe you had and your mind had done what it sometimes did with certain things, sliding past them before recognition could take hold. It sat near the wall, almost hidden behind a wider box of books, plain brown cardboard, the edges softened by years of being moved from one place to another without ever being unpacked. You hooked your fingers beneath it and pulled. It resisted at first, caught against the uneven floor, then came free with a low scrape.
It was heavier than it looked.
You dragged it closer, turned it slightly to see the top, and went still.
Your mother’s full name was written there in black marker.
Not Mama or Mom. Not anything that belonged to a child. Her full name. First, middle and last. The name she had before she was only a memory to you, before grief made her smaller and larger at the same time. The letters had faded a little at the edges, but they were still clear, still severe, written with the care of someone labeling a thing that needed to be identified correctly.
You stared at it.
For a moment, the room stayed exactly as it was. Peter’s voice below. The window open. The chair near the easel. The late light on the floor. Nothing changed except the place inside you that had recognized the name before you were ready.
Your fingers lifted before you decided to move.
They hovered above the cardboard, then touched the first letter.
Only the first.
The surface felt dry beneath your skin, rough where dust had settled into it. You did not trace the rest. You did not need to. The full shape of her name was already in you, written somewhere deeper than the box could reach.
Then your gaze dropped.
In the corner of the lid, half covered by a strip of yellowed packing tape, there was a white evidence label.
The sight of it struck harder than the name.
It had curled slightly at one edge, but most of it remained fixed to the cardboard. Black printed lines. A case number and a date collected. The words PROPERTY / EVIDENCE across the top in block capitals, official and indifferent. Someone had filled the blanks in pen years ago, the ink faded to a dull blue. You could not make yourself read all of it. You saw enough. Enough to remember the way a person’s life could be gathered, tagged, and sealed by strangers who used careful voices because careful voices were all they had to offer for the living ones.
Your breath caught enough to break the rhythm of your body.
The box had never been opened.
Not by you.
Not in New York, where it had stayed at the back of a closet beneath coats you never wore. Not in any apartment after that, where you had turned it toward the wall so you would not have to see the label. Not in any of the rooms it had followed you through, sealed and silent, carrying the last official version of a woman you had once known by warmth, perfume, lavender, and the sound of her voice calling you in from the yard.
You had carried it because throwing it away felt like betrayal.
You had kept it closed because opening it felt like dying twice.
Your vision blurred before you could stop it. The name loosened into dark shape. The label became a white square, then a wound, then nothing you could look at directly. You blinked hard, but the room did not sharpen. The air felt thick in your throat, and something pressed beneath your ribs with a slow, familiar weight, not quite a memory yet, but close enough to warn you.
Peter’s voice carried up from below but you could not make out the words anymore.
The sound seemed to come from farther away now, as if the house had stretched between you and the rest of the world. Your fingers withdrew from the box and curled into your palm. The blue pastel there had smeared faintly into the lines of your skin. A few minutes ago, Peter had touched that mark and laughed with you about it. A few minutes ago, this room had belonged to light, to brushes, to the possibility of beginning again.
Now all you could see was the label with your mother’s name above it and the lid still sealed.
For a second, the memory came too close. Someone saying your name in a tone that made you understand the world had already changed before the sentence arrived. Your own hands going cold. Your mother’s name spoken by a stranger as if the stranger had any right to it.
No.
You shut your eyes but the word stayed inside you.
No.
Below you, Peter’s tone shifted.
That was what pulled you back.
“I said tomorrow.”
His voice was clearer now, firmer, no longer part of the background. He was ending the call. You could hear it in the clipped rhythm of him, the restrained patience moving through the house. A pause followed. Then footsteps.
Your eyes opened.
The room came back too quickly. The box. The window. The easel. The floor beneath your knees. Your own breathing, thin and uneven. You wiped at your face and felt tears on your skin before you had known they were falling.
Peter was coming upstairs.
You moved.
There was no thought in it at first, only the old instinct of hiding the wound before anyone could ask where it came from. Your hands found the sides of the box and lifted. The weight pulled at your arms, heavier now that you knew what it was, and for one awful second your grip slipped enough that the cardboard tilted toward you. The evidence label flashed in the fading light. Your mother’s name turned with it.
You held on.
The closet door opened with a quiet click. Inside, the space was shallow, holding only two spare frames and a rolled rug. You pushed them aside with your foot and set the box in the back, too hard, the sound dull against the wall. There was no time to make it neat. You closed the door and pressed your palm flat against it, as if that could keep the past from breathing through the wood.
Peter’s voice was just outside now.
“I’ll call you in the morning.”
You stepped back.
Your hands shook once before you forced them still. You wiped beneath your eyes with your fingertips, then again with the heel of your hand, harder. The tears had left your face hot. You reached for the nearest jar of brushes and moved it along the windowsill, though it did not need moving. Then you turned a sketchbook slightly on the floor. Anything to make your hands seem occupied. Anything to make the room look as though nothing had happened except unpacking.
Peter appeared in the doorway.
“Sorry, sweetheart.”
His phone was already gone. His expression had returned to something easy, the call folded away as neatly as the paper he kept in his pockets. He stood there a second, taking in the room but If he noticed the closed closet, his face gave nothing away.
“It’s okay,” you said.
Your voice held, though only just.
Peter stepped inside, careful of the low ceiling now by habit. His gaze moved back to you, and for a moment he did not speak. You could feel him looking for the explanation before he chose one.
“You’ve done a lot,” he said.
You glanced around the room.
“Not really.”
“Yes,” he said, gentler. “You have.”
He crossed to the window and looked at the easel where you had placed it. The light had almost left the wall behind it. What remained was thin and pale, enough to outline the shape but not enough to fill it.
“That works there,” he said.
You nodded. “I think so.”
Then, a pause.
“I think you were right about the room, baby.”
The sentence landed softly, and because you were too raw, it almost hurt.
Peter turned back to you then, and his expression shifted. He came closer, not quickly, not crowding you, only near enough to see what you had missed. His thumb touched beneath your eye, brushing away the last damp trace there.
“You’re tired,” he said.
The explanation arrived like a place to hide and you took it.
“A bit.”
“You should have stopped earlier.”
“I wanted to finish this corner.”
“You did.”
“Not really.”
“But enough for today.”
There was no sharpness in it. Only certainty, softened into care. His hand rested briefly at your waist, steadying rather than holding, and some part of you hated how much easier it was to let him decide when you were already tired from keeping yourself together.
“Come on,” he said.
You looked at him. “Where?”
“I’ll run you a bath.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know but I'm going to do it anyway .”
He waited, and you could have refused, but refusing would have required a version of yourself that had not just hidden your mother’s name in a closet before he reached the door.
You glanced once toward it.
The closet stood closed like nothing happened, like it was keeping your deepest and ugly secret safe.
Then you looked back at Peter. “Okay.”
He kissed your forehead and guided you toward the hallway with one hand at your back.
You went with him.
And for a while, the room remained exactly as you had left it.
The chair stood near the window, angled toward the easel. The jars of brushes caught the last thread of afternoon light along their rims. A sketchbook lay open on the floor where you had set it down before Peter came back, its first page marked at one corner by the faint blue press of your fingers. Nothing moved except the thin paper near the boxes, lifting once when air slipped in through the window and settling again. From the hallway came the fading sound of your footsteps beside Peter’s, his voice lowered into something gentle, yours answering more quietly, both of you already being carried away by the house and the evening and the sound of water beginning to run somewhere beyond the walls.
Only when the sound of you had gone did the woman in the corner move.
She had been standing there the whole time.
Half held in the angle where the sloped ceiling met the wall, with her hands close to her chest as though she had forgotten what to do with them. The room’s dim light passed strangely over her, touching the fall of her hair, the line of her cheek, the dress that hung from her body with the softness of another cruel summer. For a long moment, she only stared at the closed door through which you had disappeared, her face caught in an expression so full of longing that the small room seemed unable to hold it.
Then she opened her mouth for the first time.
And your name shaped itself silently on her lips but nothing came out.
She froze, as if the failure had wounded her even though some part of her already knew it would happen. Then she tried again, slower this time, drawing in a breath her body no longer needed. Your name formed carefully, desperately, each syllable made with the full intention of a mother calling to her child from the end of a hallway.
But the room gave her nothing back.
She tried again.
And again.
Her mouth moved faster now, losing its care, panic beginning to break through the shape of the word. Her hands rose to her throat, fingers pressing into skin that did not give beneath them, as though she might find the sound trapped there and force it loose by touch alone. When that failed, she tried to shout.
Her mouth opened wide, ready.
Her whole body strained with it.
But no sound came.
The silence remained absolute. Not even breath. Not even a broken note. Only the terrible shape of a scream with nothing inside it.
Her face twisted, and a soundless sob moved through her without making the smallest mark upon the air.
Then she turned toward the closet.
The change was immediate. The grief did not leave her, but something sharper moved through it, some purpose strong enough to carry her away from the corner at last. She crossed the room but the hem of her dress swept over the floorboards without disturbing the dust gathered in the seams. It should have brushed the loose scrap of paper near her foot. It should have shifted the faint blue smudge where your hand had touched the floor. But it did neither. The boards did not creak beneath her. The jars did not tremble as she passed. Nothing in the room acknowledged her except the light, and even that seemed unsure how to hold her.
She stopped before the closet.
For several seconds, she only looked at the door.
Then she reached for the handle but her fingers passed through it.
The motion was simple and impossible. She stood still afterward, hand buried through the brass, face emptied by the cruelty of it. Then she pulled back and tried again. This time faster. Again and again. Her palm passed through metal, through wood, through the hard fact of the thing that stood between her and the box inside. The first attempts were careful. The next were not. Her arm moved in broken repetitions, each one failing exactly like the last.
She could not touch the handle.
Could not grip it.
Could not turn it.
Could not open the door you had shut with trembling hands.
She shook her head once, as if refusing the silence, and tried harder. Her lips formed “please” with such force it looked painful, but the room took even that from her. She pressed both hands against her throat, then against her chest, then reached for the handle again with a desperation that had nowhere else to go.
Nothing.
From somewhere beyond the room, water began to run more loudly now.
The sound traveled faintly through the house, distant and ordinary, followed by Peter’s voice, too far away to understand, then yours. You laughed at something he said. Not loudly or carelessly. Just enough for the sound to reach the room like something alive.
The woman turned toward it at once and the effect of your laugh on her was terrible.
Her face changed with such naked longing that, for a moment, she looked less like an apparition than someone wounded by recognition. She took one step toward the door, then stopped as if the closet had tethered her. Your voice came again, softer this time, blurred by distance and walls, and she closed her eyes as though the sound had touched her. When she opened them, tears stood bright along her lashes, but none fell.
She tried your name again and the silence seemed crueler now, almost deliberate.
Her hand went to her throat again, desperately so. Her mouth moved once, twice, shaping the beginning of the name she had once said a thousand times. The first sound should have been easy. It should have known its way out of her by memory alone. But nothing came and the room watched her fail.
She turned back to the closet.
Behind the door, the box remained where you had left it, pushed into shadow. The woman stared at that closed door as if she could see through it anyway and perhaps she could. Perhaps she saw the cardboard. The label. The faded ink. The years you had carried it without opening it. The rooms it had waited in while you pretended not to know where it was. Perhaps she saw herself sealed there too, not inside the box, but around it, tied to everything that had been named and never spoken.
Her face crumpled.
She placed both hands against the closet door but they passed through.
She did not draw them back. She left them there, sunk uselessly into the wood, her head bowing between her shoulders. If she had been flesh, she might have rested her forehead against the door and wept. If she had been alive, the force of wanting might have been enough to make some sound. Instead, she stood inside her own failure, unable to touch even the thing that held her last remaining hope.
From the bathroom, your voice rose again.
The woman turned her head, listening.
Her lips parted.
But this time, she did not try to say your name. She tried to scream it.
The effort tore through her whole body. Her shoulders pulled tight. Her mouth opened around the shape of it, around all the fear, all the warning, all the love that had nowhere to go. She screamed with everything left in her.
But the room remained silent.
She folded forward as if the force of that silence had struck her.
Light shifted across the room.
Outside, a cloud moved over the sun.
The change was slight at firs but it deepened quickly. The jars on the windowsill lost their bright edges. The easel became a darker shape against the glass. The blue print of your fingers on the sketchbook faded into the gray of the page. Shadow gathered in the corner where the woman had first stood, then along the floor, then over the closet door where her hands were still buried.
For one second, in that dimming room, she seemed almost solid.
Then she opened her mouth one last time.
Sunlight returned through the window in a thin wash, touching everything.
And the room was empty again.
The last days of June did not do Joel the courtesy of moving quickly.
They dragged themselves through the town in long, hot stretches, turning the church yard dry by noon and leaving the stone walls warm well past evening. Services came and went. The same faces filled the same pews. The same hands caught his after Mass. Someone complained about the hymn selection. Someone else thanked him for the sermon with the solemn expression people used when they had not understood a word of it but had decided it sounded important. Joel nodded, listened, answered when he had to, and kept his days arranged around work because work had shape, and shape was useful when the inside of his head did not.
By the end of the last week, he had fallen back into the nearest thing he had to routine. Mornings in the church. Afternoons in the yard or the office. Evenings upstairs with papers and the kind of silence that could either steady a man or wear a hole through him depending on how honest he felt like being. He chose steadiness where he could. When that failed, he chose exhaustion.
That afternoon, he was in the little office behind the sacristy, trying to make sense of a stack of invoices and a chipped mug of coffee he had forgotten to drink while it was hot, when he heard the mail truck before he saw it.
The engine came first, that uneven rattle Bill had insisted was normal despite it sounding every week like the vehicle was dragging part of itself along the road. Then came the brief squeak of brakes outside the church gate, the familiar clank of the side door sliding open, and the heavy, impatient thud of boots hitting the ground.
Joel looked up from the invoice.
For a second, he considered staying where he was and letting the mail land in the box like it always did.
Then Bill grunted loudly outside, as if personally offended by the existence of gravel, and Joel set the paper down.
He stepped out through the side door into the afternoon heat. Bill was already halfway up the path with a bundle of envelopes in one hand and a small parcel tucked beneath his arm, moving with the grim purpose of a man carrying out a task under protest despite no one having asked him to suffer. His postal uniform looked exactly as it always did: clean enough to meet regulation, ill fitting enough to suggest contempt for the idea that regulation should have any say in a man’s dignity. His beard was thicker than it had been last month. His cap sat low on his brow. His expression, naturally, implied that Joel had caused the weather.
“Bill,” Joel called.
But Bill did not stop.
Joel leaned one shoulder against the stone wall and watched him cross the yard. “Afternoon to you too.”
Bill gave him a look from beneath the brim of his cap, walked straight past him, opened the little black mailbox by the gate, and shoved the envelopes inside with unnecessary precision. The parcel followed after a second, wedged in diagonally, because apparently the United States Postal Service considered force a valid organizing principle.
Joel stared at him.
Bill shut the mailbox.
Joel waited.
Bill turned as if the interaction had concluded.
“Really?” Joel said.
Bill looked at him. “What?”
“You see me standin’ right here.”
“I do.”
“And you still put everythin’ in the mailbox.”
Bill’s face did not change. “That’s where mail goes.”
Joel let out a short laugh, more disbelief than amusement. “I’m literally ten feet away.”
“Congratulations.”
“You could’ve handed it to me.”
“I could do a lot of things but that doesn’t make ‘em procedure.”
Joel pushed away from the wall, shaking his head as he crossed to the mailbox. “Procedure.”
Bill folded his arms. “My job is to deliver the mail to the designated receptacle.”
“The designated receptacle,” Joel repeated, opening the box.
“That’s right.”
“You hear yourself when you talk?”
“Every damn word.”
Joel pulled the stack of envelopes out, then had to tug the parcel free when it refused to come loose. “You always gotta be this strict about everything?”
Bill’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t come into your church and tell you how to wave incense around.”
“I don’t use incense, Bill.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It kinda is if you’re gonna make comparisons.”
“The point,” Bill said, stepping closer as though the matter deserved emphasis, “is that you have your little rituals, and I have mine. Mine happen to be useful to a functioning society.”
Joel looked up from the envelopes. “Unlike mine.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you were leanin’ toward it.”
“I said what I said.”
Joel huffed a laugh and turned the envelopes over in his hand. “You know, some folks just say hello.”
“Some folks enjoy wasting time.”
“And you don’t.”
“No.”
“You’re standin’ here arguing with me about a mailbox.”
Bill’s mouth tightened. “Because you started interfering with federal duties.”
“Federal duties,” Joel said, almost smiling now.
“That’s right.”
“You drive six blocks and put envelopes in boxes, Bill. You ain’t stormin’ Normandy.”
Bill pointed at him. “And that right there is why I don’t discuss labor with the clergy.”
Joel shook his head and began sorting through the mail.
Most of it was ordinary. Bills. A notice from the county. Two letters addressed to the church, one of them in a looping hand he recognized immediately as Miss Bates’s, which meant either a complaint about the flower arrangements or another suggestion for improving the bulletin. There was a small padded envelope from the supply company in Cheyenne, probably the replacement candle wicks he had ordered two weeks ago. Then his thumb caught on a thicker cream envelope near the bottom of the pile.
He knew the paper before he read the name.
Joel’s expression changed.
Bill saw it at once.
“That shit again, huh?”
Joel turned the envelope over. The Craven crest sat embossed on the back flap. “Yeah.”
Bill grunted. “Figures.”
“God forbid they go a year without remindin’ everybody they own half the county.”
Bill made a rough sound in agreement. “I’m not going.”
Joel looked at him. “As if that’s news.”
“I’m stating it clearly so nobody develops expectations.”
“Nobody has expectations for you, Bill. Believe me.”
“Good. That means I’ve done something right.”
Joel smiled. “You do know most people try to seem offended when they’re left out of things.”
“I’m not left out. I’m invited. That’s worse.”
“That so?”
“Being left out is peace. Being invited means someone expects you to refuse politely.”
Joel laughed then, a real laugh despite himself. “Have you ever refused anythin’ politely in your entire life?”
Bill considered that. “No.”
“Then I wouldn’t worry.”
“I wasn't gonna.”
A breeze moved through the church yard, too warm to be useful. Bill shifted the empty mail bag on his shoulder and glanced past Joel toward the building, his eyes lingering a moment on the roofline as if checking for structural weaknesses he had not been asked to find.
Joel noticed. “You inspectin’ the place now?”
“I’m looking.”
“That’s usually how inspections start.”
“Your gutter’s pulling away on the east side.”
Joel looked over his shoulder. “No, it ain’t.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I fixed that in April.”
“Well, then you fixed it badly in April.”
Joel turned back slowly. “You have a real generous spirit, has anybody ever told you that?”
“No.”
“Can’t imagine why.”
Bill ignored that and jerked his chin toward the envelope. “You going?”
Joel looked down at the invitation again. “Bill.”
“What?”
“I’m the priest in this town.”
“So?”
“So I can’t exactly not go.”
“Sure you can.”
“No, I can’t.”
Bill shrugged. “Pretend you’re sick.”
Joel stared at him. “Pretend I’m sick.”
“Fever. Stomach thing. Voice gone. Pick your poison, Father.”
“You think people are gonna believe I came down with some mysterious illness the same night as a Craven event?”
“I don’t care what people believe.”
“I do. Unfortunately, that’s part of the problem.”
Bill gave him a flat look. “You care too much what people think.”
“That is a really interestin’ accusation comin’ from a man who once refused to attend a town hall meeting because they changed the seating arrangement.”
“They moved me beside Kyle Gilbert.”
“Kyle Gilbert’s eighty.”
“Kyle Gilbert breathes through his mouth and asks stupid questions.”
Joel rubbed a hand over his beard, trying not to laugh again. “My absence would give folks more to talk about than my presence.”
“Let ‘em talk.”
“That your pastoral advice?”
“I am not a pastor.” Bill looked almost offended at his joke.
“No, but you got opinions like one.”
“I have opinions because people keep doing things wrong.”
Joel leaned back against the gatepost and looked out toward the road. Across the street, the heat shimmered faintly above the gravel. The town beyond sat in that drowsy afternoon lull before evening chores began, quiet enough that someone two houses away dropping a tool in a garage sounded like an event.
Bill followed his gaze, then said, “I don’t like the Cravens.”
Joel glanced at him. “That why you’re not goin’?”
“That’s one reason.”
“There are several?”
“There are always several.”
Joel waited but Bill did not elaborate.
He looked down at the invitation, then back at him. “You care to name any?”
“No.”
“Bill.”
“What?”
“You’re the one who brought it up.”
“I said I don’t like them. That’s complete.”
“That ain’t complete. That’s the table of contents.”
Bill shifted his jaw, annoyed by the accuracy of that. “They’re rich. They like being rich. They like other people knowing they’re rich. They build things nobody asked for, name rooms after themselves, and then act like the rest of us should be grateful for being allowed to walk through the door.”
Joel lifted the envelope slightly. “That all?”
“No.”
“Thought so.”
Bill squinted toward the road as if hoping for a natural disaster to spare him the conversation but none arrived. “They put their hands into everything. The club, the council, the school fund, half the charity drives. You can’t buy nails in this town without somebody telling you how generous George Craven was for donating a bench no one sits on.”
Joel nodded slowly. “That bench is uncomfortable.”
“It’s a bad bench.”
“It is.”
“Made from cedar.”
“What’s wrong with cedar?”
“For a bench? Outside? With that finish? Everything.”
Joel stared at him. “You got this much anger stored up for… street furniture?”
“I have appropriate anger stored up for everything.”
That time Joel did not bother hiding the laugh.
Bill’s eyes cut toward him. “You think this is funny.”
“I think you’re standin’ in front of a church rantin’ about cedar like it insulted your mother.”
“My mother would’ve hated that bench.”
“I believe you.”
“She had standards.”
“I said I believe you.”
Bill grunted, appeased only slightly.
Joel slipped the invitation into the back pocket of his jeans, where it immediately felt like a problem he had chosen to carry. “I haven’t had to deal with the son much.”
“You will.”
“The golden boy, huh?”
Bill snorted. “That’s one way to put it.”
“I remember him bein’ away.”
“New York. Boston. Wherever people go when they think Wyoming is something to put in a speech about values.” Bill shifted his bag higher. “Came back recently.”
Joel looked toward town. “Yeah?”
“Daddy bought him that big house on Pemberley Lane.”
Joel’s eyes returned to him. “That’s his?”
“Who else would buy something that big just to prove they don’t need it?”
Joel thought of the house visible from his upstairs window, not clearly, but enough. A line of roof through the trees. Windows that had been dark for months and then, suddenly, light at night. He had noticed it first three evenings ago while closing the curtains in his room, one rectangle glowing where there had always been black before. Then another the following night. A house waking up with people inside it.
“I can see it from my room,” Joel said. “Part of it, anyway. Thought it was strange there were lights on all of a sudden.”
Bill looked at him for one long second.
Then, with complete sincerity, “That’s a shit view.”
Joel stared.
Bill stared back.
Joel said, “You’re an asshole.”
“Yes.”
“No hesitation?”
“I know myself.”
Joel shook his head, but he was smiling now, and that annoyed him a little because Bill had no business being this funny with a face like a locked cellar door. “It’s not my only view, you know.”
“Still one too many.”
“I don’t stand there admiring it.”
“You brought it up, not me.”
“Because you brought up the house.”
“And now we’ve established your room has depressing sightlines.”
Joel pointed a finger at him. “You know, for a man deliverin’ church mail, you’re really committed to being unpleasant on consecrated ground.”
“I’m not inside.”
“That technicality do a lot for you?”
“Yes.”
Bill turned toward the truck, conversation apparently reaching whatever internal limit he had set for social exposure. Joel followed him a few steps down the path, still holding the rest of the mail.
“So the son’s back,” Joel said.
Bill stopped with one hand on the open truck door. “That’s what I said.”
Joel looked down the road again, toward where Pemberley Lane turned behind a stand of trees. “And you know him personally?”
“Enough.”
“That means yes.”
“That means enough, Father.”
Joel waited, but Bill did not give him more. Bill rarely gave more unless cornered, and even then he usually bit.
“What’s wrong with him?” Joel asked.
Bill looked at him. “You want the mailman’s opinion or the correct one?”
“Those differ?”
“No.”
“Then either.”
Bill leaned one forearm against the side of the truck. “He’s polite.”
Joel’s brows drew together. “That’s what’s wrong with him?”
“Polite men are dangerous when they know they’re being watched.”
Joel’s expression shifted slightly.
Bill noticed because Bill noticed most things and admitted almost none of them. “You asked.”
“I did.”
“He says the right things. Smiles at the right people. Remembers names. That kind always makes folks soft in the head.” Bill glanced toward the town. “People think manners mean character.”
Joel looked at him for a moment. “Sometimes they do.”
“Yeah but sometimes they’re camouflage for something else.”
The words settled between them longer than the joke before them had.
Joel’s grip tightened once around the envelopes. He had no good reason for the unease that moved through him then, or none he could have named without admitting more than the afternoon called for. The Cravens were not his concern beyond the way all parishioners, donors, town families, and difficult people with too much influence were his concern. Peter Craven could be polished, arrogant, generous, useless, or all of it at once, and none of that should have mattered to Joel beyond the invitation folded in his pocket and the evening he would have to survive because duty had a way of dressing itself up as social obligation.
Still, Bill’s sentence stayed.
Joel looked back toward the church. “You should come.”
Bill made a sound so flat it barely counted as a laugh. “No.”
“You haven’t even pretended to consider it.”
“That was me considering.”
“Come on. Misery loves company.”
“I am not your company.”
“You deliver my mail, criticize my gutters, insult my view, and lecture me on local politics. We crossed into company a while back.”
Bill shook his head. “I don’t go to Craven events.”
“You go to almost no events.”
“That’s because most events are traps.”
“Every event?”
“Yes.”
“Birthday parties?”
“Especially.”
“Funerals?”
“Necessary traps.”
Joel laughed again, unable to help it. “You are a deeply strange man.”
“I’m an alive man and for me that's enough.”
“Debatable.”
Bill ignored that and climbed one step into the truck, then turned back. “You go, stand near the exit, drink nothing you didn’t pour yourself, and leave before speeches.”
Joel tilted his head. “That concern I hear?”
“That’s strategy.”
“For me.”
“For minimizing stupidity in my delivery zone.”
Joel smiled faintly. “Wouldn’t want to disrupt your route.”
“No, you would not.”
Bill settled into the driver’s seat, then paused with his hand near the ignition. “And fix that gutter.”
“I told you, it’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
“You gonna come do it yourself?”
“No.”
“Then stop lookin’ at it.”
“Stop maintaining things badly.”
Joel looked up toward the roofline despite himself. The gutter did look a little lower on one side from this angle.
Bill saw him look and made a satisfied noise.
Joel pointed at him. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I don’t need to. The gutter said it for me.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Yes.”
The truck engine coughed alive, rattling hard enough to make Joel glance at it with open skepticism.
“One of these days that thing’s gonna die right in front of the church,” Joel said over the noise.
Bill pulled the door half shut. “If it does, don’t touch it.”
“I wasn’t gonna.”
“You’ll think about it.”
“I will not.”
“You’ll stand there with tools and good intentions and make it worse.”
Joel gave him a look. “You got a mighty high opinion of your shitty mail truck.”
“I have a realistic opinion of your shitty repair skills too.”
“I kept this whole place standin’ by myself.”
“It’s a miracle.”
“Careful. You’re near holy ground.”
“Still outside.”
Joel shook his head again, but the smile stayed despite him. Bill put the truck into gear, then stopped once more before pulling away.
“Joel.”
The use of his name, plain and unadorned, made Joel look back up.
Bill’s expression had not softened exactly. It was still Bill’s face, guarded by beard and suspicion and years of preparation for the worst because the worst had a habit of arriving when invited or not. But something in his eyes had sharpened with the closest thing he offered to concern.
“Craven events make people stupid,” Bill said. “Don’t be stupid.”
Joel held his gaze. “I’ll do my best.”
“That’s what worries me.”
“Appreciate the faith.”
“I’m not in the faith business.”
“No,” Joel said. “You’re in the designated receptacle business.”
Bill’s mouth twitched, barely.
Then the truck lurched forward with a mechanical complaint and rolled down the road, Bill lifting one hand in a gesture that might have been farewell or dismissal depending on how charitable a man felt like being.
Joel stood by the gate until the truck turned the corner and disappeared behind the trees.
He carried the mail back into the office because that was what came next.
The room behind the sacristy was warm by then, with the late June heat settled into the desk, the shelves, the old papers that always seemed to smell faintly of dust no matter how often he opened the window. He left the door half open, crossed to the chair, and dropped the bundle beside the mug of coffee he had forgotten long enough for a thin skin to form over the surface. For a moment he stayed standing, one hand on the back of the chair, looking down at the mail as if it had been left there by someone else. Outside, the church yard had gone quiet after Bill’s departure. The road was empty again, the sound of the mail truck already swallowed by town and distance.
Joel sat.
The first few pieces were ordinary enough to be dealt with. Advertisements went into the trash. A grocery circular, a hardware flyer, something addressed to current residents as if the church were a house and God had recently moved in without telling anyone. The bills stayed on the desk. Electric. Water. A supply invoice for candles and cleaning oil. He stacked them together and pressed a palm over the curled edges because things that needed paying had a way of looking worse if a man let them spread across the desk.
The letter from Miss Bates, thick enough to be trouble. Joel set it aside unopened. Another envelope from the county. Another from a repair company that had already overcharged him twice. He made a note on the corner of the invoice in pencil, then stopped when the tip broke beneath his hand. The sound was small, too small for the irritation it drew out of him, but he tossed the pencil down anyway and kept sorting.
Then the Craven invitation came back into view.
It had been waiting beneath the bills, clean and deliberate on that expensive cream paper, his title written neatly across the front, because people like the Cravens never forgot the usefulness of respect when it could be made visible.
He stared at it, then opened the envelope with less care than it had been designed to receive.
The card inside was heavy, formal, and exactly what he expected. He read it once, mouth already set in a line before he reached the bottom.
Joel held the card for another second.
Warm regards.
He almost laughed.
There was something about the phrase that always irritated him. Honor us with your attendance means everyone will notice if you do not come. Annual celebration meant the same room, the same flags, the same practiced speeches about community and generosity, the same people pretending money was nobler when poured into crystal glasses under patriotic bunting.
Joel let out a breath through his nose.
Bill had the right idea. Bill often had the right idea in the worst possible way.
He tore the invitation in half.
Then into quarters.
Then smaller, until the card no longer looked like an obligation but paper. The pieces dropped into the trash among the advertisements, and for a brief moment that felt satisfying enough to count as relief.
Then he remembered he would still go.
That was the worst part. Tearing it changed nothing. He would go because the town expected him to, because absence made noise, because men like George Craven understood that some invitations were not invitations at all, only a polite way to place a hand at the back of someone’s neck and guide him toward a room.
“Hell with it,” he said quietly.
The last envelope sat alone on the desk.
Joel reached for it without looking.
Then his hand stopped.
The return address was written in a hand he knew before the name had time to settle.
T. Miller.
Austin, Texas.
Nothing in the world had altered except that Joel’s fingers had tightened around a piece of paper and all the air in the room seemed to have gathered on the other side of his ribs.
Tommy.
The name was not written in full, but it did not need to be.
Joel set the envelope down carefully.
There was a system for this and it was not a very good system, but it had lasted for years, and years had a way of making even cowardice feel like structure if a man repeated it often enough. Open the drawer. Place the letter inside. Close the drawer. Do not read. Do not answer. Do not let the past come into the room wearing your brother’s handwriting and asking for a place to sit.
He opened the drawer.
The letters were there.
All of them.
He hated the neatness of the stack. Hated that he had kept them in order, oldest at the bottom, newest at the top, each envelope unopened and preserved with a care that did not match the cruelty of leaving them unread. If he had thrown them away, at least the story would have been simple. If he had burned them, he might have been able to call it final. Instead they waited in the drawer like years folded into paper, proof not only that Tommy had kept reaching for him, but that Joel had not been able to let go of the hand even while refusing to take it.
He placed the new envelope above the others but his hand did not let go.
Something shifted beneath his thumb.
Not paper, not only paper.
Joel pressed once, very lightly, and felt the firmer shape inside.
A photograph.
He closed his eyes.
“No,” he said.
The word landed flat in the warm office.
He could still stop. He could still put the envelope down, shut the drawer, and add this moment to the long collection of things he had almost done. No one would know. Tommy would not know. The photograph would remain sealed in the same merciful uncertainty as all the letters beneath it, and Joel would not have to survive whatever life had looked like without him.
But now he knew there was an image inside and that changed the bargain.
A letter could be refused, words could remain unread but a photograph was different. It already existed in the room, already carried proof of something Tommy had wanted him to see badly enough to send it across all the years Joel had spent making silence into an answer.
Joel opened his eyes.
The letter opener lay in the drawer beside the paper clips.
He reached for it, then stopped. His hand hovered there long enough for sense to return if sense had any real intention of saving him.
But it did not.
The blade slipped beneath the flap.
The envelope opened with a clean, ordinary sound. Too ordinary. There should have been something more to it. A warning in the walls, a shift in the floor, a voice telling him that a man could still step back before the thing in front of him became real. Instead the paper simply gave way, and Joel sat there with the opened envelope in his hand, already past the point he had told himself he would never cross.
He tipped the contents onto the desk.
A folded letter slid out first.
Then the photograph.
It landed face down.
Joel stared at the blank back of it.
For several seconds, he did not touch it. The white surface looked almost kind. It asked nothing of him yet. It could still be anything. A porch. A dog. Tommy standing beside a truck. Some proof of life sent by a brother who had not learned that ordinary things were sometimes the hardest to bear.
His fingers trembled before they reached it and he hated that.
The tremor felt like a confession his body had made before he agreed to speak. He pressed his thumb to one corner, lifted the photograph from the desk, and turned it over.
For a moment, he did not understand what he was seeing because understanding required the room to become a different room and Joel was not ready to be a different man inside it.
Then he saw the hospital bed.
The woman lying against the pillows.
Tommy standing beside her with a baby in his arms.
Joel went still.
The woman looked exhausted in the way new mothers sometimes did in photographs, drained past vanity, too tired to arrange herself for anyone’s memory. But she was smiling. Not for the camera, Joel thought after a second. For Tommy. Her face had turned slightly toward him, one hand resting over the blanket, the other close enough to the edge of the bed that she might have just reached for his sleeve before the photo was taken. She looked worn out and happy, and the simplicity of that happiness was nearly impossible to look at.
Tommy stood beside her, holding the baby like he had been trusted with fire.
That was the first thing that pierced through Joel cleanly. The care of him. The fear. The way his brother’s arms held the child too securely and not securely enough, as if he had never done anything more important and had no idea whether his hands were worthy of it. His smile was uneven, helpless around the edges but his eyes were wet with emotion.
Joel looked at Tommy’s face and felt time pass all at once.
There was grey in his hair now.
Not much.
But enough to make the years visible in a way the letters never had. Paper could be ignored. Dates could be folded away. Postmarks could be buried in a drawer and left there to lose their meaning. But Tommy’s face did not allow that mercy. He had aged. He had lived. He had become someone in the long stretch of years Joel had refused to witness. A man with lines around his eyes. A man standing in a hospital room. A man holding his son.
His son.
Joel’s mouth parted slightly.
For one impossible second, a laugh tried to rise in him.
It was the kind of laugh that belonged to another life, the life where he would have seen that photograph and called Tommy immediately, where he would have said something stupid because saying something stupid was safer than admitting he was proud. He would have told him he looked like he was disarming a bomb. Tommy would have told him to shut the hell up. Joel would have asked if the kid had all his fingers and toes. Tommy would have cursed at him, laughing, and then maybe gone quiet because they were Miller men and joy made them awkward before it made them honest.
But the laugh never came and what rose behind it was too large.
Joel set the photograph down because his hands had begun to shake harder, then picked it up again at once because letting go felt worse. The baby was wrapped tight in a pale blanket, little more visible than the curve of one cheek and a closed eye. There was almost nothing to see, and still Joel could not stop looking. That small face carried no history yet. No blame. No grief. No knowledge of the family into which he had been born, of the dead girl whose absence still lived like a locked room in his uncle’s chest, of the years his father had spent writing to a brother who would not write back.
Joel sat back slowly.
His chest hurt as if something had opened beneath his ribs and found there was no room left inside him for what had just entered.
He turned the photograph over.
On the back, in Tommy’s handwriting, was the name.
Benjamin Miller.
Below it, the date.
The weight.
Joel read the lines once. Then again.
Benjamin Miller. A child with the family name written clearly in ink. His brother’s son. His nephew.
The word struck so hard he could not keep it.
At the bottom of the photograph, Tommy had written one more line.
I miss you, brother.
Joel stopped breathing.
The words were gentle.
That was what made them unbearable.
There was no anger in them, no accusation sharp enough for Joel to push against. Tommy had every right to send rage. He had every right to ask where Joel had been, to write that he was tired of knocking on a door that never opened, that he had a son now and no more room for a brother who had let grief turn into absence. Joel could have taken that. He could have folded it into the punishment he already carried and called it deserved.
But Tommy had not done that.
I miss you, brother.
Four words.
An open hand.
Joel bowed his head over the photograph.
For a moment, he was not in the church office anymore.
He was in a hospital room years earlier, young and terrified, holding Sarah for the first time while Tommy stood beside him and asked whether babies were supposed to look that angry. He was at a kitchen table with Sarah in a high chair while Tommy balanced a spoon on his nose to make her laugh. He was in a backyard on the Fourth of July with fireworks cracking above the neighborhood, Sarah pressed against his leg, Tommy crouched in front of her with both hands over his own ears to prove there was nothing to be scared of. He was in the truck on the worst night of his life, his brother’s voice breaking through the dark, saying his name again and again as if sound could hold a man together after the world had split open.
Joel shut his eyes.
But the memories kept coming.
Tommy had been there after Sarah died. Badly, sometimes. Clumsily. With too many words some days and not enough on others. But there. At the funeral. On the porch after people left. In the kitchen at three in the morning with two beers neither of them drank. Sitting across from Joel while silence rotted between them because neither one knew how to survive what had happened without turning it into someone’s fault.
Tommy stayed until Joel made staying impossible.
Until grief turned mean.
Until every offer of help felt like pity and every apology sounded like an accusation.
Until Joel looked at his brother and saw not the boy who had loved Sarah too, but the last witness to the man Joel had been before he lost her.
Then Tommy kept writing.
And Joel had kept not opening the letters.
His hand curled against the desk.
The photograph bent beneath his palm.
Joel lifted his hand immediately, panic moving through him with humiliating speed. The edge had creased slightly, nothing serious, but his stomach turned at the sight of it. He smoothed it with his thumb, carefully, more carefully than he had touched anything all day.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
The word entered the office and stayed there.
He did not know who he meant.
Tommy. Benjamin. Sarah. Himself. God. All of them, maybe.
He looked at the front of the photograph again. Tommy was still smiling, eyes wet, holding his son with the terror and awe of a man whose life had just become larger than he knew how to carry. Joel wanted to resent him for it, if only because resentment would have been easier to hold than this. He wanted to look at his brother’s happiness and feel nothing but anger. Anger at being left behind. Anger at the proof that time had kept moving. Anger that Tommy had found his way into a hospital room where a child was born and Joel still belonged to another one where a child had died.
But the anger would not come cleanly.
Only love came with it.
That was the cruelty. Love had not left. It had waited beneath everything, under the silence, under the years, under every unopened envelope, and now it rose with nowhere to go.
Joel covered his mouth with one hand.
His breathing had gone wrong; close enough for his body to recognize the road. He leaned forward, the photograph still in his other hand, and forced air in through his nose. The first breath caught. The second went deeper. He held it until his chest burned, then released it slowly.
The folded letter lay beside the envelope.
Joel looked at it.
He could open it. He could read whatever Tommy had written beyond the photograph. Maybe the woman’s name. Maybe the story of the birth. Maybe a joke was made because fear sat easier in Tommy’s mouth when he dressed it up first. Maybe a new phone number. Maybe a sentence that would undo him because Tommy, for all his noise, had always known how to find the center of a wound when he finally stopped circling it.
Joel touched the edge of the letter.
Then pulled his hand back.
“No.”
No, please.
Not because he did not care.
Because he did.
And that was the limit.
He placed the folded letter on top of the unopened stack, then held the photograph for another moment. He tried to put it away with the others. Lowered it toward the drawer, stopped, lifted it again. Turned it over. Saw Benjamin’s name. Turned it back. Saw Tommy’s face.
“You got a son,” Joel said.
The sentence broke halfway through.
A laugh came then, but it carried no humor. It was small, ruined, gone almost before it existed. “You got a son, Tommy.”
The baby slept in the photograph, untouched by the damage his arrival had done in a church office hundreds of miles away.
Joel pressed the heel of his hand to one eye until it hurt. When he lowered it, his fingers were wet. He stared at the moisture for a second as if it belonged to someone else.
Then he put the photograph in the drawer, face up.
Tommy’s smile remained visible.
That felt unbearable.
Joel turned it face down.
But that felt worse.
He turned it face up again and let it stay.
Joel had missed becoming an uncle.
No.
He had chosen to miss it.
The distinction opened something in him he did not want open.
He closed the drawer.
The click sounded too final.
For a while he stayed with his hand on the handle, shoulders bowed, breathing through the pressure in his chest. The torn invitation lay in the trash near his boot. Bills waited on the desk. Miss Bates’s letter remained unopened. The machinery of ordinary life had the indecency to keep existing around him while Tommy Miller stood in a hospital room with his son and wrote I miss you, brother on the back of a photograph.
Joel stood too quickly.
The room swayed just enough for him to notice.
He steadied himself on the chair, waited until the floor settled, then crossed to the window and opened it wider. The air outside was no cooler, but it moved, and that was something. The church yard lay empty under the afternoon sun. The mailbox stood closed by the gate. Somewhere beyond the trees, the road curved toward houses where people answered letters from their brothers, where kitchens lit up at dusk and where children were born and named and held.
Joel gripped the window frame.
He wanted Sarah.
The want came so cleanly it almost took his knees.
Not forgiveness. Not meaning. Not even peace. Just his daughter. Her voice. Her laugh. Her hand reaching for his in a parking lot. Her weight climbing into his lap when she was little. Her later years too, the sarcasm, the eye roll, the way she used to steal fries from his plate after insisting she wasn’t hungry. Any of it. One second. One impossible second.
Tommy had a son but Sarah was still dead.
And Joel was ashamed of the order in which the thoughts arrived, ashamed that joy for his brother could touch grief and become envy before he had time to stop it.
He bowed his head.
“Forgive me,” he said.
This time, he knew exactly who he meant.
After a while, he returned to the desk. He did not sit at first. He opened the drawer, took the photograph out again, and held it one more time. His thumb traced the white edge. He looked at Tommy until the face blurred, then turned it over and read Benjamin’s name again.
I miss you, brother.
Joel swallowed.
“You should hate me,” he said quietly.
But Tommy’s handwriting did not change.
The invisible open hand stayed open and that was the hardest thing to bear.
He put the photograph back in the drawer, face up, and laid the folded letter beside it. Then, after a moment, he moved the stack of unopened envelopes out from beneath the ledger and placed them where he would see them the next time he opened the drawer.
It was not much but it was more than he had done yesterday.
He closed the drawer gently.
Then he gathered the bills into a pile, picked up the broken pencil, and tried to sharpen it with the small blade from the drawer. His hands were steadier now, but not steady completely. The point came out uneven. He stared at it for a moment, then set it down.
Nothing in the office had changed but at the same time everything had.
Joel sat again and looked at Miss Bates’s unopened letter. A tired, broken laugh left him before he could stop it, because apparently the world expected a man to go from learning he had a nephew to reading three pages about altar flowers as if the heart could be handed one thing and then another without consequence.
He did not open it.
Instead, he folded his hands on the desk and lowered his head.
For a while, no prayer came.
Only Tommy’s genuine love.
Only Sarah's name on a gravestone.
Only Benjamin’s entering a family that had never learned how to survive the last child it loved.
Joel closed his eyes.
When the first tear fell, it landed silently on the desk between the bills and the unopened letter but this time he did not wipe it away.
Chapter two: Lead Me Not Into Temptation, Father .⋆♱
𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰𝔱! 𝔍𝔬𝔢𝔩 𝔐𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔯 𝔵 𝔈𝔫𝔤𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔡! ℜ𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯
a03 | taglist open <3 | fic masterlist | playlist | extras | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter
.⋆♱ summary: After your tense push and pull, you find refuge in your fiancé’s arms, while Joel—after an argument with his boss, the same man who seems to have ignored him for years—faces the consequences of having become so taken with your laugh.
.⋆♱ a/n 1: Let’s just ignore the fact that I posted Chapter 2 last night, hated it, and @pattwtf had to rescue me from the mental breakdown that followed. Hope you like this version <3 By the way… who do you think is the restless soul trapped in the stained glass?
.⋆♱ a/n 2: If you haven’t put a face to Father Miller yet, you can do it here.
.⋆♱ a/n 3: I can’t wait to finally sit down and put the playlist together properly, like God intended (lmao), but these first few chapters are being written while listening to “Mystery of Love” by Sufjan Stevens…
.⋆♱ warnings: References to a minor injury, early signs of psychological abuse and gaslighting, Joel swears a lot and argues with his boss (God, literally), paranormal elements (YES!), descriptions of a panic attack, medication use, desperation, and distress.
.⋆♱ wc: 10.519 k
For a long moment after the door shut behind you, Joel stood exactly where he was, one hand still resting on the handle of the axe, his eyes fixed on the patch of empty space you had left behind as if something of you might still be standing there if he looked hard enough.
Nothing moved except the heat.
The yard had gone quiet again in the way it always did at that hour, with the late sun stretching long over the grass and the church wall holding the day’s warmth in its stone. Springsteen was still going on about desire in that low, dragging voice of his, and for some reason that irritated Joel more now than it had a minute ago he went and reached over to the radio and turned the volume up harder than necessary.
The song swelled into the yard but It did not help.
He went back to the chopping block, set another log upright, and brought the axe down with enough force to split it clean through. One half toppled into the grass. The other struck the side of the block and rolled. Joel bent, picked both pieces up, and stacked them without looking at what he was doing. Then he reached for another.
And another.
And another.
Before long, his movements stopped belonging to thought and settled into rhythm instead.
Grip. Lift. Swing. Split. Bend. Stack. Repeat.
The work took over the way it sometimes did when he needed it to, when his mind had gotten too crowded and he wanted to beat it back into something quieter, something dull enough to bear. Usually it worked. Usually his body gets tired before the thoughts even have a chance to sharpen.
Today, though, the thoughts stayed.
They kept returning to the same maddening place. The back door opening. A pale dress. That sharp mouth of yours. The look on your face when he’d thrown that first line at you and expected, with complete certainty, that you’d bristle and leave.
But you hadn’t.
Joel drove the axe down again.
A neat split. He set another log in place.
You’d stood there in the heat looking entirely unsuited to Jackson and somehow completely unwilling to be run off by him. Worse, you had looked at him like you could see straight through the act. Not all the way through, maybe, but far enough to make him uneasy.
He split another log.
Neanderthal, primate.
The words came back with humiliating clarity, along with that sweet little smile you’d worn when you said it, like you’d enjoyed landing it more than was proper for a woman who had just met him less than five minutes ago.
Joel muttered a curse under his breath and reached for another piece of wood.
He shouldn’t still have been thinking about it. About you. About any of it. A stranger wandered into the yard, got smart with him, called him an asshole to his face, and left. That ought to have been the end of it. Would have been the end of it, if he had any sense left in him at all.
Instead, the whole thing kept replaying with a clarity that was beginning to feel vaguely punitive.
Your face. Your eyes. Your mouth.
The dress. The bag. The shoes.
The way you’d looked at the church first.
The way you’d looked at him after.
Joel adjusted his grip on the axe and split another log harder than necessary, the crack echoing off the stone wall. The woodpile beside him grew steadily. The rejected pieces collected near his boot. The radio kept changing songs over and over, without managing to capture his attention for very long.
Sweat began to gather at the back of his neck, then between his shoulder blades, then beneath the heavy flannel clinging to his skin. By the time he noticed it, he was already damp through the undershirt, heat crawling over him in a way that made his jaw tighten.
Your voice came back to him then, bright with disdain.
It hasn’t escaped me that you are wearing a flannel shirt in June.
Joel closed his eyes for half a second.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
He set the axe down long enough to yank the shirt open, fingers moving roughly over the buttons until patience ran out halfway through and he simply dragged the thing off over his shoulders. Hot air moved over the sweat slick of his skin at once, but not enough to make much difference. He let the flannel fall where it wanted, a dark heap in the grass beside the chopping block, then picked the axe back up and went straight back to work.
The radio kept playing.
The pile of wood kept shrinking.
And Joel kept seeing your face.
Not in the dangerous way a younger man might have allowed himself to. Nothing so indulgent as that. It came at him in fragments instead, each one more annoying than the last. The arch of your brow when he’d insulted your dress. The little lift of your chin when you’d decided not to back down. The laugh you’d failed to suppress when he’d said something ruder than he should have. The way the last of the sunlight had caught in your hair while you stood there looking at him like he was a problem you intended to solve by sheer force of personality.
That was the part that had got under his skin.
Not that you were pretty, though you were. Christ, you were. That much he had registered instantly and resented on sight. No, the worse part was that you had seemed entirely aware of yourself in his presence without once becoming shy of it. You hadn’t fluttered. Hadn’t softened. Hadn’t mistaken his silence for permission to become uncertain. You had simply stayed where you were and met every rough edge he offered with one of your own.
That ought to have irritated him.
It did irritate him.
It was also, Joel was sorry to report, precisely the reason he was now shirtless in the back yard of a church, splitting wood like a man trying to exorcise something.
He drove the axe down again and this time the log exploded into three jagged pieces, one of them spinning off the block and striking the side of the wheelbarrow with a hollow knock.
Joel stood still for a moment, breathing harder than the work called for.
The sun had shifted lower. The shade had crept a little farther across the yard. Somewhere along the way the music on the radio had changed six, maybe seven times. He had no memory of any of it.
He lowered the axe slowly and looked around.
No wood left.
The stack he had started with was gone down to splinters and bark, the whole thing reduced to neat, cut piles and scattered debris at his feet. For a second he simply stared, as if the absence might explain itself if he gave it time.
Then he swore.
Not because the work was done. Because he had no earthly idea how long he’d been standing there.
Joel dragged a forearm across his face, smearing sweat over his brow, then bent to start gathering the split logs into the wheelbarrow. His body ached in the ordinary, satisfying way hard labor sometimes gave him, but beneath that sat another kind of tension entirely, one that had not gone anywhere no matter how many times he’d brought the axe down. He stacked the wood carefully anyway, more from habit than attention, fitting the larger pieces first and balancing the smaller ones on top until the barrow sat heavy and full.
When he finally straightened, his back pulled in complaint.
“Perfect,” he muttered. “Just perfect.”
He took the handles and pushed the load toward the little storage shed beyond the church, wheels bumping over uneven ground and patches of dry grass. The shed sat half in shadow now, its door already open from earlier, the interior cool and close smelling of cut timber, dust, and old tools. Joel wheeled the load inside, set the barrow down, and started unloading by hand.
This part, at least, asked less of his mind.
Lift. Turn. Stack. Adjust.
He built the row carefully against the wall, lining the pieces in tight, practical order the way he always did. There was comfort in that too, in making something neat when the inside of his head refused to cooperate. He reached for another split length, turned it in his hand, and drove a splinter straight into the pad of his palm.
Joel hissed through his teeth and jerked back on instinct.
“Son of a bitch.”
The log dropped to the floor with a dull thud. He looked down at his hand and immediately saw it, a pale shard buried just under the skin near the base of his thumb. Not deep, but deep enough. Irritatingly deep. Blood welled around it in a fine red bead.
He set the rest of the wood down and used the nail of his opposite thumb to try and catch the end of it. For one hopeful second, he thought he had it. Then the splinter snapped clean off beneath his fingers.
Joel went very still.
Then, with perfect clarity, “Oh, you have got to be fuckin’ kidding me.”
He shoved two fingers through his hair and tried again, pressing at the skin around the break, but all that did was drive the remaining piece into a sharper angle that made him suck in a breath through his teeth. A second, smaller splinter had lodged itself nearer the heel of his hand in the meantime, as if the first one hadn’t been enough insult for one afternoon.
“Unbelievable.”
He braced his wrist against his knee and squinted at the damage like glare alone might solve it. It did not. All it did was make him aware of the sweat still drying on his skin, of the sawdust clinging to his forearms, of the deep and ridiculous irritation humming through him at a pitch entirely too close to embarrassment.
Because this was what came of losing his concentration.
This was what came of letting some smart mouthed woman in a sundress get into his head so badly he chopped through an entire damned woodpile without noticing the sun move.
Joel let his hand fall and stared at the floor of the shed for a long beat, his mouth flattening.
Then, because there was nothing for it, he grabbed the discarded flannel off the yard on his way back past and headed inside the church.
The cool of the sanctuary hit him as soon as he stepped through the side door, sliding over his overheated skin with enough force to make him feel his own exhaustion all at once. It smelled faintly of old stone, candle wax, and the clean ghost of flowers left too long in water. The colored light from the stained glass had shifted now, spilling farther across the floor in long bruised ribbons of blue and gold and red.
Joel barely looked at any of it.
He crossed behind the altar with the shirt hanging loose from one hand and went into the small room off the sacristy where he kept the practical things people always forgot churches required: twine, extra candles, batteries, scissors, a sewing kit, a half empty tin of nails, and, somewhere in the second drawer if memory served, a pair of tweezers.
He found them after a moment of irritated rummaging and leaned one hip against the edge of the table beneath the little sink. The room was narrow, plain, and dim, just enough light coming in from the high window to catch on the metal in his hand. He lifted his palm closer, jaw set, and prodded the skin until the broken edge of the splinter made itself visible again.
“C’mon,” he muttered.
The tweezers slipped once.
He hissed, reset his grip, and tried again. This time he caught it properly and drew it out in one sharp pull, the sting bright enough to make his shoulders tense before easing almost at once. A thin line of blood rose in its place. Joel dropped the splinter into the sink and reached for the second one.
That one took longer.
By the time he finally got it free, the room had gone quiet enough around him that he could hear the faint creak of the church settling with the evening. Somewhere outside, a bird called from the trees. The radio had finally gone silent, either because the batteries had died or because the signal had given up as the day turned.
Joel rinsed his hand under cold water and stood there a moment longer than necessary, palm open beneath the stream.
The relief should have been simple, something physical and immediate.
Instead, all he could think about was the way you had laughed on the other side of that sanctuary door. Not loudly and definitely not cruelly. Just once, surprised out of yourself by something he’d said. He could still hear it if he let himself.
He shut the tap off hard.
The room went still again.
On the table beside him lay the flannel, darkened in places where sweat had soaked through. He looked at it, then at his reflection in the narrow pane of the cabinet glass above the sink. His hair was damp at the temples, skin flushed from the heat, expression drawn tight with something he had no interest in naming.
“You’re too old for this,” he told the man in the glass.
But the man did not look convinced.
The man.
That was how he spoke of himself now.
Bitterly.
With a sense of self hatred and even revulsion.
Joel dried his hand on a dish towel, set the tweezers back in the drawer, and reached for the shirt without putting it on. For a brief second he considered walking straight upstairs to his rooms and letting the day end there. He was tired enough. Irritated enough. And there was still a sermon half finished on his desk that would not write itself.
But he did not move.
He stood in the small half light of the sacristy with his hand stinging faintly and the shirt hanging from his fingers, listening to the quiet spread through the church, and knew with sudden, unhelpful certainty that the day was not done with him yet.
Because something had shifted.
Not in the church. Not in the town. But in him.
Small enough that another man might have ignored it. Easy enough to bury if he had not spent the better part of ten years becoming an expert at burial. But Joel knew the feeling of disturbance when it came. Knew the dangerous, almost imperceptible moment when still water stopped being still.
He had felt it this afternoon the instant he turned around and found you standing there.
He felt it now in the silence you had left behind.
And the worst part, the part that made him close his eyes for one brief moment in weary resignation, was that he had the sinking suspicion this was only the beginning.
After a while, Joel stepped back out into the sanctuary and stopped dead in the middle of the aisle.
The cross above the altar was still crooked.
He stared at it.
For one stubborn second, he tried to convince himself it only looked that way because the light had shifted, because the sun was lower now and the colored glass was throwing strange angles across the stone, because he was tired and annoyed and not in any state to be trusting his own perception where anything connected to you was concerned.
Then he squinted.
Closed one eye.
Lifted his thumb out in front of him, first vertical, then horizontal, gauging the line of it against the beams and the arch of the apse with all the petty determination of a man who already knew the answer and intended to fight it anyway.
The damn thing was crooked.
Not really badly and not enough to be obvious at a glance unless someone was the sort of person who noticed details immediately and refused to let them go once spotted. But crooked enough that now he had seen it, he could not unsee it.
Joel lowered his hand slowly.
“Aw, come on,” he muttered.
The church, as ever, offered him nothing.
He looked back up at the cross, jaw tightening. It hung there with infuriating serenity above the altar, slightly off center, impervious to the human indignity of imperfection. You had seen it in less than five minutes. Him, who had lived with the thing overhead for God knew how long, had apparently never once looked at it with sufficient suspicion.
“Well,” he said into the silence, his voice rough from the heat and the cursing and the fact that he had spent too much of the afternoon not saying what he was actually thinking, “you can stay like that.”
Nothing.
He took a step farther into the aisle, shirt still dangling from his hand, eyes fixed on the cross like it had personally betrayed him.
“You hear me?” he said. “You’re stayin’ exactly how you are.”
Still nothing.
Joel gave a humorless little laugh through his nose, the kind that held no amusement in it at all. “Yeah. Figured.”
The light in the church had deepened while he’d been in the sacristy. Red and blue and gold lay in long fractured bands over the pews and the floor, the stone holding the day’s last heat in some places while the shadows had already gone cool in others. The whole room should have felt peaceful. It usually did, even on the bad days. Even when he had no peace of his own to bring into it. But this evening the place seemed to hold itself differently around him, as though it had noticed something before he had and was waiting to see whether he would catch up.
Joel stood there another second, looking at the cross.
Then, because a decade of bitterness had a way of turning silence into invitation, he spoke again.
“Lemme make somethin’ clear to you.”
His own voice echoed back softly from the stone. Low and tired. Angry in that worn down way that had less to do with temper than with endurance pushed too far.
“That woman,” he said, pointing vaguely in the direction of the side door as if you might somehow still be hovering beyond it out of pure spite, “is a damn tourist. That’s what she is. Somebody passin’ through. Somebody seein’ a cousin for the weekend. Somebody droppin’ in on a friend, takin’ a few pictures of the mountains, sayin’ all the usual nonsense about how charming the place is, then gettin’ right back in the car and goin’ wherever it is people like that go.”
He paused, looked at the cross, and waited as if the wood might have the decency to object.
But once more, it did not.
Joel nodded once. “Good. Glad we understand each other.”
He started pacing then, not quickly, but with the restless, irritated movement of a man who already knew he ought to stop and could not seem to make himself. The shirt brushed against his thigh every time he turned. His bare forearms still carried the faint sting of sawdust and splinters, and the cuts in his palm tugged unpleasantly every time his fingers tightened around the fabric.
“I do not want to see her again,” he said, angling a look toward the altar as though continuing a conversation no one else in the room had agreed to have. “I don’t want her wanderin’ back in here tomorrow. I don’t want her askin’ me any more questions. I don’t want that mouth of hers turned on me again like she’s got nothin’ better to do than stand in my yard and call me names till I lose what little patience I had left this mornin’. I don’t want to hear her voice. I don’t want to hear her… laugh.”
That last word landed wrong somewhere inside him. Somewhere tender and bruised, somewhere he believed rotten.
Joel stopped walking.
For one brief second he stood completely still in the middle of the colored light, his expression hardening as though he could punish himself for the slip by force of will alone.
Then he looked up again and pointed at the cross with the shirt clutched in his fist.
“Not a damn sound of it,” he said. “You understand me? Not one more word. Not one more laugh. Not one more—”
He broke off and scrubbed a hand over his beard.
The church remained maddeningly, saintly silent.
Joel let out a breath and laughed again, sharper this time. “Christ, just listen to me.”
He turned away, paced two more steps, then turned back just as quickly. The agitation in him had nowhere useful to go. Not upward, where a better man might have called it prayer. Not inward, where it would have become recognition too fast to bear. So it spilled out exactly as it was. Ragged, resentful, and far too honest for comfort.
“You know what this feels like?” he said. “One of your little jokes. That’s what it feels like. One more of those damn twists you seem so fond of.” His voice grew lower, rougher. “And before you start—I know. I know how that sounds. I know I’m standin’ in a church talkin’ to empty air like a lunatic. That part’s not lost on me. But I’ve been here long enough, and you’ve put me through enough, that I think maybe I’ve earned the right to speak plainly.”
He stared up at the cross for a beat, his chest still rising a little too hard from work that had long since stopped being about wood.
“For over ten years,” he said, “your sense of humor has been absolute dogshit.”
The words echoed faintly.
This time, in spite of himself, the corner of his mouth almost twitched, not with amusement, but with the old reflex of a man who had once survived by turning fury into something drier and meaner before it could split him open. The expression vanished as quickly as it came.
“You want me to be grateful?” he went on. “For what? For Jackson? For this place? Fine. I am. More than I ever expected to be for anything after…” He cut himself off and shook his head once. “But don’t think I’ve forgotten the path it took to get me here. Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you let happen before you decided I could have four walls and a collar and somethin’ useful to do with my hands.”
He stopped near the first pew and looked toward the stained glass windows without really seeing them, his gaze caught somewhere inside himself instead.
“You took everythin’ from me,” he said more quietly. “Then sat back while I took the rest.”
The words fell into the church and stayed there.
Joel stood very still after that, eyes lowered now, one hand braced against the end of the pew as if he had not meant to touch anything and discovered too late that he needed the steadiness of it. The rough wood pressed into his palm. The little room behind his ribs, the one he spent most of his life keeping boarded shut, had gone suddenly dangerous with memory.
Sarah in the back seat.
Rain on the windshield.
Blood. Broken glass.
Sirens that came too late.
A woman with a face gone white from grief and cruelty and the need to place the blame somewhere that wasn’t herself, telling him he had killed the child he would have died to keep breathing.
Then the years after, each uglier than the last in their own inventive way. Whiskey. White powder. Bloody fists. Men cheering while he broke other men open because pain had to go somewhere and by then he had lost all interest in pretending he was above becoming a monster when the alternative was to feel too much.
Joel swallowed once.
When he looked back up at the cross, the rawest edge of that memory had hardened again into anger, but not the clean, hot kind. This was older. Colder. More exhausted. Anger worn down by repetition until it had become a shape his body carried as naturally as a limp or a scar.
“So no,” he said. “I don’t find any of it funny. Never did. Not the years I spent crawlin’ through all of it just to wash up here and call that mercy because it was quieter than what came before.” His jaw tightened. “And I sure as hell don’t find this funny.”
His hand came up again, pointing now not just at the cross but through it, beyond it, at whatever silence might be hiding behind the rafters.
“That woman is not funny.”
He let the sentence hang there.
And then, because honesty had already outrun dignity, he added in a lower voice, “She’s trouble.”
The word settled over the church with a weight he felt all the way down to his bones.
Joel drew in a breath and shook his head at himself immediately, as though the admission had embarrassed him more than all the rest of it put together.
“No,” he said, correcting it at once. “She ain’t trouble. She’s just…” He groped for something dismissive and came up instead with the memory of your face lifted toward him in exasperated disbelief. “She’s insufferable. That’s what she is.”
His mouth flattened.
“Smart ass. Mouth on her like a switchblade. Looks at people for too long. Notices things she’s got no business noticin’. Walks into a church like she belongs there and starts pointin’ out what’s crooked before she’s even figured out who she’s talkin’ to.” He stared upward with open accusation now. “That is not the sort of person you put back in my path by accident. That’s the sort of person you put there because you’re bored.”
Still God gave him nothing.
The quiet after that was immense. It spread through the sanctuary in patient waves, making room for every word he had thrown at it and offering not a single one back. The only sound was the old building settling around him and, farther off, the faint complaint of wind touching the outer walls.
Joel looked at the cross for another long beat.
Then he laughed once more, low and entirely without joy. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
He began pacing again, slower now, his anger turning inward and outward at once, searching for a target and finding too many. The floor caught the last of the red glass under his feet, so that every turn took him through color that looked too much like old bruises.
“What do you want from me?” he asked at last.
The question sounded weary, almost like a reflection of himself.
“I’ve done everythin’ you asked. More than you asked. I came here. I stayed. I put in the work. I put in the years. I held my tongue when I wanted to break somethin’. I listened to people confess the same damn sins every season like I was somehow qualified to help ‘em carry what I can barely carry myself. I buried folks. Married folks. Sat with folks in hospital rooms and kitchens and porches while they asked me why bad things happen and all I had for ‘em was whatever half decent lie sounded kindest at the time.”
He looked up at the cross again, eyes narrowing.
“And I did it. I did all of it. So for once—just once—I’m askin’ somethin’ plain.”
His voice sank lower. More dangerous for how even it became.
“Keep her away from me.”
The words landed sharply.
“Please.”
Joel stood there breathing through the silence that followed with his shoulders taut. It was absurd, he knew that. Absurd to feel this much over a stranger. Absurd to be standing half dressed in the middle of a church negotiating with heaven like a man trying to bargain his way out of purgatory. But there was something in him—a survival instinct, maybe, or the last shabby remains of self preservation—that recognized danger before he could put a respectable name to it.
And whatever this was, it had the shape of danger.
Not because you had done anything. Not really. You had argued with him, yes. Smiled at the wrong moments. Looked too amused by his bad behavior. Called him things he probably deserved and then laughed on your way out and none of that things should have mattered.
But it did.
Because he had felt something shift.
Because he had looked at the space you’d left behind as though it might still be occupied.
Because he had cut through an entire pile of wood with your voice in his head and not once noticed the passage of time.
That was enough, that was more than enough.
Joel stopped pacing at the foot of the altar steps and pointed once, sharply, at the crooked cross.
“So now you know,” he said. “That’s me askin’ nice.”
His eyes moved over the line of it one final time, taking in the slight tilt, the maddening imperfection.
“More than nice, really,” he muttered. “Considerin’ our history.”
Then he lifted his chin, expression gone hard again.
“So you fix whatever this is before it starts. You hear me? I don’t care if she’s pretty. I don’t care if she’s got that…” He stopped, disgusted with himself. “Whatever. I don’t care who she belongs to or where she came from or why she was in my yard. I want no part of it. None. My road stays mine. Hers stays hers.” His finger rose toward the cross one last time. “So you’d better make damn sure they do not cross.”
The words rang out clear in the sanctuary and then were swallowed by it whole.
Nothing answered.
Not the rafters. Not the altar. Not the darkening glass. The church held the silence with almost unbearable composure, as if the absence of response were itself a kind of verdict.
Joel stood very still in the aftermath of his own voice.
Then, with the abrupt weariness of a man who had once again said too much to a God who had never shown much talent for replying, Joel dropped his hand, turned on his heel, and started toward the narrow staircase at the back that led to his rooms above.
He did not look at the windows as he passed them. Did not see the moose standing forever over its dead calf, or the wolves forever circling, or the pale little girl in the final pane who had spent all this time looking down at the bones.
He walked with his shoulders tight and his jaw set, still carrying the heat of his own anger, too deep inside it to notice anything outside the ordinary world of wood, stone, and silence.
But the church was not entirely as he had left it.
In the last stained glass panel, the little girl was no longer looking at the remains at her feet.
Her eyes had lifted and they had found him at once.
It was not the vague illusion painted figures sometimes gave from a distance and definitely not the trick of changing light at dusk. Her gaze really moved with him, full of the same sorrow she had once turned on the bones below her, only now it belonged to Joel.
He reached the first step and her eyes followed closely.
Joel’s hand closed around the railing. The flannel shirt still hung loose from his fingers. He climbed without looking back, his body heavy with irritation, with exhaustion, with something else he still refused to name.
Below, the girl —the angel— kept watching.
Step by step, her gaze moved with him. Quietly and patiently. As if she were memorizing him. As if she were trying to hold on for as long as she could before he disappeared from her view.
He climbed higher.
The boards creaked beneath his weight. The evening light thinned across the church floor. Blue deepened in the stone. The bones in the window grew paler as the day withdrew.
Still she watched him.
There was no fear in her face. No warning. Only sadness. Deep and unmistakable. The kind that came from seeing someone carry too much for too long and being unable to do anything except witness it. Just like the remains of the moose beneath her.
Joel took another step.
And another.
Her eyes never left him.
By the time he reached the final stretch of stairs, there was something unbearable in the look on her face. Not only grief but something closer to helplessness, to frustration. As though there was something she needed to tell him and no way to make him hear it. As though she could see the weight on him clearly enough to mourn it, but not touch it. Not lighten it. Not take even a fraction of it from his shoulders.
Then Joel reached the last step and he disappeared from her view.
The moment he was gone, the girl closed her eyes.
It was a small thing. Barely a movement at all. But it changed her completely.
For one terrible second, she looked less like part of the glass and more like a child who had held herself together for as long as she could and failed the instant no one was left to see it.
A silver tear slipped down her face.
Then another.
Silent and helpless, full of the kind of sorrow that had nowhere to go.
She did not look down at the bones again.
She only remained there with her eyes closed, as if whatever strength had kept her watching him had given out the moment he was gone. As if losing sight of him had become its own fresh grief. As if she had wanted—desperately and uselessly—to reach him before he vanished upstairs, and had failed.
Below her, the bones stayed where they had always been.
Around her, the church fell slowly into shadow.
And in the quiet that followed, her sorrow no longer seemed meant for the dead alone.
By the time you make it back to the house, the light has started to turn.
The sun is lower now, softer than it was when you left, and the whole street looks washed in the kind of late afternoon gold that makes even unfamiliar places seem briefly forgiving. The front of the house is still half taken over by the move. The van is parked at the curb with its back doors open, and two of the men are carrying flattened cardboard out in neat stacks while another ties off a bundle of packing paper by the front walk. Through the wide front windows, you can see the outline of boxes still crowding the entryway and the living room beyond them, some open, some untouched, all of it still waiting to become a life.
You step inside and close the door behind you, and at once the smell of the place meets you again; wood, fresh paint, unpacked fabric, the faint chemical sharpness of newness that has not yet been lived in long enough to fade. Somewhere upstairs, something heavy is dragged across the floor. One of the movers crosses the hallway with a lamp in both hands and nods politely when he sees you.
“Evening, ma’am.”
You smile automatically. “Evening.”
You slip around a stack of marked boxes near the staircase, your fingers brushing the strap of your bag higher onto your shoulder, and you are only halfway through the hall when Peter appears at the far end of it.
He looks as he always does when he has spent the afternoon making decisions on other people’s behalf; composed, pressed, perfectly put together even now, his sleeves folded neatly to the forearm, one hand still holding a page torn from his notebook. He takes one look at you and something passes over his face, quick but noticeable.
“There you are.”
The words are simple. The tone beneath them is not.
You stop. “Hi.”
Peter glances toward the front door behind you, then back at your face. “That was quite a walk.”
You shift the bag off your shoulder. “I didn’t realize it had been that long.”
“That’s sort of the point.”
The answer lands lightly enough that another person might have mistaken it for teasing. You don’t. There is something too measured in the way he says it, too careful in the pause that follows.
“I’m sorry,” you say. “I lost track of time.”
Peter studies you for a second, then comes a few steps closer. “You did more than lose track of time. You vanished for over an hour in a town you don’t know, on the first day we’re here, while half our life is still in boxes.”
He isn’t angry. That would be simpler somehow. Anger can be pointed at. This is quieter than that. Sharper.
“I was just walking.”
“I know you were just walking.” His voice stays calm, but his mouth has gone a little flat around the edges. “That’s what worries me.”
You look at him. “Worries you?”
He exhales softly through his nose, then shakes his head as if he’s correcting his own tone before it can become something less pleasant. “Forget it. I’m not trying to start something. I just mean… I turn my back for a minute and what was supposed to be a short walk becomes you being out of my sight for over an hour.”
The sentence settles over you with more weight than it should have.
You tell yourself that. More weight than it should have.
“I said I’m sorry,” you answer gently. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”
Peter’s expression changes again, easing all at once as though a switch has been thrown somewhere behind his eyes. He steps in close enough to touch you, one hand sliding to your waist, the other brushing a loose strand of hair back from your shoulder.
“I know.” His voice has softened now. “I know you didn’t.”
You let out a slow breath.
“There was just…” You hesitate. “A bit of a weird encounter.”
His fingers pause at your waist. “What kind of weird encounter?”
You shrug lightly. “Nothing serious. Just some man behind the church who apparently never learned how to speak to people.”
Peter’s brows lift. “A man.”
The tiny pause before the word makes you glance up at him. “Yes. A man.”
“What happened?”
You almost laugh. “He was rude, I was rude back, and that was pretty much the end of it.”
Peter looks at you for another second, then the corner of his mouth moves in something that isn’t quite amusement. “So that’s why you were gone so long.”
“Not entirely.”
“No?”
“No. Then I kept walking.”
He nods slowly, as though filing the answer away somewhere private. Then he leans in and presses a brief kiss to your forehead.
“Well,” he says, as though concluding the matter himself, “I suppose Jackson has already started introducing itself.”
You smile despite yourself. “Apparently.”
His hand slides from your waist to your wrist. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“I have something to show you.”
The shift is so smooth you barely feel it happen.
Peter turns and leads you toward the staircase before you can ask anything else, and because the whole day has left you a little unmoored, a little more willing than usual to be guided, you follow without protest. You climb past half unpacked rooms and walls that still look too blank to belong to anyone, up to the top floor where the noise from the movers fades behind you into something distant and harmless.
The bedroom door at the end of the corridor stands open.
The room itself is still unfinished in the way the whole house is unfinished. There are lamps with no shades yet. Boxes along one wall waiting to be emptied. A chair by the window with one of Peter’s jackets thrown across the back. But someone has made the bed, and the doors to the balcony beyond it stand open to the evening air.
Peter doesn’t stop in the room. He keeps walking until you step out after him and the surprise catches up with you all at once.
There is a small table waiting on the balcony.
Two chairs. A bottle of wine in a silver cooler. A cheeseboard already laid out between plates and folded napkins, the fruit cut, the crackers neatly stacked, the cheeses arranged in careful little wedges you would recognize anywhere. Your favorites. All of them.
You stop in the doorway.
“Peter…”
He turns to look at you, and this time the smile that appears is genuine enough to warm his whole face. “I thought we should have one nice thing today that doesn’t involve cardboard.”
You laugh softly. “You did this?”
“Well, I didn’t personally cut the brie, if that’s what you mean.”
Your gaze moves from the bottle to the chairs to the view beyond them, where the rooftops of Jackson stretch out beneath the fading sky and the mountains sit far beyond them, blue and patient and much larger than anything in New York ever allowed itself to be.
“It’s beautiful,” you say.
Peter watches you, pleased. “That was the hope.”
He crosses to the table, pulls out a chair, and waits until you take it. Then he uncorks the wine and pours, the sound of it soft in the cooling air. When he sets your glass in front of you, his fingers brush the back of your hand.
“There,” he says quietly. “That’s better.”
You pick up the glass, let the stem turn once between your fingers, and look out over the balcony rail again.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Then Peter settles into the chair across from you and asks, “So. Now that you’ve actually seen it. What do you think?”
You take a sip before answering. The wine is good. Cold enough to be crisp, rich enough to slow you down.
“I think,” you say, glancing at him over the rim of the glass, “that you were annoyingly right.”
His smile deepens immediately. “About?”
“Jackson.” You look back out at the town. “It’s beautiful. More than I expected.”
“Told you.”
“Yes,” you say dryly. “You did.”
Peter leans back in his chair, one ankle crossing over the other. “I usually know what’s good for you.”
The answer comes quickly, almost playful. “That sounds arrogant.”
“It’s only arrogance if I’m wrong.”
You laugh under your breath and set the glass down. “Dangerous distinction.”
“But still a distinction.”
His tone is light, but not entirely. There’s always that little thread under things with him, subtle enough to miss if you aren’t listening for it. You are. You just haven’t decided yet whether you resent it.
Peter reaches for his own glass and lifts it toward you. “To new beginnings.”
You hesitate just long enough to notice that you’re hesitating, then lift yours too. “To new beginnings.”
The glasses touch softly.
You spend the next several minutes eating, the conversation flowing more easily now. Peter tells you which shipments are still delayed, which rooms he wants finished first, which pieces of furniture his father insists should be sent from the club house in the morning because apparently the dining room still doesn’t look quite right. You listen, smiling where it feels appropriate, adding small comments when you can.
At one point he asks, “Did you get a chance to see much of the town?”
You nod. “A little.”
“And?”
“It’s quiet.”
“That’s one of the selling points.”
“It feels…” You search for the word. “Slower.”
Peter cuts a piece of cheese with neat precision. “That’s because it is slower.”
“I think I like that.”
“I know you do.”
You look up at him. “You know I do?”
He smiles faintly. “You like pretending you don’t want peace, but you do. You always have.”
The sentence settles somewhere inside you and stays there a second longer than you expect.
Before you can decide what to do with it, Peter adds, “That’s why this place is going to be good for us.”
Us.
He says it with such certainty you almost kiss him.
You glance back out over the balcony. The evening is beginning to cool in earnest now. Somewhere a dog barks once and is answered from farther off. The whole town feels held inside itself.
Peter refills your glass.
You let him.
Then he asks, “What was he like?”
You blink and look back at him. “Who?”
“The man.”
You pause, fingers resting lightly against the stem of your glass. “Still on that?”
“You brought him up.”
You smile faintly. “Only because he was impossible not to mention.”
Peter watches you. “What was he like?”
You should say rude and leave it there.
Instead you hear yourself answer more honestly than you meant to. “Difficult.”
His brows lift. “Difficult.”
“Very.”
“In what way?”
You think about it. About the heat. The chopping block. The radio. The flannel in June. The way irritation had sat on him like another layer of skin. The way he had looked at you with something halfway between dismissal and reluctant engagement, as if the conversation itself had offended him and still he couldn’t quite stop having it.
“He was just…” You shake your head. “One of those men who thinks being unpleasant is a form of personality.”
Peter smiles. “So, an idiot.”
“More or less.”
“And of course you argued with him.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to thank him for it.”
Peter laughs softly. “No. I suppose you weren’t.”
You take another sip of wine. “He started it.”
“I have no doubt.”
You should let it go there.
Instead, some stubborn little part of you still annoyed on your own behalf adds, “He was unbelievably rude.”
“And yet,” Peter says, watching you now with a look you can’t immediately place, “you’re still talking about him.”
The sentence catches you off guard enough that you laugh.
“Only because you keep asking.”
“Mm.”
You shake your head and reach for a cracker. “Trust me. He wasn’t memorable for the right reasons.”
Peter leans back, apparently satisfied by that, and lets the subject drop.
The sky darkens by degrees while you sit there. The first edge of evening comes in blue instead of gold. The wine softens everything a little. The house behind you grows quieter as the movers finish for the day and leave. Eventually you hear the van start, then pull away from the curb, and after that it is only the two of you and the town spread out below.
Without thinking too much about it, you push your chair back and move closer to Peter’s. He opens an arm automatically and you go into it just as automatically, resting your head against his chest while he settles you in against his side.
“There,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “That’s better.”
You close your eyes for a second and let the weight of the day loosen by a fraction. His shirt is cool beneath your cheek. His hand moves slowly over your arm. The view from the balcony stretches outward in quiet layers, the town dimming below the coming night.
For one brief moment, it almost feels enough.
Then, without warning, another image slips in.
Dark hair damp at the temples. A jaw gone tight with irritation. Sunlight caught in a pair of hazel eyes that had no business being as warm as they were in a face like that.
You go still.
It lasts no more than a second. Less, maybe. Just long enough to leave a trace. A small, strange friction in the middle of an otherwise ordinary thought.
Because that’s the thing you remember, in spite of yourself.
Not his rudeness first. Not the absurd conversation.
His eyes.
How wrong they had felt on him. How at odds with the rest of him. Not soft, exactly. Not kind in any easy way. But warm. Warm in a way that had unsettled you more than his temper did.
You shift lightly against Peter and force your gaze back out over the balcony.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you say quickly. “Just tired.”
His hand smooths over your shoulder once. “Long day with the flight and all.”
You nod. “Very.”
He kisses your hair again and keeps talking, something about tomorrow, about the last of the boxes, about how much better the place will feel once everything is properly unpacked. You listen. Answer when you need to. Let his voice carry on around you.
And if, for one moment longer than it should, another man’s eyes remain lodged in the back of your mind while you tell yourself it means nothing at all.
Joel didn’t turn the light on when he stepped into his room.
He didn’t need to. There was still enough of the evening left to see by, a dull wash of fading light coming through the window and flattening everything into shape without detail. The room held its usual stillness. The bed. The chair by the window. The desk with the papers left exactly where he had abandoned them. None of it registered properly. It was all background now. The only thing he seemed able to feel with any clarity was the restless, unwelcome awareness still running under his skin.
He shut the door behind him harder than he meant to and stood there for a second, breathing, his body still carrying the heat of the yard. Sweat had dried unpleasantly at the back of his neck and along his spine. His pulse hadn’t settled. It was still there, too high in his throat, too present. He dragged a hand over his face and muttered, “Jesus,” though the word had long since stopped meaning prayer in moments like this. It was only habit now, something rough and tired said into empty air because silence made him feel worse.
Then he moved.
He crossed the room in a few quick strides and dropped the flannel on the chair without looking, already reaching for the hem of his shirt. It came off in one sharp motion. His boots followed, kicked aside with less care than usual, then the belt, then the jeans. He stripped everything off with the same irritated efficiency, like if he did it fast enough he might shed the rest of the afternoon with it. By the time he stepped into the bathroom, he was already losing patience with himself.
He turned the shower on too hot. The pipes knocked once in the wall before the water steadied, and steam began to gather almost at once, thin at first, then thicker, filling the room and softening the edges of things. Joel stepped under the spray without waiting. The heat hit his shoulders, his back, his chest, and for one brief moment it almost felt like relief. The kind that belonged only to the body. Muscles loosening. Skin finally cooling under the heat in the strange backward way water managed. He braced one hand against the tile and leaned forward until his forehead touched the wall, then shut his eyes and stayed there, letting the water run over him.
He tried not to think. That was the rule. Don’t follow it. Don’t name it. Don’t give it room. Let it pass. That had always worked better when the thing pressing at him came from somewhere old, somewhere he already knew the shape of. But this was new, and that seemed to make it worse. Because when he closed his eyes, the afternoon didn’t fade. It just sharpened.
Your voice came back first.
You’re very rude.
His jaw tightened against the tile. “Yeah,” he muttered under his breath. “No shit.”
He shifted his weight and pressed his palm harder into the wall as if the extra force might anchor him better, but it didn’t. It only made him more aware of how wound up he still was. The tension hadn’t gone anywhere. It sat in his shoulders, his chest, his mouth. It sat in the simple humiliating fact that he was standing in a shower, trying and failing not to think about a woman who had been in his yard less than an hour.
He tried again.
Let it go, Joel.
It doesn’t mean anything, Joel.
She’s just a stranger, Joel.
The water kept falling, but his mind didn’t listen. It kept returning to the same fragments as if repetition alone might turn them into sense.
Joel exhaled sharply through his nose. “Doesn’t mean a damn thing,” he said aloud this time, low and flat, like he could correct the problem by force if he named it hard enough.
He lifted his head, dragged a hand through his wet hair, then leaned forward again until the tile caught his forehead. The cold of it helped for a second. Water. Heat. Breath. That ought to have been enough. It had to be enough. Because the alternative was something he did not have the strength for tonight, and he knew that. He knew the edge of it. The point where irritation stopped belonging to the present and something older began moving underneath it.
“No,” he said under his breath.
Not tonight.
He pressed harder into the wall and listened to the water, trying to keep himself in the room, in the heat, in the small ordinary discomfort of his own body. For a few seconds it almost worked. The day might still have passed into nothing if his mind had been willing to leave it alone. But his body had already started deciding otherwise, and by the time he realized it, his breathing had changed.
He lifted his head.
At first it was only that one breath wouldn’t go all the way in. Then the next one did the same. He blinked water from his eyes and tried again, drawing air in slowly through his nose, but it caught halfway down and broke apart in his chest before it reached where it was supposed to go. He went still under the spray. His pulse was suddenly everywhere again. Throat. Wrists. Behind his eyes. His chest tightened in response, and his hand slipped on the tile.
“Come on,” he muttered.
His voice sounded wrong now.
He planted both hands against the wall and tried to force another proper breath in, but the room had already started changing around him. The steam felt too thick. The noise too loud. The air too close. He could feel the first tremor in his fingers where they pressed against the tile, then in his forearms, then lower. It spread with that awful familiar speed, making him feel weak and overexposed all at once.
Not now.
He shut his eyes.
Not now.
But his body had already gone the other way. His heart was pounding too hard. His ribs hurt with it. His hands had started shaking in earnest. He could feel the weakness in his knees, the fine violent buzzing just under his skin, the sense that something inside him was trying to force its way through every place he had spent years trying to hold closed.
He knew what it was but that didn’t make it easier.
The room kept shrinking around him. He reached blindly for the tap and turned it hard. The water shut off at once, and the silence that followed hit him almost as badly as the noise had. Joel stood there dripping, chest pulling too fast, every part of him suddenly too aware. He grabbed the towel from the rack, but his hands were shaking badly enough that it nearly slipped. He swore under his breath, wrapped it around his waist, and pushed the shower door open with more force than necessary.
The floor did not feel steady under him.
“No,” he said, quieter now. “No, no, no.”
But the words did nothing.
He crossed into the bedroom and went straight to the dresser, leaving wet footprints behind him on the floorboards, yanked the top drawer open too hard, fumbled through the clutter inside it, then found the orange bottle and nearly dropped that too. The cap slipped once in his hand before he got it open. Two pills fell into his palm instead of one. He stared at them for half a second, breathing hard, then reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. The first swallow barely went down. His throat felt too tight for it. He forced himself to take more, dry swallowed the pill, and sat down hard on the edge of the bed because his legs no longer felt trustworthy.
The mattress dipped beneath him. He bent forward immediately, elbows on his knees, one hand still gripping the glass too tightly, his whole body full of those fine involuntary shocks that moved faster than he could calm them. He set the water down before he dropped it and scrubbed both hands over his face, staying there, folded over himself, trying to ride the worst of it out without letting it drag him any farther.
His heart was still hammering. His breathing was still wrong. He told himself the medication would kick in. Told himself this had happened before. Told himself he was not dying, not going mad, not about to come apart there… alone. But fear did not care what he knew. Fear only cared that the body had already chosen danger and gone to war over it.
He lowered his hands and stared at the floor between his bare feet, seeing nothing. All he could hear was his own breathing and the old pulse of shame under it, because this was the part nobody ever saw. Not the women who brought food to the church. Not the men who shook his hand after service. Not the town that had decided Father Miller was steady, dependable, the kind of man other people could lean on. They saw the polished version. The contained one. The one with the level voice and still hands and enough Scripture ready for whatever hurt they brought him. They did not see him like this, half naked under a towel on the edge of a bed, shaking hard enough to feel it in his teeth because some woman with a sharp mouth and a pale dress had managed to reach under his skin in under an hour and leave him raw there.
“Get a hold of yourself,” he muttered.
The sentence came out low and harsh and completely useless.
He knew better than to say it. Knew contempt never helped. But the voice came anyway, old and mean and familiar. The same one that had kept him alive before he had better language for survival than violence and denial. The man beneath the collar was still there. That was the part that frightened him. Not the panic itself. The thing under it. The thing that lived closest to the cracks and waited.
Joel dragged in another breath and held it as long as he could, then let it out slowly through his mouth. Again. This time it went a little deeper. Not enough, but enough to matter. He stayed bent forward and kept counting without really meaning to, forcing his breathing into something steadier while the medication took its time. In for four. Hold. Out. Again. His hands still shook. His chest still hurt. But the worst edge of it had begun, slightly, to shift.
The next wave came smaller. Ugly still, but smaller. He reached for the water again and made himself drink. His hand trembled against the glass. Less than before.
“Okay,” he said, though there was no one there to hear it. "I'm gonna be okay.”
It wasn’t true but the body liked simple lies when it was frightened, and that one was as good as any.
He sat there another minute, then another, waiting for the medicine to dull the sharpest points of what remained. The trembling in his legs eased first. Then his hands. His pulse was still too high, but no longer trying to break clean through his ribs. His breathing dragged less. The room came back to him in pieces. The desk. The window. The chair with the flannel over the back. The dark beginning to settle outside.
The fear stayed along with the knowledge of how close the old self always remained beneath the surface. How little it took, some days, to feel him shifting there. Almost crawling.
Joel looked down at his hands.
Steadier now.
Then he rose slowly, tightened the towel once at his waist, and went back into the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror because avoiding it would have been ridiculous by then. He looked tired. Older than he had that morning. Eyes red rimmed. Hair still wet. Skin damp. But from the outside, contained enough to pass.
That was familiar too.
He wiped the last of the water from his face and stood there a second with both hands on the sink. Then he looked at the man in the glass and said quietly, “You don’t get out tonight.”
The room, like the church below it, offered him nothing.
Joel turned off the bathroom light, crossed back to the bed, and sat down in the dark. After a while he lay back, one arm over his eyes, the medication pulling him slowly toward something he could bear. He stayed like that, listening to his breathing settle, feeling the last of the trembling go out of his hands and chest and legs. Then, almost without thinking, his fingers found the thin gold chain at his throat and the small cross resting there against his skin.
He closed his hand around it.
The metal was warm. He held it tight in his fist and shut his eyes harder. He didn’t say anything out loud. He didn’t need to. The prayer came anyway, quiet and tired and worn thin by the hour.
Lead me not into temptation—
His hand tightened around the cross.
He forced his breathing slower and tried to think of the work waiting for him in the morning, of practical things, of anything that belonged to the ordinary shape of life and not to you. But your face came back anyway. The laugh he had no business hearing this clearly still.
Lead me not into temptation, Father, but deliver me from… her.
The second time the prayer came quieter. More ashamed than afraid.
He stayed like that until the room softened around him and the medicine finally pulled him back from the edge and to sleep.
a03 | taglist open <3 | fic masterlist | playlist | extras | Next Chapter
.⋆♱ summary: On your first day in Jackson, you meet the man you’re already convinced is the town’s biggest asshole. Unfortunately, he seems to think the same of you.
.⋆♱ a/n 1: This story was born while watching Wake Up Dead Man: A Knives Out Mystery. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, I had started imagining Joel Miller as Father Jud. As much as I have laughter, romance, and tenderness planned for this story, it is also deeply shaped by my own experience with domestic abuse and gender based violence. So if those themes are sensitive for you, please keep that in mind before reading. With love, Honey
.⋆♱ a/n 2: For the woman who was always made to believe she was hard to love.
For the woman who shrank in fear every time they told her she had forgotten her place and did not hesitate to use violence to remind her.
For the woman whose greatest fear was becoming the very thing that raised her.
For the woman who found herself trapped in the same vicious cycle… and still proved strong enough to shatter the chains that held her there.
For our mothers, who taught us that a good woman is meant to lower her head and obey.
For you, Mom, because my destiny was never meant to be a reflection of yours.
For me, your daughter, because I made a promise to never live through what you had to endure.
For us. And for all of you. 🖤🦋
.⋆♱ a/n 3: Special mention to my angels @madisonauroraxx & @pattwtf
.⋆♱ warnings: Mentions of gender based violence and domestic violence, Descriptions of a deceased animal.
.⋆♱ wc: 14.608 k
Summer made everything look kinder than it was at your home.
The grass brushed warm against your bare legs as you ran through the backyard, sunlight pouring thick and golden over everything it touched—the porch steps, the wildflowers crowding the fence, the white railings with their chipped paint, your mother sitting in the shade as if she had been placed there by the day itself. The air smelled of clover and lavender and the sweetness of earth left baking under the afternoon sun, and somewhere close by bees hummed lazily among the flowers while the screen door behind the kitchen knocked once against its frame and settled again.
You kept running for no better reason than because you could. Because the grass was soft. Because the light was pretty. Because your mother was watching and smiling, and when she smiled at you the whole world seemed to turn gentler.
“Don’t go too close to the fence, baby,” your mother called.
Her voice drifted across the yard like a ribbon, and you turned immediately because you always did when she spoke.
She was sitting on the porch steps in a white sundress trimmed with lace, one hand resting over her knee, the other shielding her eyes from the sun. Her dark hair fell in a long, shining curtain over one shoulder, and even from where you stood you could see the strange, beautiful color of her eyes when the light caught them—storm blue one second, jade green the next, as though the sky and the earth themselves had fought a long war over her and finally agreed to a truce. Fragments of every element seemed to live in her irises, crowning her delicate face with something almost unreal.
“I’m not!” you called back, though you were, a little.
She smiled. “I know.”
There was a softness to her today. A tiredness too, though you did not know how to name that yet. You only knew that some days your mother moved like music and some days she moved like something hurt. Today was somewhere in between.
You wandered farther through the grass, crouching here and there to inspect the tiny, miraculous things that seemed so important—a bent daisy near the fence, a beetle crawling over a stone, a line of ants disappearing beneath the porch. Everything felt alive beneath the careful magnifying glass of your curiosity.
Then something lilac drifted through the air in front of you.
You stopped so quickly you nearly stumbled.
For a second, you thought it was a flower petal blown loose on the breeze. Then it moved again, delicate and wandering, and your whole face lit with wonder.
“Mama,” you gasped. “Mama, look!”
Your mother straightened slightly where she sat. “What is it, sweetheart?”
You pointed, too enchanted to lower your hand. “A butterfly.”
She followed your finger, and the moment she found it, her smile changed into something softer, deeper, touched with a kind of quiet fondness that made your chest feel warm. “Oh,” she murmured. “Yes. I see her.”
Her.
That felt right inside your small heart.
The butterfly floated through the yard as though she belonged to no one and nowhere, lilac wings opening and closing in the sunlight, pale violet with silver threaded through the edges whenever she caught the light just so. She moved from flower to flower in no hurry at all, and you followed at once, laughing softly every time she rose just beyond your reach and drifted down again as though she had only moved to make sure you were still paying attention.
“Can I hold her?” you asked, crouching in the grass while the butterfly settled on a flower no taller than your shin.
Your mother shook her head, smiling. “No, baby. Gentle things don’t like to be held too tight.”
You considered that with complete seriousness, your brows drawing together for a second before you nodded. “But I wouldn’t crush her. I’d be careful with her.”
“I know you would,” she said softly. “But it’s better not to try, sweetheart. You could hurt her wings, and then the poor thing wouldn’t be able to lift herself into the air again.”
You watched, chin nearly resting on your knees, too absorbed to notice the heat anymore. Everything narrowed to the small, lovely miracle in front of you. The butterfly moved her wings slowly, almost lazily, and the whole world seemed to slow with her.
Then a shadow cut across the light.
A rough cry split the stillness overhead.
You jumped with a gasp, your heart lurching so hard it hurt.
The butterfly lifted into the air at once.
Something dark swept down toward the oak tree near the edge of the yard, wings broad and black and startling against the late afternoon sun, before settling on one of the lower branches with a rustle sharp enough to make your stomach drop.
“Mama!”
You ran before you had even finished screaming for her, tearing through the grass as fast as your legs would go, fear closing tight around your throat. By the time you reached the porch, you were crying from the shock of it, scrambling into your mother’s lap with clumsy little hands and wet cheeks and a heartbeat that would not settle.
“There you are,” she murmured, gathering you close without hesitation. One arm circled your back while the other smoothed over your hair, over and over, until some of the panic in you loosened enough to breathe around. “What happened?”
“There’s a bird,” you mumbled into the hollow of her neck. “A very ugly one.”
You felt her laugh softly. “An ugly one?”
You nodded hard against her skin. “Very ugly.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” She pressed a kiss into your hair. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, you lifted your head.
Her expression was gentle, touched with amusement, but not dismissive. She always did that—made room for your fear without making you feel foolish for it.
“That’s not an ugly bird,” she said softly.
“Yes, it is,” you insisted immediately, one hand clutching the lace at her shoulder. “It scared me.”
Her thumb brushed a tear from your cheek. “Scaring you doesn’t make something ugly.”
You blinked at her, unconvinced.
She turned you carefully in her lap so you were facing the yard again, your back against her chest, her chin resting light near your temple. “Look,” she said. “There.”
The bird still sat in the oak tree, dark and sleek against the branch, his feathers drinking in the sunlight until they seemed almost blue at the edges. Bigger than the little birds that came to the feeder. Sharper too. His head tilted with a strange, unsettling intelligence, as if he were watching not only the yard but understanding it.
“That’s not an ugly bird,” your mother murmured. “That’s a crow.”
You stared at him from the safety of her arms. “He’s scary.”
“A little,” she allowed.
The butterfly drifted back into view over the roses, and the instant the crow turned his head toward her, your whole body went tight.
“He sees her,” you whispered.
Your mother’s arm tightened around your middle. “I know.”
“He’s gonna eat her.”
This time her laugh came quieter, almost fond, though there was something thoughtful beneath it too. “No, baby.”
“Yes, he is,” you said, your voice breaking. “He’s bad. He’s gonna hurt her. Make him stop, mommy!”
“Hush now.” Her lips brushed your hairline. “Just watch.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Yes, you do.”
There was something so certain in the way she said it that you fell quiet, even with tears still damp on your cheeks.
So you watched.
The butterfly floated through the yard in wandering little arcs, lilac and silver and impossibly delicate. The crow followed her movement from the tree, shifting once along the branch, then again, always turning to keep her in sight. Not lunging. Not diving. Not striking. Just watching with an intensity that no longer looked like danger.
“He’s waiting,” you whispered.
“Maybe.”
“He wants to catch her.”
“Or maybe,” your mother said, her voice dropping softer still, “he just can’t look away.”
You tipped your head back enough to look at her. “Why?”
Her gaze stayed on the yard. “Because sometimes a thing can be so lovely, so strange, so unlike anything else around it, that even something wild stops just to marvel at it.”
You looked back at the crow.
He had gone very still, his black shape sharp against the branch while the butterfly drifted above the flowers below him, careless and beautiful and bright enough to hold the eye whether you meant to stare or not.
“He likes her,” you said.
A little smile touched your mother’s mouth. “Maybe he does.”
You kept watching, fear beginning to unwind into something else. Curiosity. Wonder. Relief. The crow moved when she moved, but never toward her in any cruel way. He followed her with the same fascinated patience someone might follow sunlight on water.
“I thought crows were mean,” you admitted after a while.
“Most people do.”
“Why?”
Your mother was quiet for a moment, her fingers slowly combing through your hair. “Because they look like shadows,” she said at last. “Because they’re black and loud and too clever for their own good. Because they don’t sing the way people want birds to sing. They don’t come wrapped in pretty colors. They don’t flutter.” She smiled faintly. “People like pretty things they understand. Crows make them uneasy.”
You considered that. “But they’re not bad?”
“No.” Her voice softened. “Not just because they look severe.”
She shifted slightly on the step beneath you, and you settled more comfortably against her while she went on, her tone unhurried now, almost thoughtful, as though she were speaking as much to herself as to you.
“Crows are some of the cleverest creatures God ever made. They remember faces. Did you know that? If someone is kind to them, they remember. And if someone is cruel…” She paused, a faint shadow passing behind her eyes before she smiled again. “They remember that too.”
You looked at the crow with renewed awe. “Really?”
“Really.” Her fingers traced absent little paths through your hair. “They watch. They learn. They protect each other. If one of them is hurt, the others gather. They mourn their dead. They bring gifts sometimes—small shiny things, bits of ribbon, bottle caps, all sorts of treasures—just because something in them decided it mattered.”
Your mouth fell open. “Like people?”
A quiet laugh escaped her. “Sometimes better than people.”
You turned that over in your head.
The butterfly landed on a pale flower near the fence. The crow remained above her in the oak tree, motionless now, his whole dark body angled toward her like devotion disguised as stillness.
“Maybe he thinks she’s beautiful,” you whispered.
Your mother’s arms tightened almost imperceptibly around you. “Maybe he does.”
“And he’s not gonna eat her?”
“No, baby.”
“But… How do you know that?”
This time, when she answered, there was something wistful in her voice, something so tender it made the whole yard seem to lean in and listen.
“Because that’s not how he’s looking at her.”
You went still in her lap.
Children knew more about tone than adults ever gave them credit for. You did not understand everything, but you understood that this mattered. That the answer was bigger than the butterfly and the crow and the yard and the summer heat wrapped around the two of you.
“How is he looking at her?” you asked, almost with a conspiratorial tone.
Your mother smiled, though sadness had begun threading itself into the edges of it. “Like she’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.”
You looked back at the tree, and suddenly that was exactly what it looked like.
No hunger. No cruelty. Only absolute devotion disguised as wonder.
The butterfly moved again, and the crow tracked her without sound, as if the whole sky had narrowed to the lilac flicker of her wings.
A little laugh escaped you, watery with leftover tears. “I like him now.”
“I thought you might.”
You leaned back into her more fully then, content to simply watch them together, the butterfly wandering from bloom to bloom, the crow following from above with all the solemn intensity of something old and dark discovering beauty for the first time and not knowing what to do with the ache of it.
The wind stirred across the porch.
The strap of your mother’s sundress slipped slightly down her arm.
And that was when you saw the bruises.
They were soft colors at first. Bluish at the edges. Violet where the skin was paling. Bloom shaped beneath the white of her dress and the warm gold of the afternoon. Your eyes fixed on them immediately, the comparison arriving before the thought itself had fully formed.
“Mama?”
She hummed absentmindedly, still looking toward the yard.
You reached for her arm with one small finger, careful not to press. “Those are the same color.”
Her body went still.
“The same color as what, sweetheart?”
“The butterfly.”
Silence.
You traced the air above one bruise without touching it. “And this one too.”
For a long moment she didn’t speak. The whole yard seemed to hold its breath with her—the wind, the flowers, even the crow in the tree.
Then, quietly, “You notice everything.”
You looked up at her, your little face full of the unguarded concern children wear so openly it almost hurts to witness. “Did it hurt?”
Her gaze flickered toward the house, then back to you. “A little.”
Your mouth turned down. “Why Daddy did that?”
The butterfly still drifted through the flowers, and the crow still watched from his branch with patient attention. But in your mother something closed. Something drew tight and careful behind her face.
She gathered you a little more firmly in her lap. “Your father works very hard,” she said quietly. “He gets tired.”
You frowned. “Tired?”
She nodded. “And sometimes when people are tired, they… they don’t always know what they’re doing.”
The answer didn’t sit right, even in your small body. You looked from her bruises back to the crow, back to the butterfly, trying to make the shapes of things match the way she wanted them to.
“I don’t like it when he hurts you,” you whispered.
Her hand closed around your wrist. Not harshly. Just enough to stop you from pointing again. Enough for you to feel that the air had changed.
“Don’t say that.”
You blinked at her, startled.
“Baby,” she said, softer now, though no less firm. “Your father loves us.”
The words felt wrong inside you.
You looked back toward the tree where the crow still sat in the branches, black and solemn and so careful in the way he watched that even you could see the difference now.
“But the crow likes the butterfly,” you said slowly, “and he isn’t hurting her.”
Something flashed across your mother’s face—pain, maybe, or shame, or just exhaustion too old to hide quickly enough.
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
She drew in a breath that sounded thin in her chest. “Because grown up love can be hard.”
You frowned harder. “But if it hurts, then why is it love? You love me, and you never hurt me. Grandpa doesn’t either.”
Her eyes closed for just a second.
When they opened again, they looked too bright.
“Because sometimes,” she said, voice low and strange, “people hurt the things they love.”
The sentence slipped into you like something sharp and quiet.
You didn’t have the words for contradiction. Didn’t have language yet for how wrong something could feel even before you knew how to argue with it. But you had your own small logic, and your own small logic was already pushing back.
“No,” you said softly.
Your mother looked down at you.
You shook your head. “That’s not what the crow is doing. He loves the butterfly and he isn't doing any of those things, mommy.”
And there it was—her own lesson turned against the lie she was trying to hand you.
She had told you not to judge the crow by the darkness of his feathers, by the roughness of his cry, by how frightening he looked at first glance. She had told you to watch what he did. And what he did was follow beauty without harming it. Marvel at it without crushing it. Stay near it without taking from it.
Your father did not do that. Even then, some hidden part of you knew it.
Your mother looked away toward the yard, her jaw tight. The wind lifted strands of her black hair across her cheek, and she brushed them back with trembling fingers.
“It’s my fault sometimes,” she murmured after a while. “I know how to push him. I know when I should stop talking and I don’t. He comes home with so much on his shoulders and sometimes I make things worse.”
You stared at her, confused in that deep, miserable way only children can be when an adult they love asks them to stand inside a lie.
“But he did it, he hurt you,” you said.
She swallowed.
“Mama…”
“He loves me. He did it because he loves me,”
The words came out brittle this time, as if she needed them to be true because the alternative was too large to survive.
You looked at the bruises again, lilac and blue against her skin, the same shades as the butterfly’s wings, and felt something inside you twist painfully. Even in the warmth of the porch, you turned cold.
Because the crow had frightened you.
But your father frightened your mother.
And those were not the same thing at all.
“That doesn’t make sense,” you whispered.
Her face changed then. Not anger. Something sadder. Something almost broken.
“No,” she said softly, too softly. “No, it doesn’t.”
The answer startled you more than if she had insisted again.
For a second, she looked as though she might say more. As though something inside her had risen all the way to the surface and might finally spill over. But then the familiar restraint came down again, like a curtain drawn shut.
“He’s your father,” she said instead. “You owe him some respect, you can't say those things because someone could hear and think that he's a bad a man,”
You lowered your eyes.
The apology came before you could stop it. “I’m sorry.”
You didn’t know what you were apologizing for. Only that the air had gone wrong and your mother’s face had gone far away and some instinct already lived in you that whispered that when love changed temperature, you should try to fix it.
Her expression crumpled at once.
“Oh, baby.” She pulled you against her so quickly your cheek knocked against her shoulder. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t you apologize to me.”
You wrapped your arms around her neck, frightened by the tremor in her voice more than by anything else.
“Did I make you sad?”
“No.”
“Did Daddy?”
Her arms tightened until you could feel the beat of her heart against you, quick and uneven.
“Mommy?”
“Hush now.”
Her voice was gentle again, but closed.
So you did.
You sat there in her lap and watched the yard with the solemn silence of a child trying to understand a world that had shifted beneath her feet without warning. The butterfly rose from one flower and drifted to another. The crow kept watch from the tree. The summer light softened by degrees, turning everything gold at the edges.
After a while, you asked in a quiet voice, “If the crow likes her that much… Will he keep her safe?”
Your mother was silent for so long you thought perhaps she hadn’t heard you.
Then she kissed your temple and said, “I’d like to think so.”
You nodded and let that answer settle in you.
The butterfly lifted higher into the evening light, pale lilac against the sky. The crow watched her without moving, dark and still and wholly taken by her.
You stared at him for a long time.
Then you tilted your face up toward your mother and said, with all the dreamy seriousness of a child confessing a secret wish, “When I’m big… I want someone to look at me the way he looks at her.”
Your mother went utterly still.
For one suspended moment, the whole world seemed to narrow to the space between your face and hers.
When she looked down at you, there was so much sadness in her eyes it nearly swallowed the light in them whole. She touched your cheek with trembling fingers, brushing a strand of hair away from your forehead.
“Oh, my love,” she whispered.
You blinked up at her. “What?”
Her smile came small and heartbroken. “Nothing.”
But that wasn’t true. Even you could tell that much.
This would be the first contradiction you would ever carry: that something capable of frightening you could turn out to be unexpectedly gentle, while something beloved could become cruel enough to wound you. At your age, all you had was a feeling. The feeling that two utterly contradictory things had been placed into your hands at once by your mother. Love and pain, both insisting they belonged in the same place.
And somewhere deep inside your small, tender chest, where no one could yet reach it, confusion planted itself like a seed—because the crow was not what it seemed, but your father was not what she said.
You looked back toward the yard, toward the butterfly and the crow, and your mother held you a little tighter, as if she were trying to keep something from reaching you.
The wind moved first, turning cold where it should have stayed warm.
Then the scent of lavender thinned.
The porch blurred at the edges. The flowers lost their shape. The oak tree smeared into shadow, and the sunlight that had soaked everything in honey-colored gold drained slowly into something dimmer, flatter, wrong.
Your mother’s arms disappeared last.
You woke slowly, like surfacing through dark water.
Your lashes fluttered.
For a second, all you could see was the blurred oval of the airplane window beside you, black outside except for the faint wing light flashing intermittently against the night. Then the cabin came into focus around you in pieces—the dimmed overhead lights, the low rustle of sleeping passengers, the steady hum of the engines carrying all of you westward through the dark.
Your throat felt tight.
You swallowed against it, blinking the last of the dream away, but it clung to you stubbornly, not in images now but in feeling. An invisible, bruise-colored ache blooming beneath your ribs. The phantom warmth of your mother’s arms. The sound of her words echoing somewhere inside you.
Peter was already watching you, as though he had woken the moment he sensed the shift in your breathing and knew immediately that sleep had turned against you again.
You didn’t realize his hand had already settled over yours until his thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles, warm and lazy with remains of his own sleep.
“You were dreaming again,” he murmured.
His voice was low, careful not to disturb the passengers around you. The soft cabin light caught the neat line of his jaw, the expensive watch at his wrist, the polished ease of a man who had never looked out of place anywhere in his life—not in Manhattan restaurants, not at charity galas, not in first class, and, you suspected, not in the small Wyoming town waiting for the two of you at the end of this flight.
“It was nothing,” you said quietly. “Just strange.”
Peter’s brows lifted a little. “That bad, huh?”
You let out a small breath and turned toward the window again. “Apparently.”
He was quiet for a second, then his fingers closed a little more firmly around your hand. “You had the deepest frown on your face.”
That made you glance back at him. “I did not.”
“You did.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “You looked like you were seconds away from starting an argument with someone in your sleep.”
A tiny laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
“There,” he said softly, a little smug now. “That’s better.”
You shook your head, but the tension in your chest loosened by a fraction. “Maybe I was winning.”
Peter shifted in his seat to face you more fully. “No, definitely not. That was not the face of a woman who’s winning.”
“And what does that face look like?”
He pretended to consider it. “Smug. Slightly unbearable. Very pleased with herself.”
You huffed a quieter laugh this time and looked back down at your lap.
Peter watched you for another moment. “What did you dream about?”
You shrugged lightly. “I don’t know. It’s already slipping.”
“That’s convenient.”
You gave him a look. “It’s true.”
He smiled and tipped his head back against the seat for a moment. “You know, I’ve never understood why you never tell me about your nightmares.”
“They’re not nightmares.”
“No?” He looked at you again. “You wake up tense, out of breath, and looking like you haven’t slept at all.”
You drew the blanket a little higher over your lap. “That still doesn’t make them worth talking about.”
Peter tilted his head. “Maybe not. But I’d still like to know.”
The words were simple. Gentle. Not demanding. Just honest enough to make looking at him feel vaguely unfair.
You lowered your eyes. “It’s not personal.”
He studied you for a second, then softened. “Okay.”
The answer came so easily it caught you off guard.
A moment later, he unbuckled his seatbelt.
You frowned. “Where are you going?”
“Stay there.”
Before you could argue, he got up and disappeared a few rows ahead. You watched him exchange a few quiet words with a flight attendant before coming back with a small bottle of water, a paper cup, and the familiar little foil packet of aspirin from his bag.
When he sat down, you gave him a look. “You brought aspirin?”
He glanced at you as though that should have been obvious. “I’m traveling with you.”
That pulled the ghost of a smile from you.
Peter shook one tablet into the cup, poured a little water over it, and waited for it to dissolve before handing it to you. “Drink.”
“You’re very dramatic.”
“And yet,” he said, “here you are with a headache.”
“I didn’t say I had a headache.”
“You didn’t have to.”
You took the cup from him anyway. The water tasted faintly chalky, but you drank it in a few swallows and handed it back. He set it carefully on the tray table between you and twisted the cap back onto the bottle.
“Better?” he asked.
“I’m sure the miracle will kick in any second.”
Peter smiled. “Let’s hope.”
The engine hummed steadily beneath the silence that followed. Around you, the cabin remained dim and half asleep, a small suspended world of soft lights and low breathing and the occasional rustle of fabric. Outside the window there was nothing but darkness and the intermittent pulse of light over the wing.
Peter reached for your hand again, turning it over this time so his thumb rested against the inside of your wrist.
“Was it your mother?” he asked after a while.
The question was so quiet you almost missed it.
Your answer came too quickly. “No.”
Peter looked at you for a beat, then nodded once. He knew you were lying.
“Okay.”
You stared at the window.
After a second, he added, “You know you don’t have to shut down every time I ask, right?”
You let out a breath through your nose. “I’m not shutting down.”
“No?”
“No.”
He smiled a little at that—not mocking, just tired.
You glanced at him. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Do that thing where you look at me like I’m being difficult.”
“I’m not.” His smile widened just a fraction. “I’m looking at you like you’re awake at three in the morning pretending you weren’t clearly having a terrible dream.”
“That’s a very specific look.”
“I’ve had time to perfect it.”
You shook your head, but there was no real force behind it.
Peter leaned back into his seat again. “You don’t have to tell me tonight.”
“I know.”
“But one day you probably should.”
You were quiet for a moment. “Maybe.”
He glanced sideways at you. “Maybe?”
“That’s all you get.”
Peter’s mouth twitched. “I’ll take it.”
He closed his eyes again, though he kept hold of your hand. For a minute you thought he might drift back to sleep, but then he said, still half-smiling, “For the record, you really did look like you were about to fight someone.”
You rolled your eyes. “Maybe I was.”
“Mm.” His voice was growing softer now, sleepier. “Poor bastard.”
That earned one more quiet laugh from you.
And because he heard it, because he always did, his fingers gave yours one last absent minded squeeze before his breathing began to even out again.
You turned back to the window.
Outside, the wing light kept blinking against the dark in measured intervals, too distant and too steady to feel real. The aspirin had left a bitter trace on your tongue. Peter’s warmth still lingered faintly against your skin where his hand had been.
You should have felt calmer.
Maybe, in some small way, you did.
But the dream still clung to you stubbornly—not in images now, but in feeling. An invisible, bruise colored ache blooming beneath your ribs. The phantom warmth of your mother’s arms. The echo of her voice somewhere deep inside you, soft and sorrowful and impossible to untangle from the rest.
Beside you, Peter slept.
You pressed your fingers together in your lap and stared out into the dark, trying and failing to shake the dream loose.
Somewhere deep in the hollow between memory and omen, between the mother you had left behind and the life waiting for you in Jackson, there was the feeling that something had followed you out of sleep and into the cabin with you.
And the terrible, tender shape of a wish made long before you were old enough to know what it would cost.
By the time the car pulled up in front of the house, the sky had turned the pale, washed blue of late afternoon, the kind of quiet color that made everything around it seem cleaner somehow, sharper at the edges. Mid June in Jackson looked nothing like June in New York. Nothing like heat trapped between buildings, sirens swallowed beneath traffic, or sunlight bouncing harshly off glass towers until the whole city seemed to gleam with the exhausting effort of being looked at. Jackson did not lunge at you. It did not glitter. It simply sat there beneath the enormous Wyoming sky, self contained and still, as though it had never once in its life felt the need to prove anything to anyone.
The house waiting at the end of the drive was beautiful in the way expensive gifts often were—large without being ostentatious, tastefully designed down to the last beam and stone path, with broad windows reflecting the mountains in the distance and a wraparound porch that looked too perfect to belong to real people. The front garden had already been landscaped, the hedges trimmed, the flowerbeds arranged with the kind of careful effortlessness that only ever came from money.
Not your money, of course.
Craven money.
The kind that had a habit of arriving before you did and deciding what your life should look like.
You stepped out of the car and drew in a slow breath, stretching your back after the flight. The air felt different here—thinner, cleaner, carrying the scent of pine and sun warmed wood instead of exhaust and concrete and expensive cologne lingering in elevator walls. Somewhere nearby, you could hear the faint bark of a dog, the distant slam of a truck door, wind moving through the trees in long, dry whispers.
For one suspended second, standing in the driveway with your overnight bag still slung over your shoulder, you let yourself believe that maybe this could mean something. A beginning, perhaps. A pause. A place to breathe, the way you had once promised yourself you would find.
Then Peter’s voice cut through the moment like a knife through silk.
“No, not there,” he said sharply, barely waiting for the movers to finish unloading before stepping back out from the passenger side. “The larger boxes go upstairs. The ones marked study need to stay together, and for God’s sake, be careful with anything labeled glass.”
One of the movers nodded, already breathless from hauling boxes up the porch steps. “Yes, sir.”
Peter loosened his tie with one practiced hand, though the gesture made him look no less composed. Even after the flight, even after hours of travel, he still looked like something lifted neatly out of a magazine spread—charcoal slacks, pressed button-down with the sleeves folded once to the forearm in a way meant to suggest casualness without ever quite managing it. He glanced toward the front windows, toward the stack of boxes, toward the delivery van parked at the curb, mentally cataloguing imperfections before they even had a chance to happen.
“The dining room pieces go in last,” he added. “I don’t want any of them damaged because someone decided to crowd the space.”
Another mover gave a quick nod. “Got it.”
You watched him for a moment from beside the car, your fingers still hooked around the strap of your bag. There was something almost impressive about the efficiency of it all, if efficiency had ever been your kind of romance. Peter did everything like a man who expected the world to obey the shape of his expectations. Sometimes people mistook that for competence. Sometimes, when he was in a good mood and the room was full of people eager to be impressed, you did too.
He turned at last and noticed you standing there. His expression softened immediately into something warmer, smoother, like a door quietly clicking into place over whatever had been visible beneath it a second earlier.
“You okay baby?” he asked, walking back toward you.
You nodded. “Just stiff.”
“The flight was long.”
“It was.” You glanced past him toward the house again, toward the movers carrying in the life you were meant to inhabit now. “I still can’t believe your father bought us an actual house.”
Peter followed your gaze, and for a second pride flickered over his face so openly it almost made him look younger. “He wants us to start properly.”
You smiled, though it didn’t quite reach the place inside you where joy should have lived. “Properly.”
He looked back at you then, sensing something in your tone. “Don’t start.”
You let out a small breath, not yet a laugh, not quite a sigh. “I’m not starting anything.”
“No?” His brow lifted faintly. “Because it sounds like you’re about to.”
You hesitated, then shrugged one shoulder. “I just mean… It's a lot.”
Peter’s gaze drifted to the house again, to the porch columns, the wide front windows, the movers already disappearing inside with more boxes. “It’s a gift.”
“I know.”
“And a generous one.”
“I know that too.”
He turned back to you fully, slipping his sunglasses off and tucking them into the open collar of his shirt. “Then maybe try sounding a little more grateful.”
There it was. Not loud. Not overtly cruel. Just precise enough to leave a small mark if you let it.
You looked down briefly, toe nudging a loose pebble in the driveway. “I am grateful.”
Peter studied your face for a beat too long, as though weighing whether to let the moment go or sharpen it further. Then, apparently deciding the movers were audience enough for the day, he exhaled through his nose and reached to smooth an invisible crease from the shoulder of your dress.
“I know you are,” he said, quieter now. “You’re just tired.”
The correction settled over you before you could object. You were not irritated, not exactly. Not ungrateful. Just tired. That was easier. Cleaner. Something that required no discussion.
“Maybe,” you said.
“Maybe?” he repeated with a faint smile.
You managed a small one back. “Definitely.”
“That’s better.”
Behind him, one of the movers struggled awkwardly with a large framed mirror.
Peter turned at once. “Careful with that,” he snapped. “If you scratch the frame, it comes out of your fee.”
The man flushed. “We’ve got it, sir.”
Peter stood there another moment, watching until the mirror disappeared through the front door, then muttered under his breath, “Unbelievable.”
You shifted your weight from one foot to the other and glanced toward the road, then toward the line of houses stretching farther into town. Everything looked so still compared to the city. So open. The mountains in the distance were blue with evening haze, and the sidewalks seemed to invite wandering in a way New York sidewalks never had. Not crowded. Not hurried. Just there.
“You know,” you said carefully, “you could leave them to it for ten minutes.”
Peter didn’t look at you. “Could I?”
“Yes.” You adjusted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Come take a walk with me. We’ve been on a plane for hours. I need to stretch my legs.”
That got his attention. He turned, one hand resting on his hip, the hint of amusement returning to his mouth. “A walk.”
“A short one.”
“With half our life in boxes on the front lawn.”
You smiled lightly. “I think the house will survive without us.”
“The house, maybe.”
You rolled your eyes, though softly enough to keep it playful. “Peter.”
He took a step closer. “What?”
“Come on.”
His gaze lingered on your face for a moment, and you could see him almost considering it. Or perhaps considering whether indulging you was worth the interruption to the order of things. In the end, order won, as it so often did with him.
“I can’t,” he said.
Your smile faded a little. “Can’t or won’t?”
He reached out and curled a hand around your waist, drawing you gently toward him until the edge of your bag pressed between your side and his hip. Up close, he smelled like juniper and mint and the cologne he only ever wore when travel or family were involved. Something expensive and familiar and faintly suffocating.
“Don’t do that,” he murmured.
“Do what?”
“Ask questions you already know the answer to.”
You opened your mouth, closed it again.
Peter tilted your chin up with two fingers, the gesture almost tender if not for how controlled it was. “You know I want everything settled before tonight. My father may call. The club board will want an update by the weekend. There are a dozen things to take care of before we can enjoy any of this.”
“Enjoy,” you repeated, softer than you meant to.
His eyes narrowed just slightly. “Is there something you want to say?”
You should have said no immediately. You knew that. Instead you hesitated for half a second too long, and Peter noticed because Peter noticed everything.
“I just thought…” You searched for the least dangerous wording and found none of it satisfying. “I thought maybe the point of moving somewhere like this was to breathe a little.”
His expression cooled by a degree. “And you think I’m stopping you from doing that?”
“No.”
“But you do believe it.”
You looked away, toward the porch, toward the movers, toward anything but him. “I didn’t say that.”
Peter let the silence stretch just long enough to make your pulse skip. Then, just as quickly, he smiled again. Smoothed over. Effortless. “You need air, sweetheart? Go get some air.”
His hand eased from your waist as he leaned down, and the kiss he gave you was soft and brief, warm with familiarity rather than urgency. It lingered just long enough to register, not long enough to deepen, the kind of kiss that belonged more to habit than desire and still managed, somehow, to feel gentle.
When he drew back, he remained close for a beat, his thumb brushing once beneath your jaw, his features softened into something almost boyish in the late light, as though the sharpness you’d heard in his voice a moment earlier had already been folded away.
“Go for your walk,” he said. “Look around. Fall in love with small town America if you want to.” His thumb grazed once beneath your jaw. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
There was something in the way he said it that should have sounded comforting.
You searched his face for a beat, trying to decide whether you were imagining the weight in the words, but he was already turning away again, attention returning to the house before you had fully stepped out of his reach.
“Not that rug,” he called to one of the movers. “The blue one goes in the den, not the foyer.”
You stood there another second, watching him slip seamlessly back into command, back into the version of himself the rest of the world found so polished and reliable. Then you tightened your fingers on your bag strap, exhaled, and turned toward the street.
“Don’t go too far,” Peter said without looking back.
Something in you stiffened, small and automatic.
“I won’t,” you answered.
“Take your phone.”
“I have it.”
“And keep the sound on.”
You looked over your shoulder. “I’m just walking.”
Peter glanced at you then, just briefly. “I know.”
The smile he gave you was mild. Reasonable. Impossible to argue with.
You started down the sidewalk before you could think too hard about why the back of your neck suddenly felt warm.
Jackson opened around you slowly.
The first thing you noticed was the quiet. Not silence exactly—there were too many signs of life for that—but a different kind of noise than the one you were used to. Here, sound spreads out instead of piling up. A truck rumbling somewhere a few streets over. Wind combing through the trees. Laughter drifting from a yard. The metallic clink of someone repairing something in a garage left open to the evening. No sirens. No car horns. No constant electric thrum beneath everything. The town seemed to breathe at its own pace and expect everyone in it to do the same.
You walked without hurry, passing neat little houses with porches full of rocking chairs, potted plants, wind chimes, bicycles leaning against fences. Some were painted in soft faded colors, sage and cream and dusty blue, while others wore their age plainly in weathered wood and cracked steps. None of them looked like the sort of homes designed by committees or decorators or fathers trying to purchase a future. They looked lived in. Chosen. Kept.
The sidewalks were lined with June flowers, and more than once you caught sight of curtains moving behind a window where someone had clearly noticed the unfamiliar face passing by. Not unkindly. Just curiously. Small-town curiosity. The kind that would undoubtedly become gossip before sunset if given enough encouragement.
A woman pushing a stroller smiled at you as she crossed the street.
You smiled back, surprised by how natural it felt.
A little farther on, two boys on bicycles sped past you, one of them calling, “Sorry!” when he nearly clipped your elbow, though he was grinning too widely for it to sound particularly repentant.
“It 's okay!” you called after him, laughing despite yourself.
The air smelled faintly of pine and cut grass and something sweet baking somewhere nearby. Bread, maybe. Or pie. The kind of scent that would have felt artificial in Manhattan somehow, like a candle trying too hard to recreate a life nobody really lived. Here, it seemed to belong.
You slowed near a parked pickup truck when something in its window caught your eye, and for a moment it wasn’t the truck itself that held you there but your own reflection in the darkened glass. The pale dress moved softly around your legs in the breeze but something about it made you go still before you had fully understood why. It was not the same dress your mother had worn, of course it wasn’t, yours was newer, bought beneath flattering lights in a bright SoHo boutique by a woman who had called it timeless, and yet it was close enough in color, in shape, in the way it fell over your shoulders, that it made your stomach tighten all the same.
You took a small step closer to the window, as though the image might settle if you looked at it long enough, but it only made the feeling sharper. For one uncomfortable second, you looked so much like her that it unsettled you more than it should have, not because she hadn’t been beautiful, but because some part of you had always been afraid of becoming her in ways you didn’t quite know how to name.
A harsh cry split the air overhead before you could linger on the thought.
You jolted, your shoulder nearly clipping the side mirror as a black shape swept low across the street and vanished into the branches of a nearby tree. A crow, bigger than you expected, all sudden movement and dark wings against the soft evening sky.
You stepped back at once, the reflection breaking apart with it.
“Okay,” you muttered under your breath, more to yourself than anything else.
When the crow called out again from somewhere hidden above you, the sound was enough to make you turn in the opposite direction without thinking, your pace quickening as though distance might settle whatever had tightened in your chest. You told yourself it was nothing as you walked—just a reflection, just a bird—but that didn’t stop the faint unease from lingering even long after you’d left it behind.
It took a few streets for the feeling to loosen.
By the time you slowed again, it was because something else had caught your attention.
Each house had its own tiny garden, each one so lovingly tended it felt almost rude to stare. There were sunflowers taller than the fences, ivy climbing porch posts, strings of prayer flags fluttering in one yard, a rusting birdbath in another. One little blue house had yellow trim and a front porch full of clay pots bursting with herbs and late-blooming flowers.
That was where you saw her.
An older woman stood in the front garden with a hose in one hand and the other planted at her hip, watering a crowded spread of lavender, daisies, and trailing green things that had long since spilled past the edges of their pots. She wore a faded apron, loose gardening gloves, and the kind of practical expression that suggested she had lived long enough to stop pretending not to notice everything. Her silver hair had been twisted up loosely at the back of her head, though half of it had already escaped.
She looked up the moment your steps slowed near the gate.
“Well,” she said, smiling before you’d even opened your mouth, “you’re either lost or new, and you don’t look particularly worried, so I’m guessing new.”
The warmth of her voice caught you a little off guard. “Is it really that obvious?”
She laughed softly and turned the hose down until the water ran in a gentler stream over the flowers. “Honey, in a town this size, it’s obvious when somebody breathes differently. You’ve got that look people get when they’re still trying to decide whether they like it here or not.”
That pulled a small laugh out of you. “And what if I haven’t decided yet?”
“Then you’re perfectly normal.”
You smiled despite yourself.
She let the hose fall to one side of the flowerbed and straightened a little, squinting at you in the late light with open curiosity that somehow didn’t feel invasive.
“You one of the Cravens, then?”
You paused.
There it was already. Small-town speed.
You gave her a polite half-smile. “Something like that.”
The woman snorted, unimpressed by vague answers. “That house on Pemberley Lane didn’t stay empty long enough for anyone not to notice. Movers all afternoon, big shiny car in the driveway, and a tall man standing around like he personally invented instructions.” She gave a small shrug. “People talk. Or, more accurately, people don’t have enough else to do.”
Despite yourself, you smiled. “Yes. That would be him.”
“And you,” she said, looking at you more carefully now, “are the poor girl he dragged all the way out here from civilization.”
That startled a real laugh out of you. “That depends who you ask.”
She grinned. “Another good answer. You’re doing well so far.”
You stepped a little closer to the fence, your gaze drifting past her garden toward the narrow trail disappearing between the cottages farther down. It curved away beneath a line of trees, quiet and half hidden, and something about it caught your eye immediately.
“Excuse me,” you said, nodding in its direction. “What’s down there?”
The woman followed your gaze and smiled at once, like she’d been expecting the question. “Oh, that’s the path to the church.”
You looked again. “There’s a church back there?”
“There is.” She rested both forearms across the top of the fence as though settling in for a proper conversation now. “Jackson Community Church. Been there longer than most of the people living around it. It’s small, but don’t let that fool you. It’s lovely inside.”
“What kind of lovely?”
She smiled at that, as though she approved of the question. “The stained glass, for one. The light comes through it late in the day and makes the whole place look better than it has any right to. Even people who don’t care much for churches tend to care for that.”
You looked back toward the path. From where you stood, all you could see was the first bend and a little wash of brightness beyond it.
The woman caught your expression. “You like churches?”
You hesitated. “I don’t know if I’d say that exactly.”
She barked out a laugh. “Smart girl.”
You smiled too, a little sheepish. “I just like old buildings. And quiet places.”
“Well, then,” she said, lifting one shoulder, “that church has both. And if you’ve just spent the day moving into a house with too many boxes and too much polished wood, I’d say it probably has the exact right amount of peace too.”
You glanced back in the direction you’d come, as if Peter might somehow appear at the end of the street just because you’d thought about him. Then you looked at the trail again.
Of course she noticed that too.
“He’ll survive without you for twenty minutes,” she said dryly.
You let out a quiet laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
She leaned in a little, lowering her voice as though she were sharing a private truth. “Sweetheart, I was married for thirty eight years. Men like that all wear the same face once you know how to look.”
The words landed more softly than they should have. Maybe she saw something shift in your expression, because she straightened again almost immediately and smiled, gentler now.
“I’m Matilda, by the way.”
You told her your name.
“Well,” Matilda said, trying it out like she was testing the weight of it, “welcome to Jackson.”
“Thank you.”
She nodded toward the path again. “Go on, then.”
You laughed. “That convincing, huh?”
“Oh, absolutely. You’re curious already, which means you’ll go whether I tell you to or not. I’m just saving you the trouble of pretending this was never the plan.”
“That obvious too?”
“You’d be amazed what I can do.”
That made you laugh again, more easily this time.
Then, before you could stop yourself, you asked, “Is it far?”
“Not at all. Five minutes, maybe less if you’ve got a reason to walk quickly.” She paused, then added, “And before you ask, no, you can’t miss it.”
“I was going to ask that.”
“I know.”
You smiled and adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Who runs it?”
“The church?”
You nodded.
“Father Miller.”
The name settled somewhere in your mind without really meaning to. “And what’s he like?”
Matilda made a face that was not unkind, just familiar. “Big. Gruff. Keeps mostly to himself.”
You blinked. “That doesn’t sound especially welcoming.”
“Oh, I didn’t say he wasn’t welcoming. I said he keeps to himself.” She gave you a pointed look. “There’s a difference.”
You considered that. “Is there?”
“There is once you’ve lived long enough. Some people are cold because they don’t care. Some people are quiet because they care too much and don’t know what to do with it.” She shrugged. “Father Miller falls into the second category more often than he’d probably like.”
You glanced toward the trail again. “You know him well?”
“As well as anybody in this town knows anybody else.” She reached down to pick up the hose, then changed her mind and let it lie there another moment. “He’s a good man. Stubborn as a mule, terrible at asking for help, not nearly as easy as he ought to be, but good. And he has that look about him.”
“What look?”
“The look of a man who spends too much time carrying things alone and then acting offended when his back hurts.”
That made you laugh.
Matilda smiled, pleased with herself. “There. That’s the right reaction.”
“So he’s difficult.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“And you like him anyway.”
She gave you a very measured look. “You can like people and still think they’d benefit from being shaken.”
You laughed again. “That sounds oddly specific.”
“It is.” She bent to pull one glove off properly this time. “Jackson doesn’t have nearly enough interesting people for me to waste the word lightly, and Father Miller is interesting whether he likes it or not.”
You didn’t know why that stayed with you, but it did.
You looked once more toward the path. The trees shifted in the wind, and the last of the sunlight slipped through the branches in long soft bands, laying brightness over the dirt trail like something inviting. The world behind you still smelled faintly of lumber, moving boxes, and the life that had already been arranged for you but the world ahead smelled of wild flowers, earth, and whatever waited at the end of that narrow winding path.
“Thank you,” you said.
Matilda smiled and reached for the hose again. “For the directions, or for the excuse?”
You opened your mouth, then laughed when you realized there was no answer that would improve on hers.
“For both.”
“That’s what I thought.”
You hesitated a second longer, then gave her a little wave and stepped toward the path.
“Careful,” she called after you.
You glanced back.
Matilda turned the water on again, letting it run over the lavender as she smiled to herself. “Jackson has a habit of turning into home before people mean for it to.”
Something about the line lodged beneath your ribs before you could stop it.
You gave her a faint smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Then you turned and started down the trail.
The noise of the street fell away behind you almost immediately. Gravel softened into packed earth beneath your shoes, and the path curved between trees and tall grass as the light filtered through in fractured gold. Somewhere ahead, still hidden from view, a church waited at the end of the trail with stained-glass windows catching the last of the afternoon sun.
And without quite knowing why, you found yourself walking toward it as though something there had already started calling your name.
The church stood at the end of the trail like it had been there waiting for you.
From outside, it seemed almost modest. Quiet. Tucked away. But the moment you stepped through the front doors and into the cool dimness beyond them, the place opened around you in a way you hadn’t expected.
Stone.
That was the first thing that struck you.
Not whitewashed walls. Not plain wood. Not the smaller, simpler kind of chapel you might have imagined finding at the end of a hidden path in a town like Jackson, but old grey stone rising in long, graceful lines that pulled your eyes upward before you could help it. The walls were rough in places, worn smoother in others, and the arches overhead gave the whole room the shape of something older and heavier than it had looked from outside. It wasn’t grand. It didn’t need to be. The stone did enough. It held the room together with a quiet severity that made your own footsteps feel too loud for a moment.
You stopped just past the threshold.
The doors had closed behind you with a low, heavy sound, and now the church seemed to settle around you all at once. Not empty, exactly. There were too many signs of life for that. But still in a way that made every small noise matter—the faint creak of old wood somewhere high above, the shift of air through a building too old to be fully sealed, the soft echo of your own breathing.
Then you noticed the light.
It came through the stained glass in long, broken bands, spilling color over the stone floor and the pews in deep reds, greens, blue, and gold. The whole church changed depending on where you stood. Parts of it looked colder where the shadows held. Other parts glowed unexpectedly warm where the late sun cut through the glass and touched the stone.
You moved farther in, slowly, your gaze lifting toward the windows.
Rows of dark wooden pews ran toward the altar in neat lines, their surfaces polished by use more than effort. Candles sat unlit near the front. Fresh flowers had been placed in simple vases, not arranged with any great precision, only care. A pair of reading glasses rested near a hymn book someone had forgotten to put away. The church did not feel abandoned. It felt paused for a moment.
And then your eyes found the first stained glass panel properly, and you stopped.
At the center stood a moose.
Broad and still beneath a wash of green and gold light, his antlers rose through the glass in dark, branching lines that gave the whole image a quiet kind of weight. Beside him stood another of his kind, smaller in frame, her body turned slightly toward his, and between them, tucked safely in the space they seemed to make around it, stood a calf.
You moved closer without thinking.
There was something unexpectedly tender in the image. No movement. No danger. No grand religious symbolism you could immediately decipher. Just the three of them standing together in a clearing rendered in color and lead, the larger bodies creating a kind of shelter around the smaller one without seeming to try. A family. Nothing more dramatic than that. A male. A female. Their young. The whole thing held in such quiet stillness that it made your chest tighten before you fully understood why.
The father did not look proud.
That would have been easier to read.
He looked complete. Entirely turned toward the fact of them. The mother stood close enough that the space between them did not feel like distance at all, and the calf, half hidden in the middle, seemed placed there with so much care that for a moment it felt less like church glass and more like someone trying to preserve a memory before time could get at it.
You stayed there longer than you meant to.
Then your eyes moved to the next panel, and whatever calm the first one had given you disappeared almost immediately.
The calf lay at the father’s feet.
You went still.
The mother was gone now. Her absence struck you before any other detail did. The whole composition had opened up around the father, but not in a way that felt freer. In a way that felt emptied. He stood over the calf with his head lowered, his whole body altered by the weight of what was in front of him. He looked larger in this one and somehow more diminished at the same time, as though grief had made him heavier and hollowed him out all at once.
You stepped closer.
The calf was very small.
That was what got you first. Not blood. Not damage. Just the size of it against the father’s legs. Small enough that the first window returned to you immediately and made this one worse. A moment ago it had stood between them. Safe. Held. And now it lay there, still and unreachable, while the father remained above it as though not even he understood how something could still be in front of him and already be gone.
Then you saw the face.
Or what had been done to it.
There were fine silver lines cut into the glass, slight enough that you almost thought you’d imagined them until the light shifted and made them visible again. Tears. Or something close enough that your throat tightened anyway.
He was crying.
Once you saw it, the whole panel changed. It changed the first one too, reaching backward and giving it a tenderness it hadn’t needed a moment before. The father in the first window became warmer, more vulnerable. The calf here became not just dead but loved.
You stood there and looked at him for longer than was probably reasonable, and the longer you looked, the clearer it became that whoever had designed these windows had not meant to show death in some distant, noble way. They had meant to show what came after the shock of it. The helplessness. The stillness. The impossible fact of having to remain standing over something you could not fix.
The next panel was violence.
The same moose—or what had to be the same one—was locked in brutal struggle with another of his kind, antlers crashed together, bodies straining with enough force that the whole image seemed to carry motion even in stillness. It took you a second to understand why it unsettled you so much after the grief of the panel before, and then it clicked.
It looked like rage.
Not clean rage. Not triumphant rage. The kind that came after there was nothing left to do with pain except drive it outward. The father was no longer bowed in this one. He was turned hard into impact, every line of his body violent with force. If the first panel had been tenderness and the second helplessness, this one was what came next when grief had nowhere else to go.
You kept looking.
The antlers looked almost desperate in the way they tangled. The bodies were too close, too committed to the blow for this to feel ceremonial or symbolic. It felt physical. Ugly. Necessary in the way some forms of anger seemed necessary when a person no longer knew what else to do with what hurt.
Then you moved to the next window, and this was the one that held you longest.
The moose stood alone again, but whatever violence had lived in the previous panel had burned itself out by now. Nothing in him looked triumphant. Nothing even looked furious anymore. He was still upright, still enormous, but the weight of him had changed. His body looked worn down by endurance rather than animated by strength, and around him, closing in from all sides, were five wolves.
You counted them twice.
Five.
One of them was already feeding.
Its jaws were sunk into the moose’s leg, and the dark red worked into the glass there was restrained enough that you didn’t notice it fully until you stepped closer. The others had not reached him yet, but that almost made the image worse. They were still circling. Still waiting for their turn. Still finding the best places to take from him.
And he was still standing there.
That was the part you couldn’t stop looking at.
He did not look wild in this one. He did not look enraged. He didn’t even look afraid. He looked tired. Tired in a way that felt almost painfully human. As though the fight had already happened, the grief had already happened, and now all that remained was the long, punishing part where the world kept taking and he had to endure it a little longer because he hadn’t yet fallen.
Something about that exhausted sadness in him made the wolves feel crueler.
You stepped closer until the colored light shifted over your shoes.
The whole sequence sharpened in your mind then, each panel locking into place behind the next. First the family. Then the dead calf. Then the rage. Then this worn, cornered body being eaten alive by what had come after. It no longer looked like separate images. It looked like the same life moving through different stages of pain.
And what struck you most was that the father kept changing in ways the world around him did not. In the first panel he was part of something whole. In the second he was broken open. In the third he was all force. In the fourth he was simply tired. The wolves had not just found him. They had found what was left after grief and anger had already done their work.
You should have looked away.
Instead, you searched for the next panel as if you already knew there had to be one.
At first your eyes struggled to make sense of it. Pale shapes against dark ground. The curve of bone. The familiar reach of antlers detached now from anything living. Then it settled into one image, and the sadness of it landed so quickly and so cleanly that you felt it before you found words for it.
The moose was gone.
What remained were the bones.
There was no struggle left in the glass. No movement. No wolves. No anger. Not even grief, exactly. Just the remains of something that had once been huge and living, reduced now to pale fragments on the painted ground. The antlers lay off to one side like an afterthought. The spine curved through the center of the image in a line too clean to be anything but final.
You stared at it.
And felt, absurdly, sorry for him.
Not because animals died. Not because death in art was unusual. But because after everything the windows had asked you to watch him endure—love, loss, rage, attack—this was how it ended. Alone. Stripped down to what the world had not wanted or had already finished taking.
Then your eyes lifted and found the figure standing above the bones.
A girl.
Or maybe an angel.
She was slight and still, dressed in pale glass that caught the light differently from everything around her. There was something wing like suggested behind her shoulders, but not so literally that you could say with certainty what she was meant to be. What mattered was where she was looking.
At him.
At what was left of him.
She had not come in time to save anything. She had not interrupted the wolves. She had not changed the ending. She only stood there, looking down at the bones with a sadness so quiet it almost hurt more than anything else in the sequence.
You couldn’t stop staring at her.
Because somehow that was the part that made the loneliness unbearable—not that he had ended like this, but that someone small and silent had been left behind to witness it. To arrive after the violence, after the grief, after the hunger, and see only the remains.
You looked back at the first panel then, all the way down the line of windows, and for a moment the whole thing lived in your mind at once.
A family.
The absence.
The grief.
The rage.
The exhaustion.
The end of him.
And finally someone left to look at what the world had done.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.
It felt less like church art and more like a life told in the only language the place knew how to hold.
Only then did the rest of the room begin to come back into focus around you.
The pews. The flowers. The cool weight of the stone. The stillness of the empty church. You turned slowly, your eyes moving from the windows to the altar, and that was when you saw the cross.
And laughed.
Because after all that careful pain and beauty and stone and silence, the wooden cross hanging above the altar was visibly crooked.
Not missing. Not broken. Just tilted enough to be ridiculous.
You stood there staring at it for a second, then let out a soft laugh before you could help it.
“Well,” you murmured to the empty church, “that seems ironic.”
The room, unsurprisingly, offered no answer.
You looked at it a little longer, head tilting slightly as if the angle might correct itself if you stared hard enough. It didn’t. It only stayed there, crooked above the altar in the middle of a church full of grief and wolves and angels and stone.
You smiled despite yourself.
Then, from somewhere beyond the wall behind the altar, a man’s voice cut through the stillness—low, irritated, and very clearly cursing—and the sound was so out of place in the quiet of the church that it made you go still without thinking. A second later came the sharp crack of wood splitting, followed by another muttered swear, rougher this time, dragged under his breath as if whatever he was doing had just gone wrong again.
You turned your head slowly toward the back of the church, listening as the voice carried once more, closer now, impatient in a way that felt almost jarring against all that stone and colored light. It grounded the space immediately, pulled it out of something distant and solemn and back into something real, something where people got frustrated and things didn’t go the way they were supposed to.
For a brief moment, you hesitated, the echo of the place still lingering around you, but curiosity got there first.
You crossed toward the side door tucked behind the altar, your steps quieter now without quite meaning to be, as if the building itself had taught you how to move inside it, and when the crack of wood came again from somewhere just outside, you reached for the handle without overthinking it and pushed the door open, following the sound.
You pushed the side door open and stepped out into the warmer air behind the church, the shift from cool stone to late-day heat immediate against your skin. The light was lower here, filtered through the trees and falling in long gold bands across the yard. It took you a second to place the sound properly—the crack of wood, the scrape of something heavy dragged aside, the low, irritated voice that kept muttering under its breath every few seconds like the day itself had personally offended him.
Then you saw him.
He stood with his back to you near a chopping block set a little way from the church wall, broad shouldered and planted solidly on the ground as he drove an axe into a split log with enough force to make the sound echo off the stone. A stack of cut wood stood off to one side, neatly piled. Another stack—wetter, rougher, rejected—lay a few feet away. He bent, picked up another log, set it upright, and brought the axe down again.
It split cleanly.
He grunted once, low in his throat, as though even success had only barely earned his approval.
The next one didn’t.
The blade struck off-center, lodging awkwardly in the wood, and the man straightened with a muttered, “Christ,” before yanking it loose again and setting the ruined piece aside with visible annoyance.
Only then did you notice the radio.
It sat on the low stone wall behind him, old and a little battered, the music soft enough that you hadn’t recognized it at first over the sound of the axe. Then the voice came through clearer, Bruce Springsteen sliding into the chorus of I’m on Fire, and something about that—about the song, the heat, the rough flannel stretched across a man’s back in the middle of nowhere—made the whole scene feel faintly unreal for a second.
He was wearing jeans and a dark flannel shirt with the sleeves shoved up to his forearms, which would have been an insane choice in that weather on anyone else and somehow only made him look more stubborn on him. He was older than you. That much was obvious even from behind. Built heavy through the shoulders, strong in the arms, moving with the kind of contained efficiency that suggested he knew exactly what his body could do and had no interest in making a show of it.
You stayed where you were.
For a moment longer than was sensible.
The song drifted on. The axe rose and fell. The rhythm of it was oddly easy to get caught in.
The line of his back tightening beneath the flannel.
The flex of his forearms when he adjusted his grip.
The rough little sound he made every time a cut didn’t go the way he wanted.
One split log landed squarely where it should. Another rolled off the block and he swore at it under his breath, bent, set it back up, and tried again.
You didn’t realize quite how long you had been standing there until he said, without turning around, “Well?”
You blinked.
He drove the axe down one more time, split the log clean through, and then finally added, “You gonna stand there all day starin’, or what’s wrong with you?”
The words hit with such flat dryness that you actually startled.
You had, in fact, been staring.
You straightened at once. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”
He bent for another piece of wood. “That’s good to know.”
You frowned. “Because I’m apologizing?”
“No,” he said, setting the log upright. “Because at least now I know you can talk.”
You stared at the back of his head. “That’s a little rude.”
He brought the axe down. “Well, most people start with hello and their name. They don’t just stand there like a statue watchin’ me work.”
The irritation in his tone was so matter-of fact that it threw you for a second.
“I wasn’t watching you work,” you said, which would have sounded more convincing if it had also been true.
He gave a low hum that made it very clear what he thought of that.
You looked around the yard instead, more out of stubbornness than interest. “I was just—”
“Mm.”
You glanced back at him. “You really do make conversation difficult, don’t you?”
That got the faintest pause.
He bent, picked up another log, and this time when he spoke there was something drier in it, almost bordering on amusement. “Ain’t much of a conversation so far.”
You exhaled through your nose and decided to try anyway.
“Fine,” you said. “Hello. I’m—”
He lifted one hand in a small, distracted gesture, not even turning around. “Don’t need your whole life story, darlin’. Just basic manners.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You know, for someone lecturing me about manners, you’re not exactly making an incredible first impression.”
At that, he gave the shortest huff through his nose and finally turned halfway toward you.
The first clear look at him hit harder than you would have liked.
Dark hair gone a little unruly at the temples. Beard threaded with grey. A face lined just enough to make it more interesting instead of less. A nose that looked like it had been broken at least once. Eyes that landed on you and took in everything in one sweep—your dress, your bag, your shoes, your face—before settling into something unreadable.
Then he turned back to the wood.
You recovered half a beat too late. “Are you the gardener?”
He didn’t answer.
You waited.
Nothing.
You frowned. “Or maintenance, maybe?”
Still nothing.
He drove the axe down again.
You blinked at him in disbelief. “Wow.”
“Mm.”
“No, seriously. Wow.”
He reached for another log.
You folded your arms. “You’re very rude.”
That got you a glance over his shoulder, brief and wholly unimpressed.
“Look,” he said, “what I’m doin’ is savin’ us both some time.”
“By ignoring me?”
“By not pretendin’ this is goin’ anywhere useful.”
You stared at him. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It does to me.”
He set the log. Raised the axe. Brought it down.
The split came out ugly this time and he muttered under his breath again.
You looked at the damp piece he kicked aside, then back at him. “You do know you’re behind a church, right?”
“Mm.”
“And still cursing.”
“Also mm.”
You actually laughed. “Do you answer everything like that?”
He planted the axe into the block and finally turned to face you more fully. The movement was unhurried, but there was something in it that suggested he was very aware of the fact that he had already given you more attention than he intended.
“Lemme try this another way,” he said, voice rough with that easy Southern drawl. “It’s pretty clear you got turned around. The boutiques are on the other side of town, sweetheart.”
You just looked at him.
Then your mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”
His expression didn’t change. Not one bit. “You heard me.”
“I did hear you, actually. I’m just trying to work out whether that was supposed to be helpful or insulting.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Depends how thin your skin is.”
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “No, I’m serious. What exactly gave you the impression that I was lost?”
He looked you up and down again, slower this time, and if the first glance had been assessing, this one was openly dismissive.
“The dress,” he said. “The bag. The face.”
“The face?”
“Yeah.” He hooked a thumb vaguely in the direction of town. “That look city people get when they accidentally wander somewhere without valet parkin’.”
You stared at him in stunned silence.
He turned back to the stump as if that settled it.
“It hasn’t escaped me,” you said after a beat, “that you are wearing a flannel shirt in June.”
He bent for another log. “And?”
“And I’m just wondering if heatstroke is part of your problem.”
That made the corner of his mouth twitch, though he clearly regretted it immediately.
“I’m not lost,” you said, more firmly now. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”
He grunted in response.
That annoyed you more than if he’d laughed.
You took a few steps closer instead of backing off, and his shoulders shifted like he’d noticed but had no intention of acknowledging it.
“Well?” you said.
“Well what?”
“Do you always treat strangers like this?”
He adjusted the log on the block. “Usually don’t get this many follow up questions from ‘em.”
“You haven’t answered a single one.”
“Maybe they weren’t worth answerin’.”
You folded your arms tighter. “You are deeply unpleasant.”
“And yet you’re still here.”
The crack of the axe split the air between you.
You looked away for a second, trying not to let the irritation rise too quickly, and that was when he jerked his chin toward the trees.
“See that squirrel?”
You blinked. “What?”
“That squirrel.” He pointed with the axe handle toward a nearby pine.
You followed the gesture and spotted it immediately, a small blur of brown and grey scrambling up the trunk.
“Oh.” Your face softened before you could help it. “Yes. It’s cute. Ours in Central Park don’t really—”
“I don’t give a shit about Central Park,” he cut in. “That squirrel just ran for cover because you showed up, and you ain’t been here five minutes. You’re already alterin’ the local wildlife.”
You turned to stare at him.
He looked almost bored now, like he’d finally said something rude enough to make you leave and was simply waiting for the result.
“And,” he added, after a beat, “that includes me.”
For one long second, you just looked at him.
Then you drew yourself up, crossed your arms, and said very seriously, “You know what? You’re right.”
He paused.
Actually paused.
One brow lifted a fraction. “I am?”
“Yes.” You nodded once. “I’m glad you included yourself in that, because clearly what I’m looking at is the closest thing this town has to a Neanderthal.”
He blinked. “A what?”
“A Neanderthal.”
His eyes narrowed. “You wanna repeat that slower, or—”
“You heard me.” You smiled sweetly. “What other explanation could there possibly be for a rude, impossible man in a flannel shirt, in the middle of June, behaving like a primate the second a woman speaks to him?”
For the first time since you’d stepped into the yard, he looked genuinely surprised.
Not offended.
Not amused.
Just surprised enough that it bought you one glorious second of satisfaction.
“Primate,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
He looked you over again, slower this time, and when he spoke his voice had dropped half a note.
“If my shirt bothers you that much, darlin’, you’re free to leave.”
You tilted your head. “And miss all this charm?”
His mouth flattened. “Your people are probably waitin’ for you.”
You frowned. “My people?”
“Yeah.” He split another log with unnecessary force. “The ones with matching luggage and opinions about thread count.”
You gaped at him. “You know absolutely nothing about me.”
“Know enough.”
“No, you really don’t.”
He shrugged. “Then enlighten me.”
The challenge in it was so dry it almost passed as indifference.
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Because, absurdly, you had the sudden suspicion that telling him anything at all would feel like losing.
So instead you lifted your chin and said, “I think you’re insufferable.”
“Been called worse.”
“I’m sure you have.”
“Usually by people less dressed for brunch.”
You let out a sharp laugh. “This isn’t brunch attire.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“And you,” you shot back, “look like a lumberjack who lost a fight with a thermostat.”
That got him.
The sound that came out of him this time was definitely a laugh, though short enough that he could pretend it wasn’t if challenged. He bent to lift a damp log and tossed it onto the rejected pile.
“Lord,” he muttered. “You just keep goin’.”
“Well, someone has to keep this conversation alive.”
He straightened and looked at you again, properly this time, his gaze steady enough to make you aware all over again of the height of him, the roughness of him, the broad set of his shoulders under that absurd flannel.
“Who says I want a conversation?”
You smiled, all teeth. “Your squirrel did.”
That earned you another flicker at the corner of his mouth.
He looked away first.
You liked that far more than you should have.
For a while the only sound between you was the radio and the wood and Bruce Springsteen still dragging his voice through the heat. You didn’t know why the song seemed to fit him, only that it did.
He split another log clean through.
Then another.
Then, without looking at you, said, “You always this persistent?”
You leaned one shoulder against the church wall, pretending not to notice the shift. “Only when I meet someone this unpleasant. It becomes a challenge.”
“Think you’re winnin’?”
“I think you’re talking more than you were five minutes ago.”
He gave a low grunt that sounded suspiciously like acknowledgment.
You smiled to yourself.
Then you remembered why you’d come outside in the first place.
“The cross is crooked, by the way.”
That made him glance over.
You pointed toward the church with your chin. “Inside.”
He stared at you. “The what?”
“The cross.”
He squinted slightly, as if weighing whether this was some sort of trap. “It’s crooked.”
“Yes.”
“How crooked?”
You blinked. “Enough.”
“That ain’t an answer.”
“It’s the correct one.”
He looked at you for one beat longer, then shook his head once, like you were a problem he had no interest in solving. “Maybe your eyes are crooked.”
You stared at him. “My eyes are not crooked.”
“They are.”
“It is visibly crooked.”
“To you.”
“To anyone with functioning eyesight.”
He rested both hands on the handle of the axe and looked at you with something almost like patience, which was somehow more irritating than the rudeness had been.
“You done inspectin’ the place?”
“No, actually. I’d barely started before someone outside started swearing loud enough to be heard in the sanctuary.”
“That so.”
“Yes.” You narrowed your eyes. “And you still haven’t told me who you are.”
He reached for another log. “Didn’t say I would.”
“I asked if you were the gardener.”
No answer.
“Or maintenance.”
Still nothing.
You exhaled slowly. “Unbelievable.”
He set the log. Raised the axe. “Mm.”
“I genuinely don’t know how you live in a place this peaceful with that personality.”
He split the wood in one clean strike and finally looked at you again. “You’re still here.”
You opened your mouth to hit him with something truly devastating, but the truth was starting to creep in under your annoyance, which made it all much worse.
He was right.
You were still there.
Still standing in the yard of a church you’d never seen before, arguing with a broad shouldered stranger in flannel while Bruce Springsteen played on the radio and the sunlight caught in his hair every time he moved.
That realization irritated you enough to make you step back.
“Right,” you said crisply. “Well. You’ve been awful.”
He nodded once. “Appreciate the feedback.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Then you turned on your heel and headed for the back door of the church.
You had your hand on the latch when the sheer force of your own offense got the better of you. You looked over your shoulder and snapped, “You’re an asshole.”
This time, the surprise on his face was quick but unmistakable, the kind that seemed to catch him before he had time to hide it.
Then his expression settled again into something drier.
You didn’t wait for him to answer. You pushed the door open and stepped back inside, the cool hush of the church closing around you at once, colored light still spilled across the floor exactly where you’d left it. The change in temperature should have calmed you down. It didn’t. Your pulse was still moving too fast, your cheeks warmer than they had any right to be, and all you could think as the door swung shut behind you was:
“Unbelievable.”
You had barely taken another step into the sanctuary when his voice reached you from outside, lower now, rough with reluctant disbelief and just loud enough to carry through the door.
“Christ… mouth like that oughta come with a warning.”
You stopped in the middle of the aisle, the words catching you through the door before you could keep walking.
