living in a gothic paperback

I am your creator, and you are my wretched child. 𝟹𝟹 | 𝔰𝔥𝔢/𝔥𝔢𝔯 Your text

[gothicpaperback]

explicit content will be found on this blog. pls don’t interact unless you’re 18+

i'm cordelia, cora for short.

i love to write fiction, romance, comedy and mystery

i am pedro pascal fan

i love graphic design

i write in both 1st and 2nd POV

my dream is to have a library like belle from batb

my asks are OPEN

my library | last updated august 18, 2025

the art of the deal < harry castillo x you | fake relationship> moodboard in progress

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight | part nine | part ten | part eleven | part twelve | etc

the green-eyed monster complete

| oneshot |

the way he cares <joel miller x you | enemy pregnancy> complete

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight | part nine | part ten | part eleven | part twelve | epilogue

the quiet < joel miller x you | boston era - jackson era joel > moodboard in progress

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight | part nine | part ten | etc

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all my story graphics are by @saradika-graphics

[gothicpaperback]

Please please please please please give me next chapter of art of the deal 😭😭😭❤️

hi i'm sorry i haven't felt as motivated to write lately. i will come back with more b/c i actually have most of the next chapter written.

[gothicpaperback]

the quiet | part nine

wc: 6,3k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Boston QZ to Jackson Joel Miller x reader

summary: you don’t speak. not since outbreak day stole your voice and everything that mattered. when a smuggling job gone sideways leaves you in the care of Joel Miller and Tess, you don’t ask for help, you don’t want it from the powerful woman and intimidating man. but Tess sees something in you, pulling you close, showing you warmth. her partner Joel keeps his distance and you prefer it that way, you’ve learned not to trust men. Joel doesn’t want to get involved with you, not when his loyalty already belongs to Tess. but feelings don’t listen to reason and as tension builds between the three of you, so does the quiet pull between you and Joel; dangerous, unwanted, impossible to ignore.

the OC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely physically described aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab. she has a back story.

tags/warnings: family trauma/abuse, alcoholism, slow burn, sexual tension, explicit smut, descriptions of violence, enemies to lovers-ish, love triangle, boston to jackson joel, mentions of violence.

taglist: @druwstark | @hermionelove | @enchantedreader | @76bookworm76 | @harriedandharassed | @thunderdownunder | @glitterspark | @haileycopter17 | @druwstark | @googlingsexyvampires | @fishingforpike | @@aliensfeltmyjoy | @secretlettersfromyourlove | @sptbear | @yellowbrickyeti | @enchantedreader

the quiet | part nine

The afternoon sun slants low as you weave through the busy streets, each step crunching softly over shards of glass and cracked concrete.

Today’s the day you leave the QZ behind. You've been planning the last few days and now you're ready for it. You woke up with a plan. The hunting knife you've had since your first night here, one of the few things not taken by Tess, is in your jeans pocket, concealed from prying eyes. 

Your hand brushes the baggie in your jacket pocket with the pills that will get you through the tunnels and out of the QZ. But you need more than just passage; you need protection, better weaponry. A knife won't do much. 

Without a gun you’re nothing but a vulnerable lamb waiting to be caught. Not just from other people but creatures that always lurk nearby with a ravenous hunger. 

You think of Joel the last time he spoke to you. How his authority and reasoning had you comply into leaving your bag and gun there. Thank goodness you didn't leave the pills from your pocket behind as well, then you'd be screwed.  

You realize now why Joel did it. It was a way to keep you around, like some golden goose for them. If you're alive they have a bargaining chip for Maggie. Who knows how much they've taken from her. For all you know they've gotten what they need and will go after you or Maggie next. 

You have to warn her about Tess and Joel. You need to explain that staying in the cabin might be risky but necessary. You need to protect yourself against the two of those vipers. But without a weapon you're plan is a no go. So you roam these busy streets trying to scrounge up some kind of weapon.

That’s when a thin man appears; he steps from the shadows, moving like he’s been waiting for you all along. His movements are jittery, quick and uneven, like a moth trapped in a jar. His eyes flicker anxiously, darting to every shadow, every corner, as if expecting trouble to spring from the walls themselves. His skin is too pale, clothes rumpled and stained, the faint scent of body odour clinging to him. 

You recognize him as the man from a week or so ago. The one that tried talking to you but that you just ignored. He falls into step beside you, voice low and rough, edged with a mixture of hope and desperation.

“Hey. You alright?”

You keep your gaze forward, slow your pace but don’t stop.

“You're part of Joel and Tess' group, right?" he sniffs, voice dropping to a near-whisper, “I've seen you with em.”

You don’t answer. 

His eyes flick to you, searching, trying to read something in your silence. His fingers twitch at his sides, restless. 

"I want in,” he says, a little too quickly, “I want back in. I’m done being on the outside.”

You glance at him briefly. The desperation is almost palpable, like he’s grasping at air.

He leans in closer, the sour scent of him stronger now, and you catch the faintest tremor in his voice. “So, what’s the word? What’s going on? You gonna tell me how things are? What you’re up to?”

You keep your lips pressed tight, letting the silence stretch long.

He shifts uncomfortably, fingers twitching toward his pocket as if thinking about the stash he’s been hiding. Then his gaze snaps back to you, sharper now. 

“Look, you don't know me and you don't owe me nothing, but,” His voice falters for a beat, “maybe we can help each other.”

You don't want anything from this man. You keep walking but he keeps pace, pushing his hair from his eyes. 

"Anything you want," he says in desperation. "Anything."

You think about moving on faster when his words cause you to stop mid step. You remember the baggie of pills in your pocket. The plan. You're so close to leaving, you just need one thing. You turn to him, noting the relief in his face. 

"Gun with ammo." 

That's all you say, voice quiet so that people passing by don't hear. Thankfully he's not as dumb as he looks. He doesn't ask you to repeat yourself or make a dramatic show of anything. He just lowers his voice.

"When?"

"Today." 

He swallows hard, the nervous energy coiling tighter. It's a big ask, but clearly it's a big boon for him to be back with Tess and Joel. 

"I do this for you and you put in a good word for me,” He leans even closer, voice dropping. “I'm... Well, they call me Ghoul."

Your face remains calm as you take in this information. The offer hangs between you, thick and fragile until you finally nod. 

Ghoul’s eyes flicker, darting to the empty street behind you as if calculating the risk. Then, almost like a reflex, he nods. “Okay. Yeah. Deal. Meet me back here at four.”

You give a barely perceptible nod and start walking again. 

Ghoul falls behind, muttering to himself, his footsteps uneven, chasing a ghost of a chance to belong again. The two of you break apart at the next intersection, just as an officer walks by. 

The city hums around you while you carry your secret plans close, the spark of anticipation sputtering to life in your chest. But you have another stop you've planned on now that you're gun is coming: you're ration cards. You won't need them after today.

You cut through the narrow back streets, dodging men and women who look deader than the creatures outside the walls. It's a long walk and the sky overhead is blazing. You sweat through your clothes, blinking as it gets in your eyes. 

You finally slow when you come to the apartment building whose paint has peeled down to bare wood in places.

She’s there again; the girl with the screaming parents. She’s on the curb, knees drawn up, face pale and pinched in a way that makes her look younger than you remember. Her arms are wrapped around her shins, chin resting on the faded fabric of her sleeve. 

Her eyes are fixed on the pavement like she’s reading something there only she can see. Her parents aren't fighting loudly this time but you don't miss the bruises that litter her arm. You stop a few feet away and she raises her head to look at you warily. 

You reach into your pocket slowly, knowing that sudden movements will frighten her like a skittish cat. Even now she sits a little straighter, more guarded. 

You pull out your stack of ration cards, edges worn soft from being handled. You weigh them in your hand for a second, then take a step and extend them toward her. She frowns, not understanding at first. Her eyes move from your hand to your face, back to the cards. Nothing in life is free. When the realization hits, her mouth parts slightly. 

"For you," you say quietly. 

She hesitates long enough for you to think she might refuse. But then she reaches out, fingers brushing yours as she takes them.

The wariness doesn’t leave her eyes, but there’s something else now, something almost like disbelief.

“Thank you,” she says, voice small, as if she’s afraid to break whatever spell is holding this moment together.

She clutches the cards in both hands and stands, glancing once toward the building’s sagging door. Without looking back, she disappears inside, the cards still tight in her grip.

You stand there a moment longer, the street grimy and dark and you think that maybe you’ve left a little brightness behind in this place where light doesn’t last.

You turn away from the building, the memory of her small “thank you” still lingering in your ears. You walk without looking back, cutting through the narrow alleys you know best, the ones with shadows that swallow sound and light.

You arrive a few minutes after four, surprised to see that Ghoul is already waiting for you. When he sees you he jerks his head for you to follow him into a nearby building, abandoned and boarded up, covered in red marks that look like the firefly insignia. 

"Here," he grunts, handing you a small revolver and about twenty loose bullets.

You shove them into your pocket, the gun holstered in the back of your pants before pulling down your jacket to conceal it. 

"You remember that you promised me," he says, eyes scanning yours. "You're gonna put in a good word, yeah?"

You nod, even though a small part of you feels guilty. You're never seeing Joel and Tess again if you can help it. But Ghoul doesn't know this. 

"Okay." He licks his lips nervously. "Good luck doing whatever it is you're doing." 

He's gone like a rat escaping in the rafters, scratchy and twitchy until he's gone. You wait a few moments before climbing back through the gap in the boarded window. 

It's time. 

The city changes as you move closer to the edge of it; fewer people, more boarded windows, the smell of damp brick and rusted metal thick in the air. Every step draws you nearer to the point where you can’t turn around.

Your fingers close around the folded baggie in your pocket, the pills inside pressing against your palm. The bribe. The ticket forward. You keep your pace steady, heart pressing against your ribs as the streets open onto the strip of cracked concrete where the tunnel waits along with the guard you’ve never met.

You turn the last corner and see him.

He’s taller than you remembered, broad through the shoulders, with the kind of posture that says he thinks he owns the strip of cracked concrete under his boots. His hair catches the weak light, pale and slicked back, not a single strand out of place. 

He’s leaning against the wall with one ankle crossed over the other, a cigarette lodged in the corner of his mouth.You slow, instinct telling you to keep your face still, keep your steps steady. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy, measuring.

When you get close enough to see his mouth curve, you know it’s not a friendly smile.

“Well,” he says, voice a low drawl, “who might you be?”

You don’t answer. He pushes himself off the wall, unfolding to his full height. 

"ID."

You fumble in your pocket for the documents, handing them to him without thought. He takes it, scanning it before his light eyes flick up. 

"Amelia Ripley. What are you doing so far outside your allotted zone?" He steps closer, boots crunching over grit. His eyes flick over you, your bag, hands, pockets, face. "You lost?" His tone is casual, but the words have an edge. “Public square’s been awful quiet lately. Could use some entertainment.”

Your stomach knots. You keep your breathing slow. He’s waiting for you to flinch. You don’t. You need to do what Joel and Tess would do in this moment. You slip a hand into your pocket, slow enough that he can see you’re not reaching for anything dangerous. When it comes back out, your fingers are curled around the baggie. 

His gaze drops to it. “What’s that?”

You take a step closer and open your hand just enough for him to see the pills that catch the light when the bag shifts. For a moment, he just stares. Then something in his posture changes. His shoulders loosen. His mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close.

“Well now,” he says, voice softening. “Guess you’re not lost after all. I assume you want to access the tunnel.”

You nod. 

He steps back, looking over his shoulder to check the empty street. Then he reaches out and takes the packet from your palm, fingers brushing yours briefly. He tucks it into his coat like it’s nothing.

“Alright,” he mutters, moving toward the wall. “I’ll play nice. But you-” He hooks his fingers under the grate, metal squealing as it lifts. “You get caught and I'm acting like I don't know anything, you got it?"

You nod once.

He holds the opening long enough for you to crouch and shove your bag inside. The smell of damp concrete and metal rushes out at you. “Go,” he says again, leaning close enough that you catch the sour tang of whatever he’s been drinking. “Before I change my mind.”

The opening is narrow, jagged at the edges where the metal has been cut. You crouch, pushing your bag in first, then drop to your knees. The ground is damp, cold seeping instantly through the fabric of your pants.

You glance at him once more. He’s already leaning back against the wall, tapping the side of his thigh, eyes darting to the street as you slide into the dark.

The sound of the city fades behind you, replaced by the drip-drip of unseen water and the rasp of your own breath. But there's hope now. You're walking rapidly, eyes scanning but a smile on your face. You can't wait to see Maggie. 

Every few feet, you pause and listen. Nothing follows. Nothing moves ahead. You reach the opening to the Grove and the air is different here; colder, cleaner, carrying the smell of wet leaves and soil. You breathe deep, filling your lungs until they ache.

You look back once. The tunnel mouth gapes like something’s missing from it now, like the dark is waiting for you to walk back in. But you turn away. 

You're leaving the darkness behind. 

Downtown is thick with people. Shift change with half the zone heading in, half spilling out. 

The air is sour with the smell of too many bodies pressed into narrow streets, layered with the tang of hot metal from the checkpoint fences and the sharp, bitter hiss of burned coffee from the cart on the corner. 

A pair of FEDRA trucks idle nearby, exhaust curling in greasy threads. Joel keeps to the outer edge of the flow, head down but eyes up. It’s habit now; count the uniforms, mark who’s armed, who’s watching. 

His gaze hooks on every alley mouth, every shadow where someone might be waiting. He’s looking for Tess. She told him she’d be near the depot, working a contact about a shipment they needed moved before curfew. 

He doesn’t like splitting up for things like this, not when tensions are wound tight as wire, but she won’t be told otherwise. That's just how Tess is, what appeals to him about her. 

Then, up ahead, he sees a familiar figure, the guard Patel leaned against a concrete barrier, talking with another man in uniform. The stance is casual; weight on one hip, boot braced against the barrier, one gloved hand gesturing loosely as if there’s nothing in this whole street that could trouble him.

Joel stops but Patel doesn’t notice. He doesn’t see the way Joel’s focus sharpens on him like a scope clicking into place. A memory slips in before Joel can stop it. Patel standing in the same lazy stance, but gazing fondly at you. You'd given him that faint smile Joel had never seen before; it changed you somehow. 

He feels something catch in his chest. When he thinks of Tess' suggestion that you be their in with the guards if they ever needed one. He told himself he was against i because it wasn’t right, because you wasn’t made for that kind of work and, with Maggie gone, it seemed cruel to ask it of you. That was reason enough.

But now, standing in the churn of bodies with Patel’s voice faint under the street noise, Joel’s reasons feel muddy, it isn’t clean anger. It’s lower than that, heavier. A hot knot tight under his ribs, making his jaw ache. 

He watches until Patel turns away, walking toward the checkpoint gate. Joel finally exhales, slow and steady, and keeps moving.

He’s half a block from the depot when someone steps into his path. Ghoul. Joel almost shoulders right past him, but the man shifts with him, blocking the way. He looks worse than usual, cheeks hollow, sweat shining at his hairline, eyes too jittery.

“Hey,” Ghoul says, voice low and urgent. “She, uh, she talk to you?”

Joel’s brow tightens. “Who?”

“You know who,” Ghoul says, too quick. His fingers tap against his thigh. “That new woman. She tell you anything?”

Joel shakes his head once. "Why?"

Ghoul’s mouth twitches. He glances down the street, then back. “Because I’m worried she didn’t keep her end of the fuckin’ bargain, that’s why.”

Joel stops. His voice drops, flat and cold. “What. Bargain.”

“You mean she didn’t? Shit, man, I thought she...”

Joel takes a slow step forward, forcing Ghoul back half a pace. “Say it.”

Ghoul’s Adam’s apple jumps. “I, look, she came to me, all right? Needed somethin’ and I got it for her. Clean piece and a couple clips of ammo. Not junk, the real stuff. And she was supposed to,” His voice stumbles. “She was supposed to put in a good word for me. With you and Tess.”

Joel stares at him. The words land like cold water first, but the heat comes quick after.

“You gave her a gun,” he says, each word deliberate.

“She came to me,” Ghoul says fast, hands lifting as if that helps. “I thought you knew. I thought you were fine with it, hell, I thought you might've told her to.”

Joel’s shoulders square. “You were supposed to stay away from her.”

Ghoul’s eyes flicker. “Man, she came to me-”

Joel’s fist shifts half an inch before he stops it. The urge is sharp, clean; one hard swing would put Ghoul on the ground. The only thing that checks him is the crowd. There’s too many eyes turned his way,  too much risk.

He steps in close enough that Ghoul can smell the whiskey still on his breath from last night. “You see her again, you deal with her again and I will break your fuckin’ hands. You hear me.”

Ghoul swallows hard, nodding. “Yeah, yeah, I promise.”

Joel’s not listening anymore. The rest has already fallen into place. You didn’t listen to him and you're armed now which means you're going back outside the wall. Back to Maggie’s place, no matter what he said about the risk.

“When?” he asks, voice low.

“An hour ago,” Ghoul says. His eyes dart down, away from Joel’s. “She was supposed to-”

Joel turns away mid-sentence. Ghoul flinches like he’s been struck, but Joel doesn’t give him another glance. The man’s still talking behind him, but the noise of the street swallows it.

The knot in his chest tightens until it feels like breathing takes effort. Joel walks fast, his pulse thudding in his ears, the image of you making your way out past the checkpoint, gun in your pocket, not looking back.

By the time you reach the break in the fence, your legs are heavy and your throat dry. You were stupid not to pack water. It isn’t even close to sunset yet, but your body feels drained, pulled toward the cabin as if by gravity.

The fence is worse than you remember. It was never perfect, Bruce and Maggie built it in pieces from whatever they could haul back, rough planks and chicken wire, but it kept the deer out of the garden, and it kept the monsters from getting too close at night. 

Now it’s been patched with rusted chain-link and topped with twists of barbed wire that bite into the air. You slow to look at it. That barbed wire is newer, something you installed yourself when Maggie was too tired to. She taught you well. 

Your boots crunch over gravel as you step into the yard. The garden’s gone wild in the weeks you've been gone. Weeds reaching your knees, tomato cages bent sideways under the weight of nothing. The old porch sags in the same place it always did, boards dipping like a bow.

It makes you smile. It makes your chest swell with indescribable joy. You're home. You stand at the bottom of the steps for a moment, just looking.

When you were little, this place felt enormous. Big enough to run in without ever hitting the same wall twice, big enough to keep the world out. Now it’s small but dear to you. 

You climb the steps, each one creaking under your weight, and push the door open.

The air inside is cool, stale. The smell of wood smoke and dried herbs clings faintly under the dust. Sunlight slants through the front windows, catching dust motes that hang in the air. 

You close the door behind you and your eyes move automatically to the far wall. The growth chart is still there, Maggie’s pencilled lines and dates running up from the baseboard, your name written in her careful, looping hand. 

The last mark is from the summer you turned nineteen, indulging her whim. You remember standing barefoot against the wall, Maggie squinting one eye shut as she drew the line. She’d said you’d probably stopped growing, but she made the mark anyway.

A few feet over, on the bookshelf, are the toys Bruce made for you. They were carved from whatever he could salvage, old chair legs, broom handles, scraps of driftwood. A horse with a missing ear. A doll with button eyes. A crooked top that still spins if you set it down just right. You reach out and touch the top, feeling the grooves Bruce’s knife left in the wood.

The memories warm you for a moment, but they don’t hold because there’s wire across the windows, heavy gauge, bolted into the frames. And the front door has two locks, metal ones that catch the light that you installed last winter. 

And you can see, through the kitchen window, the deeper trench you and Maggie dug around the back perimeter, the one Maggie said you two would make just in case “things got real bad.”

“Mags?” you call softly.

Nothing answers but the sound of the wind in the chimney. You step further in, your boots whispering over the rug. Past the couch, the little round table, the kitchen with its hanging bundles of sage and rosemary. You glance toward the back hall.

“Maggie?” you try again, louder this time.

Still nothing. You feel your pulse pick up, the heat of it in your neck.

You move carefully down the hall, eyes scanning each doorway before you step past. The bathroom is empty, the curtain pulled half-shut over the tub. The small storage room is just as it was, shelves lined with jars, most filled with dried beans or grain.

You keep your shoulders tight as you approach the last door. Maggie’s bedroom.

You pause at the corner, leaning just far enough to see the door without exposing yourself. Old habit, you’ve done it this way since you were a kid playing hide-and-seek with Bruce, though now it’s not a game. He framed it that way but you realized as you got older it was survival. 

Always check around corners, Button. 

Always be silent.

Step on the outside of your feet.

Cover your mouth with your hands so your breathing isn’t heard.

"Mags?"

The door is closed and you wait, listening. The cabin settles faintly around you, wood ticking as it cools. No footsteps. No voice.

You shift forward and you bring out the gun from your pocket. Something is off.  You take the last steps towards the door and wrap your fingers around the knob. Twist. It doesn’t turn. You try again, harder. Still locked. The quiet on the other side is chilling.

She was sicker than I thought. I should have sent for her sooner. 

Your palm stays on the knob longer than it should, your breath caught high in your chest. Something presses in from the edges of the room, an anxiety that takes hold when you go to the fireplace and grab the poker. 

You bring it back, raising it above your head and bringing it down brutally against the knob. It dents once and the second blow takes it completely off. 

You drop the poker, ignoring the clang as you press your palms against the door and shove. It barely gives and you stare down at it.  It feels like something is blocking it.

Frowning you place your shoulder to the door and push, surprised to hear a scrape and then the tumble of what sounds like boxes falling onto the floor. You create enough of a space between door and frame to slip through, eyes flying around the door to see an old dresser pushed to one side, a box of heavy books upset on the floor. 

You're confused at the barricade Maggie's done in front of her bedroom door and you raise your head to see her sleeping form in the bed, about to ask her what the purpose is when your breath leaves you. 

She's still, too still under all those blankets. Too still on her back with her chest not rising. Frozen. 

She must have been too tired, maybe she didn't hear me. Maybe she smoked too much pot. Maybe.... maybe.... maybe...

But you know.  Deep down you know. You know that she's gone. You know that because she doesn't turn her head or give you one of her bright Maggie smiles. 

Your feet drag, delaying your acceptance. But when you finally reach her bedside you feel your heart sink. 

She looks like she could be sleeping, long silver hair in that loose braid on the pillow, face slack, wrinkled eyes closed. But she's got a waxy look to her, a yellowing of her skin that doesn't seem human. It frightens you. 

I never should have come here. I never should have come.

This isn't how you want to remember Maggie. This isn't how you want to see anyone. With Bruce Maggie had made sure you didn't see the aftermath. She protected you. That’s what she was trying to do here, you think. Protecting you from her end.

You go to draw back when you see a small bit of fur in the crook of her left arm. For a moment you think it's an animal, but when you peer closer you can see it's a stuffed animal. 

Without thinking you tug it from her stiffened grip and step back, still needing the distance between yourself and the corpse. You hold the item in two hands, holding it up for inspection because something about it strikes familiarity in you. You take in the well worn fur and a missing button eye. 

It looks washed, cared for, cherished. It confuses you, how this tiny thing makes something in you feel both terrified and comforted at once. And when it hits you, it does so with sharp acuity in the solar plexus. 

"Bitsy." 

It's a whisper, barely a rasp. The stuffed bear of your youth. The one you outgrew and forgot. The one she clearly kept. You continue to stare at it before you impulsively grab it, stuffing it where the gun was tucked into your back waistband. 

Then it's just you and Maggie again. 

You stopped crying after the first week at the QZ when you knew nothing would change. But now fat tears slide down your cheeks, lips thinned and chin wobbly. You step closer to the bed, no longer afraid, but devastated as you look down at the woman who saved you in more ways than one. 

"Goodbye Mom," you tell her body, knowing that Maggie no longer exists in there, that this is a shell. 

Knowing that hands will never cup your face and tell you that you're loved. Knowing that she was more a mother to you than your own Mama had the chance to be.

You want to say so much more to her and if you'd had the chance maybe you would have. But at the very moment you go to run your fingers through the end of her braid one last time, a sickening sound begins. 

Kk-klick-kkkch.

A chattering like bone on glass followed by a creaking of the wood floor from behind you. And you know what's happened. You know what you've done. You slowly raise the gun, your eyes going over your shoulder.

I made too much noise. 

The clicker must've slipped through the door behind you, unheard by you in your deep grief. It followed the sound of boxes falling or your footsteps or your whisper. Whatever it was, you've been located. 

You turn too late, the creature upon you with a snarling maw. Its teeth click furiously, the rotten pearls ground dull from feasting on bone and flesh. You fall onto your back, hands on its throat to keep its chomping teeth from sinking into your flesh. Your gun goes skidding under the bed, far out of reach.

You stare up at it, noting the dried blood that clings to its cheeks and the obscene fungal protrusion from its forehead. The smell that emanates from its gaping mouth is fetid and you hold in a gag. 

This is when death will come to me, you think almost passively even though your human nature is to fight, the instinctual desire to live.

Your body overtakes your defeated will, your knees drawing up between your struggling forms, feet planted on the skeletal ribs before kicking out. 

The creature goes skidding across the floor, clicking furiously and you spin as you stand. You glance down at your body, seeing no breaks of skin, no scratches. Small mercies. 

Your knife is withdrawn from your hip holster, your eyes narrowed. The creature stands beside Maggie's bed. You thank the Heavens that she's not alive to watch this. That her cold body hasn't drawn the monsters attention. 

You hold the knife aloft, fingers curled tightly as you watch the chattering creature. Its body contorts hideously and you can tell as it tenses that it's preparing to leap at you. 

That's when you hear the second click from behind you. 

Your blood runs like ice at the realization. Your confiscated gun is all that remained for your additional weaponry and that’s under the bed, Your simply hunting knife can't take out both. 

Before you can debate further, the monster in front of you is lurching at you, hands like claws, the sound it makes unholy. Your arm raises in front of you, teeth bared. If you die, you'll do so taking them both down if possible. You'll die alongside Maggie and that is some small comfort. 

The mouth in front of you is open wide, hunger compelling it to run at you. It doesn't see the knife until it rips through its throat. It lets out a sickening gurgle as you raise the hunting knife high above you. 

With a muffled grunt you advance on the retreating figure before bringing the sharp blade down, sinking into what was once its head with a wet thunk just as a gunshot sounds out behind you. 

You jump at the sound, spinning to see the second clicker tumble to the ground, shot through the head. The two figures collapse on either side of you, dead and twitching a second only before stillness. 

Your heart beats painfully behind your ribs and you glance up to see a tall, familiar figure with its raised shotgun. When he steps forward he scans the space before the weapon is slowly lowered. 

"You bit?"

You look down the length of your body. You're still full of adrenaline, still shaking from what just occurred. 

Joel doesn’t speak as he suddenly crosses the room. His boots echo softly on the worn concrete floor, every step precise, an unreadable look in his eyes as he stops in front of you.

He takes your wrist in his rough palm, fingers calloused and warm where they wrap around you. You watch as he turns your arm over, eyes narrowed as he inspects the skin. 

His thumb grazes your inner forearm, checking for scratches, bites, anything. You know there’s nothing. But he checks anyway, methodical and thorough.

Your breath feels trapped somewhere in your chest. It’s not fear, not really. More like disorientation. The adrenaline hasn’t left your system yet, buzzing under your skin. And Joel, quiet and grim, feels like a weight dropped in the middle of your stomach. 

He tugs at your jacket next, fingers curling at the collar, dragging it down off one shoulder, then the other. The fabric scrapes against your skin, heavy and damp with sweat and grime. His hands slide under the loosened folds, brushing along the slope of your shoulder, the curve of your bicep, across your ribs. It’s not gentle, but it isn’t rough either.

It feels harder to breathe. 

Joel shifts closer without seeming to notice. His breath hits your cheek: warm and humid. His face is only inches from yours, brow furrowed in concentration as he checks for wounds, for blood seeping through fabric. 

You can feel the heat of him, the way his chest moves as he breathes. The air between you vibrates with something unspoken. He grips your hips to turn you, your body rotating under his hands with all the resistance of a doll. It’s easier than protesting and because the movement is smooth, almost clinical. 

Still, there’s something that tightens in your gut when his fingers press briefly into your waist, guiding you like he has every right.

He crouches, dragging his palms down the outside of your thighs, fingertips grazing your jeans, skimming over your knees, your calves. You stare ahead at the far wall, jaw clenched. Not because of what he’s doing, but because of the way your skin prickles under his touch. The way your body sways slightly, unconsciously, toward the heat of his. You haven't been touched in so long. 

He rises again, slow and steady. His eyes lift to your face at last. He studies you in a way that makes you feel strange inside, like your skin is too tight. His gaze lingers at your neck, where your pulse flutters visibly. 

Whatever he’s looking for, you don’t know. You only know the moment his hands still. For a breath, he stays there with one hand hovering at your waist, the other just behind your shoulder, fingers curled. 

His eyes are fixed on your face again, studying, then, wordless, he reaches for your jacket still at the crook of your arm and pulls it back up over your shoulders. 

You swallow, watching as his eyes settle on your eyes, mouth thinned. 

"Let's go."

The world outside has gone cold. Dusk sets everything in shadow, colours washed out to grey. The forest that once lined your backyard now looks alien with its gutted trees, clawed bark, leaves crusted with old blood. Joel moves ahead, gun raised, back hunched. 

Then he speaks, sharp and mean with no patience left in his voice. “You got a death wish?”

You flinch.

“If so, tell me now,” he snaps, eyes still on the trees outside, not even looking at you. “’Cause then I won’t bother bringin’ you back. You can stay here and save me the hassle.”

The instinct is to fight him. To throw something. But your hands just hang limp at your sides. There’s no energy left for defiance. Not after what you’ve seen. Not after what you’ve lost.

You just follow in his wake, eyes on the forest floor. The only sound is the wet crunch of earth beneath your feet and the distant, breathless hush of wind through empty branches.

Every so often Joel raises a fist, signalling for you to stop. You freeze instantly, the habit carved into you by too many near-misses. He listens. Tilts his head. Scans the tree line. Then he moves again, and you trail him.

He keeps walking and you match his stride, even though his legs are far longer. It’s only once you break out past the tree line and into the old Grove that the tension eases, just barely. The open space gives more visibility, but it also means you’re more exposed. Your eyes keep darting to the treetops, the rooftops, every rustling bush a potential warning.

You look up at the back of his head, the curls that fall above his collar, the sweat that rings his collar and spine. He radiates an energy that demands space that tells others to fuck off. But despite his posturing and his cool demeanour, he saved you. He had no reason to do it other than humanity. 

You don't really understand Joel Miller. 

He doesn’t speak again until you reach the edge of the tunnel leading back to the QZ. You hesitate as you glance back one last time. The roof of your old house just barely visible above the trees, soft and small in the dying light. But it’s not yours anymore. Not really. Not without her.

He stands with his hands stemmed on his hip, a knee slightly crooked. He’s tired and frustrated and he looks at you with a derision that makes you squirm.

“What the fuck were you thinkin’?”

He actually pauses like you’ll reply, but you’re quiet, body heavy, eyes heavier. You want to sleep for a million years. You want to shut out the world, but instead you're stuck with Joel.

Joel who saved me. 

He could have let you die, used you as bait. But instead he walked into danger and stopped your death in its tracks. His eyes bore into yours. 

"This is the last time I help you, you hear me?"

He doesn't wait for your reply before turning and starting down the tunnel. And you have no choice but to follow. 

sorry i haven't been writing as much lately. i haven't felt as inspired. but i feel like i'm getting back into it. i appreciate it when you leave comments and reblogs.

i will say that the next chapter is when things start to get...interesting between joel and reader.

xx

💋💋💋💋

[gothicpaperback]

the quiet | part eight

wc: 8,3k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Boston QZ to Jackson Joel Miller x reader

summary: you don’t speak. not since outbreak day stole your voice and everything that mattered. when a smuggling job gone sideways leaves you in the care of Joel Miller and Tess, you don’t ask for help, you don’t want it from the powerful woman and intimidating man. but Tess sees something in you, pulling you close, showing you warmth. her partner Joel keeps his distance and you prefer it that way, you’ve learned not to trust men. Joel doesn’t want to get involved with you, not when his loyalty already belongs to Tess. but feelings don’t listen to reason and as tension builds between the three of you, so does the quiet pull between you and Joel; dangerous, unwanted, impossible to ignore.

the OC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely physically described aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab. she has a back story.

tags/warnings: family trauma/abuse, alcoholism, slow burn, sexual tension, descriptions of violence, enemies to lovers-ish, love triangle, boston to jackson joel, mentions of violence.

taglist: @druwstark | @hermionelove | @enchantedreader | @76bookworm76 | @harriedandharassed | @thunderdownunder | @glitterspark | @haileycopter17 | @druwstark | @googlingsexyvampires | @fishingforpike | @@aliensfeltmyjoy | @secretlettersfromyourlove | @sptbear | @yellowbrickyeti | @enchantedreader

the quiet | part eight

The sky is tilting darker when your building finally comes into view. You're still in flux thinking about what Joel said.

Stay one more week. If you're really serious about leavin', I'll organize it for you. But you leave tonight? You’re on your own.

Someone else is arriving to the building and holds open the main doors for you.  You nod in thanks and jog up the stairs to your apartment, pausing as you search for your key when the soft creak of another door opening down the hall.

“Hey,” a familiar voice calls, low so it doesn’t carry.

You glance over your shoulder. Lucia is leaning out of her apartment, one foot still inside, hand wrapped around the doorframe. Her braid falls loose over one shoulder and the light from her place spills into the dim hallway, painting her hair gold.

“You made it," she says.

You nod, still unsure of how to act around her after your abrupt exit. She doesn't look upset with you though. 

"You had dinner?" She asks, voice coaxing when you shake your head. “Come join us.”

You hesitate, unnerved by her kindness. The air in the hall smells faintly of boiled cabbage from somewhere downstairs, but what’s drifting from her apartment is different: something with garlic, maybe beans, something that makes your stomach growl.

Lucia’s smile tips, like she can read the war on your face. “Don’t make me eat alone,” she says, teasing just enough to make refusal feel rude.

You follow her into her apartment which feels like a different world entirely. It’s not large, just two rooms, with the living space and kitchen bleeding together but its clean in a way that you envy. The linoleum floor is worn, edges peeling in spots, but scrubbed until it shines. 

The curtains at the windows are mismatched, one floral and one plain white but they’re clean too, catching the last threads of daylight.

A small couch, sagging at the middle, sits against the far wall with a crocheted blanket folded neatly over the back. A shelf holds a row of books, spines worn from use, and a chipped ceramic vase with dried flowers that must’ve been beautiful once. The table is set, mismatched plates and tin cups waiting.

Lucia steps around you, pulling a chair out. “Sit.”

You do the wood creaking under your weight.She ladles soup from a pot on the stove; broth cloudy with beans, carrots, onions, a few thick slices of potato. Nothing fancy, but the smell is enough to make your mouth water. She slides the bowl toward you, then a hunk of bread wrapped in a cloth.

“I’m sorry for the other day,” she says as she sits across from you. “I shouldn’t have asked things you didn’t want to answer. I won’t again.”

You don’t trust easily, not here, not with anyone. But her voice is steady, her eyes clear, and you believe her. You nod, a simple acceptance.

She studies you for a second too long. Her gaze catches on your hairline, where the bruise still blooms faintly from where that jerk in the street got a swing in earlier.

“That’s new,” she says gently.

You lift a hand, brushing the hair aside like it’s nothing. Her lips press together, like she wants to push, but she doesn’t. She lets it go, and you’re grateful.

The door opens behind you.

“Lucia,” a man’s voice says, and you turn to see Mateo carrying a bundled baby against his chest. 

His moustache is neatly trimmed, his hair curling slightly at the edges. He has the kind of face that softens when he smiles, and when he does now it’s directed at you.

“This is Mateo,” Lucia says, standing to take the baby from him. "I think you two met.”

"Sort of," he nods in greeting as he steps inside. “You’re the new neighbor, right?”

You nod back. “Yeah.”

“Good to meet you,” he says simply, like he’s already decided you belong here. He bundles his scarf under his arm and hands Alma to a waiting Lucia, the motion automatic. “I'm just going to wash up."

Lucia smiles faintly, shifting Alma against her shoulder as she watches him move to the sink. You watch her eyes softly tracing his profile and the way he smiles at her when he dries his hands with the towel. 

He sits down beside you, his movements slow, unhurried. “I had to run late,” he says to Lucia, “extra inspection at the gate.”

You glance at him, curious. 

"I work cargo inspection. Supplies in and out. It’s not bad, for here. Steady pay, steady rations. You learn to keep your head down.” Lucia sets a bowl in front of him, and he murmurs thanks before turning back to you. “My brother used to have the job before me.” 

You wait, sensing there’s more but he doesn't offer anymore than that. Lucia is grave, eating her dinner with wet eyes. Mateo eats with steady, deliberate bites, but every so often his eyes flick toward the cradle, as if to make sure Alma’s still sleeping soundly. At one point, she stirs, and he’s already halfway out of his chair before Lucia waves him off.

“You don’t have to-” she starts.

“I do,” he says simply, crossing the room to adjust the blanket over the baby’s tiny form. His touch is gentle, practised.

You dip bread into your soup, chewing slowly, letting the warmth spread. The food is basic, but there’s enough of it. 

“Some guys were talking about a new settlement," Mateo says as he rejoins the both of you. "Some place in Wyoming."

"Really?" Lucia eyes are wide. "Who said?"

"I heard some guards talking about it. Joking that they were tired of QZ's and gonna steal a tank and make their way over there."

"Where's Wyoming again?"

"Near Montana, Idaho, Colorado." Mateo lists these off easily. It's clear he's travelled over the years. 

"Can you imagine? All that snow in the winter?" Lucia shakes her head. The disgust is clear in her expression but you're fascinated. 

A settlement somewhere in Wyoming? All that wide open space? You think of the maps Bruce showed you growing up, the ones he gathered through road trips chasing the Grateful Dead. 

If you close your eyes you think you can remember.... Boston to Wyoming is quite the travel especially if a person doesn't have a mode of transport. 

"I bet it's a rundown shanty town without running water," Lucia scoffs. "This place may be a lot at times but at least we have food and shelter."

The candle burns lower between you, wax pooling at its base. Electricity goes out at ten every evening; candles are the only light source available since batteries for flashlights are in short supply. 

You finish your soup, and Lucia clears your bowl before you can protest. Eventually you stand, giving her another nod. She returns it, squeezing your forearm.

"Come for dinner anytime."

You think she actually means it. 

Back in your own apartment, you stand for a moment in the stillness, listening to the faint murmur of their voices through the floorboards. It’s not much, but it’s more than you’ve had since you got here. The kindness and the promise of friendship. 

THEN

"What are you thinking about?"

You're twelve now, legs covered in mosquito bites from the long summer days helping garden, your hair in an unruly plait down your back like Maggie's. She braids it for you each time you wash it. 

You're on the porch, watching the quiet space in front of you. You're sitting cross legged with one of Bruce's philosophy books on your lap. 

In those days you spoke a lot. Like all the years you were quiet were made up for in a flurry of opinions and questions. 

"I'm thinking about dying." 

You've been out here all morning in quiet contemplation and Maggie has noticed. Maggie lets out a small chuckle, wizened eyes going to the trees and then to the book in your lap. 

"Ah, borrowing one of Bruce's books I see." 

Bruce is in his bedroom taking a nap, his snores heard faintly. You and Maggie giggle a bit when you hear it. 

"He was reading it yesterday," you tell her, looking at the faded book cover. "He talked about re-carvation." 

"Reincarnation," she corrects gently. 

"That's what I said," you reply, your tween arrogance already starting. "Anyway, Bruce says that our bodies are just shells for our souls."  You point to the book on your lap. "But the guy in this book says that our bodies are evil and we gotta have spiritual .. uh, spiritual waking up." 

"Uh huh." 

"But Mama always talked about God and Jesus and hell and stuff," you said with a sigh, your wide eyes turned up to Maggie. "So which is it?"

"We'll never know until we get there." 

You closed the book angrily, your young mind needing more concrete answers. Frustration is clear in your folded arms and deep scowl. 

"What do you want to come back as?" Maggie asks, eyes on you. "If you could pick." 

You're quiet; this kind of question takes a lot of thought. You don't want to rush it. You dart a serious look her way. "You first." 

Maggie hums, taking a long sip of her tea. She rocks the swing back and forth, feet dirty from the garden. "Well, I really like sleeping so I think something that hibernates," Maggie says with a sly look your way. "Ladybugs hibernate, did you know that?"

“Ew. Not a ladybug.”

She giggles.

"But I've never been a big fan of bugs." She takes another sip of her tea, cheeks warming from the steam. "I think I'd like to be a bear," she smiles serenely. "All curled up in leaves and soft soil, nice and warm in a cave. Yeah, a bear sounds good to me." 

You smile, face thoughtful before announcing: "I'd be a bird."

"What kind of bird?"

"One that swims and flies." 

Maggie laughed at that, head thrown back in a way that made you feel strangely proud. 

"I don't know if a bird like that exists, honey, but I sure hope it does." 

The meeting place is quiet.

Too quiet.

Tess waits longer than she should, pacing the same strip of damp concrete in the tunnel, her boots leaving dark marks in the film of water.

 She tells herself Maggie’s just late. Maybe she had to double back, avoid a patrol. Maybe she’s being careful. But the seconds drag, and the echoes in the tunnel feel too big without another set of footsteps to fill them.

She’s been here longer than she should be, pacing, doubling back, listening for the scrape of Maggie’s boots in the dark.

She checks her watch again. The light is bad down here, but she knows how much time’s passed.

Maggie’s not coming.

Tess remembers the way Maggie looked last weak leaned against the tunnel wall, breathing heavier than normal, and her skin a shade too gray under the flashlight beam. She’d brushed it off but they both knew. 

Now the silence in the tunnel feels like an answer Tess doesn’t want. She swears under her breath, the sound sharp against the wet stone. She’s not new to losing people. You don’t survive this long without losing more than you keep. But Maggie’s different. Maggie mattered. She was one of the few who could make Tess laugh without trying, who knew how to shut her up with a look. 

And she cared about you in a way that Tess could understand. Motherhood. 

Now Tess pictures you, back in that cramped apartment in the QZ, not knowing you’re probably already alone. Not knowing Maggie might be lying in some ditch outside the walls, the goods she meant to deliver still strapped to her back.

The thought hooks deep, pulling something old and rotten from the pit of Tess’s stomach. It’s the same cold weight she felt the day she realized Thomas was gone. Gone in that way that still wakes her some nights, heart pounding, because she can hear his fists on the bathroom door.

Now, walking through the tunnel, her boots sending little ripples through the shallow water, she feels that same twisting emptiness. 

You’re about to know what it’s like to be left.

She keeps moving, because standing still here is asking for trouble. The flashlight beam swings over the curve of the wall, the rusted bolts, the graffiti so faded it’s nothing but shadows. Every step she takes echoes forward and back, chasing itself into the dark.

Her mind keeps slipping to Maggie’s face, the lines carved deeper by years of hustling, the smudge of dirt on her cheek last week, the way she’d smiled when Tess told her you’d been fitting in fine. 

"She's loyal to a fault," Maggie said with a proud look. "You get in her good books once and she'll fight tooth and nail for you. Get on her bad side though...." 

Tess has walked these tunnels enough to know when she’s alone. She doesn’t hear the shuffle of boots or the muted clink of gear. No muttered cursing as Maggie ducks under a low beam. Just her own breath and the far-off drip of water.

The truth settles in slow. There will be no meeting tonight. There will be no more meetings at all. 

By the time Tess reaches the grate at the end of the tunnel, her chest is tight, her throat aching. She doesn’t let herself stop moving. 

She hauls the grate open, the metal groaning in protest, and steps into, the clatter of boots on stone, the sharp whistle of a FEDRA patrol up the block. The officer she paid off gives her a look as he passes by, ignoring her as she drags herself out. 

But the walk back to her apartment feels longer than it should, and every step drags the weight of knowing that when she sees you next, you’ll be just like Thomas.

Abandoned.

And there’s nothing she can do to stop it.

Your days off aren’t for resting. Not in the QZ. 

You wake with a mission, eat your measly granola and piece of fruit. Bathe and dress, pocketing your ID after pulling on your shoes. Today is information gathering. 

Joel said to give this place another week and that he'd help you but you don't trust him. You saw all your supplies taken from your bag and hidden under the floorboards. You're basically a sitting duck. 

For all you know he and Tess are finding out the way to remove you entirely. With you gone your supplies are theirs for the taking.  So you spend the morning and afternoon doing the kind of work no one’s paying you for; the observing kind. 

You’ve started treating the QZ like a puzzle: blocks, streets, checkpoints, patrol rotations. Where the guards linger, where they’re lax, which ones look the other way for a price.

You keep your hood up and your head down, scanning with the side of your vision. The trick is to look distracted, like you’re just another bored civilian deciding how to waste the hours before curfew.

Two guards lean against the wall by the ration line, both still in uniform. One’s tall with a limp: you’ve seen him before, and you’ve learned he lets latecomers through if they’re quiet about it. 

The other’s a woman with a green hat under her jacket collar. She once traded a cigarette for a half melted chocolate bar. You file that information away.

The courtyard is a worn patchwork of cracked pavement and frost-slick puddles. The air smells faintly of burning rubber from some barrel fire down the street. A group of off-duty guards loiters at the far end, out of uniform but still looking like they own the place. 

That’s when you see him.

The blonde officer from before, the one whose hands shook from withdrawal while he smashed the butt of his rifle into a woman’s ribs. Not he's in civilian clothes now. His jacket is thin, frayed at the cuffs, and his hair’s pressed flat like he hasn’t bothered to fix it since waking. He looks almost ordinary, which makes the memory of him that day seem even uglier.

You shift your stance so your ear’s turned toward them without making it obvious you’re listening.

“… got evening duty this weekend,” he’s saying, irritation in every syllable. “By the tunnels.”

One of his friends groans in sympathy.

“Yeah,” Blonde continues. “Standing around freezing my ass off for hours. For what? Nothing comes through there. Ever.”

Another voice laughs, deep and amused. “That’s easy cards, man. Just stand there and don’t fall asleep.”

“Still a waste,” Blonde mutters. “I could be pulling extra hours somewhere warm.”

They drift into talking about a card game, but you barely hear them. Your mind’s snagged on the words by the tunnels. It’s the kind of throwaway detail most people wouldn’t think twice about. But you know better.

You’re still turning it over in your when a voice behind you says, “Hey.”

You don’t startle. You trained yourself out of that years ago, the way some people train themselves to breathe shallow in smoke. But your spine still tightens before you glance over your shoulder.

Patel stands there, smiling.

He’s in a brown sweater and worn jeans instead of the black-and-grey uniform, the plate carrier, the rifle slung over his shoulder. Without the gear, without the stiff posture of a man on duty, he looks softer. His hair curls slightly where it touches his ears, the wind lifting the ends.

“Day off?” he asks.

You nod once. Yes.

Patel slides his hands into his pockets and rocks back slightly on his heels. “You don’t like relaxing or something? Figured after all that work, you’d want to just," he makes a vague gesture like he’s lying on an invisible couch. “You know. Rest.”

There’s a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You shrug. Rest isn't the same as safety. You can’t explain that to him without explaining everything, so you keep your eyes on the cracked courtyard pavement.

Patel follows your gaze, and you realize too late you’ve been glancing toward the pair of off-duty guards you’d been listening to. He raises an eyebrow. “But then again… maybe you’re like me. Don’t want to waste the day inside.”

His eyes come back to you, lingering just a beat too long. There’s a softness there that feels out of place in this QZ, like he hasn’t learned how to file it down and make it sharp yet.

“If that’s the case…” he says, tilting his head, “would you like to join me for a walk?”

You look away. Romance, or whatever this is, unsettles you more than open hostility ever could. Hostility you can read. It has rules. It’s predictable. This is something else entirely. But he isn't pushy. He isn't insistent. So after a breath, you nod, following beside him as he saunters on alongside you. 

The streets are quieter this time of day. A few laundry lines sway between windows, shirts snapping in the wind.  Patel keeps an easy pace, hands back in his pockets, as if he’s careful not to crowd you. He's a head taller, looking down his shoulder at you. 

“So,” he says, “I don't think I ever introduced myself. I'm Ravindra, but no one calls me that. I go by Rav."

It's quiet between you as he waits for your response. You pause, brain scrambling to remember what your forged ID says.  "Amelia Ripley."

He has to duck to hear you, but he repeats it quietly and you nod. 

"It's nice to meet you officially," he says with a broad smile. Like he's broken you open a little bit. 

"Where are you from?" He ventures, testing his luck. But your entire face changes into cold resistance. It's a credit to him that he notices and simply shifts the conversation. 

“I came from the Illinois QZ. They shut it down about three years ago,” he goes on. “Not enough resources, they said. They were assholes in that place. Moved most of us out, some to Chicago, some scattered to other zones. I was the last one left in my family so, I signed up with FEDRA.”

His tone stays matter-of-fact, but there’s an edge under it. 

“I told myself,” he says after a moment, “if I was gonna wear this uniform I’d do it better. Treat people better than they treated me and family. No one deserves to be herded like cattle.”

The words surprise you, not just the content, but that he says them out loud in a place where walls have ears.

He glances sideways at you. “You probably think all of us are the same.”

You keep walking. You’re not sure if he wants you to disagree.

“It’s okay,” he says finally. “I’m used to proving people wrong.”

For the first time since you started walking, the knot in your stomach loosens. His voice isn’t pushy, just steady.

You catch yourself almost liking the sound of it.

A few streets over, over, Joel and Tess walk side by side. Their shoulders brush occasionally, an easy closeness born of years spent navigating this fractured world together.  The air smells of damp concrete and burnt wires, mixed with the faint tang of decay drifting from the half-collapsed buildings lining the street. Their footsteps fall in quiet sync on the cracked pavement, but the air between them hums with a fragile tension.

"And she didn't show up?"

“No,” Tess offers, voice flat but not quite convincing. "But... Maybe she was just having a bad day." 

Joel’s gaze flickers sideways to her. “You don’t actually believe that,” he says, voice low.

She shakes her head sharply. “No.”

Joel’s eyes flicker to Tess’s tight jaw and restless fingers. She’s usually stone-cold when it comes to smuggling or shady alliances. But now, something’s different. The edge in her tone, the way she won’t look his way. This isn’t just about rules or risk. It’s personal.

Joel and Tess keep close to the cracked curb, eyes sharp but their pace unhurried. There’s an unspoken understanding between them: watch, listen, blend.

As they pass a dimly lit alleyway, the murmur of hushed voices catches their attention. Joel’s hand twitches near his side, fingers brushing the worn leather of his belt. Tess’s eyes narrow, scanning.

This is the cost of power in the QZ. The knowledge that everyone else wants it for themselves. No walk is ever calm or relaxing, your eyes are always scanning for dangers. Shadows flicker between the rusted dumpsters, figures crouched low in the gloom. Two men lean close, one, pale and twitchy, nervously shifts a small, sealed bag between his fingers. 

The other, larger, silent, waits with arms crossed, his gaze darting constantly to the street. A quiet exchange, a nod, a quick pass of the package seals the deal before both melt back into the darkness.

Joel watches expression unreadable but muscles tense. Tess’s lips press into a thin line. The transaction is quick, careful. They’re professionals, but the stakes are high. As they continue, several passersby glance their way, their faces flickering between curiosity and cautious respect. 

Some step aside, crossing the street or ducking behind doorways to avoid walking too close. The stories about Joel and Tess run ahead of them, whispers about their ruthlessness hissing around them.

They’re both marked, known to be dangerous in a way that most don’t dare challenge. They like it that way; no one gets close that way. Joel senses the space widening around them, feels the weight of eyes retreating like water from a stone. 

Tess catches his glance, her expression unreadable but satisfied. There’s power in that silent acknowledgement, in the way the street bends around them. It’s a language without words. But he sees the way Tess' eyes look heavy with concern. 

“You’re more upset than I thought you’d be,” Joel finally observes. 

Tess’s jaw tightens, and she mutters, “Her daughter. Now she’s got no one. Just like Thomas.”

Joel doesn’t respond right away. That name lands heavily between them. He knows it’s not one Tess speaks lightly of. Just like Sarah. Those are a wound that’s still raw, a scar hidden beneath layers of steel. And he sees the pain flicker behind her words, the ache she tries to mask.

“She’s tough in some ways,” Tess says after a moment, voice softer but still edged with sorrow. "Losing the last person who gives a damn? That’s a kind of wound you don’t stitch shut.”

They pass the old bakery’s crumbling brick wall, faded and chipped, the smell of stale bread and dust lingering in the air. Joel’s eyes narrow, the shadow inside them deepening. Joel’s about to tell her to quit worrying about A grown woman when her arm twitches, a small jerk of recognition.

“Hold up,” she mutters.

Joel follows her gaze, brow furrowing.

A few yards ahead, under the weak glow of a half-dead streetlight, you’re standing with Officer Patel. You’ve got your head tipped slightly, listening while he talks, his hand brushing your arm just once, a casual gesture, but enough to send Tess’s stance sharpening.

She stops moving, her body angled slightly forward, like she’s already deciding whether to intervene.

“What the hell’s he doing?” she murmurs.  It’s the kind of thing that could mean trouble, the kind that could get someone hauled in before they know they’re in danger.

Joel’s eyes narrow, but it’s not danger that spikes his pulse. He can’t pin the feeling at first, just knows it’s hot, unwelcome. His gaze fixes on Patel.

“Looks like talkin’ to me,” he says, voice flat.

Patel says something and your mouth twitches almost the ghost of a smile and Joel’s jaw works.  

Tess shifts beside him. “She is asking for trouble,” she mutters.

But Joel doesn’t move yet. He’s still watching Patel, cataloguing the angle of his shoulders. How he moves a little closer, how you don’t move back when he does.

“I swear she is always stepping into something," Tess snarls impatience creeping in.

Joel doesn’t say a word, but his gaze lingers on the back of your head, then flicks once more toward to Patel who continues to smile down at you.  The irritation is still there, lodged under his ribs like a splinter he can’t dig out.

He scans Tess, seeing her own anger rising. "Let's get a drink at mine."  

She nods, looking a bit more relaxed and the two of them walk quickly to his apartment, shoulders hunched, anger still simmering in their veins. The two walk on, shadows in a city that’s slowly losing light, each step, heavy as they walk up the steps of his apartment.

Joel shuts the door behind them with a low thud, the weight of the lock sliding into place.

Tess pulls off her jacket, tossing it over the back of his as she glances at his table. “Well, I’ll be damned,” she says, noting the large whiskey bottle. “Didn’t think there was any of this left.”

Joel’s already reaching for the mismatched cups in the cupboard. “Told you I don’t make runs unless they’re worth somethin’.”

She turns the bottle in her hands, reading the faded label, then sets it down with a satisfying clunk. “Could’ve just told me you were hoarding the good stuff.”

“Wouldn’t be hoardin’ if I told you,” he says, working the cork free. The pop is small but satisfying, and the rich scent of the whiskey cuts through the stale apartment air.

They’ve been light on whiskey for weeks. You can get the cheap, burn-your-throat kind if you know which black-market runner to talk to, but good bottles, the kind that actually taste like something are rare.

It was from a simple pick-up, swap for ration cards, no threats, no blood. The smuggler Joel traded with, an older guy Joel’s done business with before, even threw in a few cans of coffee as a gesture.  Joel suspects it’s less about goodwill and more about keeping him and Tess in his orbit, but he’s not going to argue about free coffee even if it does taste like shit.

Joel pours, handing her one of the chipped cups. They clink softly and drink. The whiskey’s smoother than either of them expected, though it still leaves a burn in the throat. Tess leans against the counter, holding her cup by the rim, letting the liquid catch the yellow lamplight.

“Alright,” she says, “let’s talk about what to do with our friend.”

Joel’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “She ain’t a friend.”

“Fine, the guard then.” She takes another sip. “You know anything about him? Heard anything useful?”

Joel gives her a flat look, but she’s immune to those. “Names Patel I think,” he says.

"C'mon Joel." Tess frowns. "You know every guard in here. Gimme something."

Joel sighs, rubbing between his brows. He's tired, he wants to sleep, not talk about this irritating man. 

"He's newer. Likes to play by the rules, but bend them for certain folks he thinks are worth it. He's well-liked and doesn't use force unless he needs to." Joel stops himself from adding that the kid is a nosy little shit who's obviously targeting you.

“Interesting,” Tess says with a nod. “Could be useful.”

 “Don’t see how.”

“You don’t have to like him for him to be useful, Joel. Sometimes it’s better to figure out what someone like Patel wants in order to get what we need. We just need to figure out how to give it to him."

Joel drains his cup before answering. “Don’t like the idea of you tryin’ that with him, Tess.”

“That’s sweet, but I wasn’t offering myself up,” she says dryly. “I was talking about her.”

His eyes flick toward her then away, like the thought irritates him even more. “She’s got no business gettin’ mixed up with that."

“She’s already mixed up in it,” Tess cuts in. “That guard? He likes her and he's got access to things we may need. We can use that.”

Joel sets his empty cup down on the counter with a soft thud, looking at the wood grain like it’s personally offended him. “He’s a pain in the ass.”

“And we've never worked with one of those before?" she says. “You’re acting like using him is somehow beneath us, and I can’t figure out why.”

Tess studies him, waiting for more. Joel doesn’t give it right away, he never does, but finally, his voice drops a fraction.

“Maggie’s likely barely cold in the ground, and she doesn’t even know that. And Patel we don't know enough about. It feels cruel.”

Joel exhales through his nose, long and slow. Tess tips back the last of her whiskey, watching him over the rim of the cup. For a man who likes to pretend he’s made of brick and splinters, sometimes Joel says things that catch her off guard. 

Most people in this place would use whoever they had to if it meant a better deal, but here he is, drawing some invisible line in the dirt over a woman who isn’t even part of their crew. 

She figures it’s not really about the girl at all, it’s about Sarah. If she’d lived, Tess can picture him like this, digging in his heels, refusing to let the world so much as brush against her wrong.  That kind of devotion doesn’t just disappear when the person’s gone; it just shifts, attaches itself to someone else who never asked for it.

“Joel,” Tess says, gentler now. “Nobody’s talking about putting her in the middle of a shoot-out. I’m saying maybe he hears something before anyone else does. Or maybe he looks the other way at the right time because he’s thinking about her. That’s leverage.”

Joel doesn’t answer, but the muscle in his jaw works. She knows him well enough to recognize the look, it’s not that he disagrees; it’s that he hates agreeing.

Tess tops off both cups without asking, sliding his toward him. “If there’s a way to turn this to our advantage, we’d be stupid not to.”

Joel finally takes the cup, muttering, “I don’t like owin' people.”

“You think I do?” She knocks her cup against his again. “I’m just saying we might as well take what we can get.”

They drink in silence for a while after that. The warmth of the whiskey spreads slow, loosening muscles, taking the edge off without making either of them sloppy. Outside, the wind shifts, whistling faintly through the windowpanes.

Joel leans back against the counter, looking toward the far wall like he’s replaying the day in his head. Tess watches him for a moment, taking in the familiar lines of his face in the dim light.  She’s known him long enough to read the small tells, how he holds his cup tighter when he’s thinking too hard, how his eyes move when he’s listening even if he looks like he’s ignoring her. 

“You’re quiet,” she says.

“You’re talkin’ enough for both of us.”

Tess smirks at that, but her eyes linger on him longer than they need to. Joel’s leaning back, arms folded, that steady weight to his presence that’s equal parts infuriating and magnetic

Tess sets her cup down and steps in close, close enough to feel the heat rolling off him as he watches her face near.

"Why don't you shut me up, then, Texas?" 

Joel’s gaze flicks to her mouth, just for a second, and that’s all the answer she needs. 

Her hand catches the front of his shirt, tugging him forward, and his mouth is on hers, rough, unhesitating. It’s not slow or careful. It’s the kind of kiss that shoves the day’s tension out of the way and makes room for something else.

They move without speaking, navigating the familiar narrow hall to his bedroom. Clothes hit the floor in careless drops, her shirt, his flannel, the heavy belt that always seems louder in the quiet than it should be.

The bed dips under their weight, the springs giving a soft protest as Joel’s hands find Tess’s hips, turning her with a quiet insistence.  She lets him guide her, knees sinking into the mattress, palms braced against the sheets.

Joel is never cruel with her, never hard in a way that scares or degrades her. In fact it's the opposite, kind when he touches her. She urges him between her legs without words, looking at him over her shoulder. At the first breach of his cock though her folks she hisses delightedly. She's already wet for him, eager. 

He's feral tonight, frustrated that things are floating behind his eyes as he thrusts into Tess ' body. He needs to fuck out his frustration like he does sometimes. 

"Joel...." Tess moans as he begins to do just that. "Fuck, just like that."

He watches her move against him; an equal partner in business and the bedroom. The line of her back is exquisite, like a painting. His hand rests on the spine, urging her to move faster. Slick sounds fill the room along with the creak of his mattress. 

He leans over her, the heat of his chest pressing to her back, his breath grazing the curve of her ear. The smell of her, soap and, sweat and something so Tess fills his head, but for a flicker of a second he swears he smells the scent of cinnamon.

Such an odd, specific scent that it momentarily throws him. It’s gone before he can place it, but the image lingers.

"So good," Tess whimpers, drawing his attention back. "Deeper, Joel. Please."

It's the only time Tess is this soft, almost submissive to him. He thinks it's because he never asks her to be. In moments like this they just exist. 

She’s damp at the nape of her elegant neck, the fine hair curling. Joel’s fingers slide into them, not rough, but firm enough to gather them in his palm. His mouth finds the back of her neck and he kisses her there, slow, deliberate, and she tilts her head without thinking, a small opening. He follows it, pressing his lips down to where her shoulder slopes away. 

“Touch yourself,” he says hoarsely, feeling when she bring her fingers to begin circling her clit.

His hands span her waist, steady and sure. Tess draws in a breath, voice low in her throat, not quite words until she exhales his name. His jaw grazes her skin, the rasp pulling her closer. He kisses her again at the base of her hairline. 

But somewhere between the taste of whiskey on her mouth and the way her hand grips the mattress, something spins in his head. Images flashing in his mind. 

Patel and his smirk shot your way cause Joel to cringe, redoubling his efforts to fuck Tess harder. She groans, scrubbing at her clit furiously now. She’s close.  

Blink. 

He’s seeing flashes of the chipped mug.

Blink. 

The woman who cried when she saw what he and Tess did to her junkie boyfriend. 

Blink. 

Your face that first day, the guarded way you looked at him like you were bracing for something.

Blink. 

You standing across from him prepared to leave.

Blink. 

You and Patel. 

The images keep cutting in, sharper than they have any right to be. It makes his hands tighten, makes him push harder, faster, until his breath is coming ragged and there’s a heat in his gut that has nothing to do with the woman under him.

Tess says his name again, quieter now, a rasp. He answers with a firmer grip in her hair, making her still for him. She leans into it, and the faintest shiver runs through her. 

He breathes her in and tries to stay there, in this bed, in this moment. But when his mouth finds the nape of her neck again, the ghost of your face is still there unnerving him

The fuck is wrong with me? 

He digs his focus back into Tess, thrusting into her hard enough to erase anything else. She doesn’t notice. If anything, she meets him with equal intensity, mistaking the sharp edge in him tonight for hunger.

It's like he knows he shouldn't think about you, but you force yourself into his subconscious anyway. Your eyes, your mouth, and the way your face looked when he told you not to leave.  It's disturbing him, making his cock twitch. He's going to cum fast. Way too fast. 

Tess is surprised when Joel abruptly pulls out of her, urging her to twist around and face him, pressing her back against the mattress.

"You okay?" he murmurs. He needs eyes, her face, to distract him from thoughts of you. 

She pants, nodding as he slides his cock back between her legs. His teeth are bared as he watches her head move back into the pillow, his name moaned out. Tess grips at his shoulders, matching his tempo until the air between them turns sharp with breath and the room smells like sweat and whiskey.

He grunts loudly, hips rolling until he begins to pump erratically, ass squeezing as his balls tighten. Their bodies smack together loudly and the sound makes Joel's cock pulse. 

"Cum," he growls at Tess, desperate to have her finish. She needs to finish so he can. She always cums first. 

But she's taking her time tonight, body loose and gorgeous under him. He can't stop watching how she moves, tits bouncing with every thrust and suddenly it's too much, thoughts of Tess' body and your face and everything else comes to a head.

"Fuck... Fuck." 

He pulls out harshly, stroking his wet cock over her belly until he cums in spurts, groaning with his eyes shut. To his relief Tess cums during this, eyes rolled back as her back arches into it. Joel watches her cunt twitch; mesmerized until they both come down from their high. 

He moves to the sink, getting semi-warm water onto a cloth and bringing it over. He cleans Tess gently as she watches with a careful smile, listening to the slowing thud of her heartbeat in her ears. This is the part she likes best, the quiet in the aftermath when it almost feels like he loves her. 

She waits for the simple offer she’s half-afraid to want.

Stay the night. Stay until morning. Let's hold each other through the darkness. 

Instead, Joel shifts slightly, his hand squeezing her side in that absent, almost kind way he has. "You want another drink before you go?” he says, voice low but not apologetic.

Tess swallows whatever disappointment wants to rise, pulling back to sit up. “Nah,” she says, reaching for her clothes. “I'm pretty beat.”

Joel doesn’t answer, just watches her dress as he does the same. When she’s laced her boots, her face is unreadable again. She takes a lingering look his way, her hands twitching at her sides.

"Curfew's soon," he observes when she doesn't move right away. 

She blinks and nods as he walks her to the door. When his hand hits the knob hesitates just slightly. feels it in the air, like he’s turning something over in his mind and she waits for the offer that never seems to come. 

Joel opens his mouth, but what comes out is, “Get back to yours safe.”

The moment collapses into something smaller.  Tess nods once, keeping her expression even.

"Always do, Texas."

She’s not hurt or angry, she told herself a long time ago not to expect anything from him that he’s not ready to give, but there’s a faint ache in her chest all the same. "See you in the morning,” she says, like it’s nothing.

“Yeah,” Joel replies, already half in shadow

He steps aside so she can pass, the faint scent of whiskey lingering between them. She pulls the door closed behind her, boots echoing down the hall until they fade. Joel stands there for a moment, staring at the door like maybe he’ll call her back. 

He doesn’t.

authors notes:

thank you for your comments and shares. i hope you keep doing both. i really love writing this.

xx

💋💋💋

[gothicpaperback]

green-eyed monster | dieter bravo x f!reader

wc: 17,8k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Boston QZ to Jackson Joel Miller x reader

summary: dating dieter bravo felt like stepping into a dream, loud, chaotic and more real than i ever expected. but one night, after overhearing him with his beautiful co-star, insecurity crept in, widening the gap between us until i couldn’t hold on anymore. but sometimes what’s lost has a way of circling back.

the OC female character is YOU. she is only given a nickname and barely physically described aside from being able bodied. she has a brief back story.

tags/warnings: angst, jealousy, insecurity, smut, fluff, happy ending

the green-eyed monster

“The simple lack of her is more to me than others' presence." - Edward Thomas

I didn't want to be jealous, I really didn't. 

I knew that when I started dating Dieter Bravo that he'd be in the public eye. He was arguably one of the most famous actors in the world at the moment, having a meteoric rise after the Bubble documentary came out. 

Being seen dating someone would be box office poison. His PR manager was clear on that. Everyone wanted to imagine him single, that a man with that many green flags could be theirs if only...

I knew that he would have to continue on acting like he was unattached and overtly flirtatious with co-stars. He was a thoughtful, emotional, touchy guy and always had been. His charm is what drove the crowd to see him in blockbusters, beating records, sending the cash flowing in.

It's how the studios made money which is how he made money. Money that paid for his family back in South America. Money that whisked me away for a weekend in Paris to celebrate our two month anniversary, where the paparazzi don't follow and locals don't know about him. Money that buys thoughtful cards, that pays for creative dates and sends presents when he's overseas and wants to make me smile. 

And honestly, it makes me happy. Not the gifts, not the money, but the thoughtfulness. That despite his schedule he thinks of others. It's nice. Actually, it's more than nice. It's wonderful. He's wonderful. And as if proving that point my phone dings as I wake up. 

It's a text with a selfie of him in a makeup chair, lips pursed giving a wink. 

Morning baby. Bet I'm wearing more makeup than you are. xx

I giggle, eyes so foggy with sleep as I type back. 

Yeah but you make it look so good

No one knows we're dating, not even my friends. It feels too early to tell anyone. But my friends are women and men of taste and like everyone else in the world, they're going crazy for his latest press tour, sending me links going

fuuuck I would ruin him 💦💦

 They always make me giggle to myself. 

But the things I like the best about being with Dieter are the quiet, secret moments reading on the couch together or how he listens to every story I tell even if he's heard it before. 

And that's what I should be remembering when later that morning I open up my phone at work, preparing to scroll Instagram before I begin my day. But instead of cute dog videos and makeup tutorials I'm overwhelmed with what feels like a million videos of my boyfriend from his latest press interview for a love triangle film that everyone is excited for.

Dieter hasn’t played a romantic lead in years and his fans the world over are drooling at the latest trailer drop. The video that everyone seems to be obsessed with is the one of Hollywood stars Dieter, Olivia Lewis and Levi Kross being interviewed panel-style by a woman who works for Fandango. 

Olivia sits between the two men looking like a goddess with her straight red hair and large green eyes. Levi, handsome in that classical way, is a respectful distance away, but Dieter, my boyfriend, is as close as he can get to Olivia. But that isn't what's making me frown. The longer I watch something becomes very apparent. 

"Why is he laughing so hard?" I whisper to myself. "She's not that funny."

Dieter always told me I was the funniest person he knew. That’s what drew him to me in the first place. And yet here I am, watching my boyfriend falling over himself to laugh at everything she says. Yeah, she's hot and funny. I get it. But he's acting like Olivia is doing a one woman stand up act and it's pissing me off. 

I read the comments below

Didn't she just break up with her bf??

Are they dating?

The arm at the back of her chair...oh he's in love-love

Why are they so cute together?

Their chemistry is unreal

I should stop watching this before I crack a tooth from grinding my teeth so hard. But I don't, I feel like my eyes are glued to the screen. I try to ignore it and focus on the way he gets so excited to talk about music and books. Books I've recommended. Music he introduced me to. 

But still, it's the laughter that turns my stomach. That true, unbridled laughter that he usually reserves for just us. For when I say something that makes him collapse into braying chuckles, that brings tears to his eyes. 

And Olivia is doing that to him without even trying. She's so composed and well spoken. The opposite of me in so many ways. For the first time since I started dating Dieter I feel insecurity. A strange helplessness as I watch their undeniable chemistry. 

I've never been a jealous partner. I'm not a woman who needs constant validation or needs to be with their partner joined at the hip. 

I'm independent and normally Dieter's schedule is fine with me. We talk every night; we see each other when we can. Of course there's a few times when the visits are spread between weeks at a time and he's tired from work during our nightly chats, but those times are few and far between. 

My job isn't one that requires limelight. In fact, I'm an incredibly private person. Yeah, I have social media because I'm a living breathing human in 2025, but I don't enjoy other people staring at me. My posts are almost all nature, travel or animals. 

My job is professional, something I love and something I would lose if my life became a media circus. And while I really like my boyfriend, I'm not willing to sacrifice everything for him. 

We've only been dating five months, and I really really like him. But I've been burned before so I'm not rushing into anything. 

There was one time about three months in when we were making out on my couch that Dieter's eyes softened and his thumb traced my lip. In that moment I thought he might whisper that he loved me. My pulse went frantic, eyes wide.

And I don't know if it was my reaction or his own reticence, but he never said it. He just gazed at me until I pressed my lips to his, urging him on top of me and showing him without words just how I felt about him. 

So love isn't said. It's too early for me to hear it and I think too early for him to say it. He's been burnt before too.

He's been in relationships before; long-term and one night stands, relationships with men and women kept under wraps. But you'll never read about them in the papers. His PR team is very on top of things. 

One night with my head balanced on his shoulder I muttered that all the men I dated 

broke my heart in some shape or form. He said the same happened to him. 

"It's because we're too empathetic," he told me as he brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. "We show our hearts and people take advantage."

But everything about Dieter feels safe and calm and I don't need the word love coming in and spoiling it. I'm just enjoying it for what it is. 

Until now. Until that interview is everywhere with my boyfriend laughing at something a fellow actor is saying. I keep watching, punishing myself, like a bruise I keep digging my thumb into. Until it's been sent to me by everyone I know and it's everywhere by the time I get off work. 

And I'm angry for reasons I can't properly explain. 

I'm in my apartment in my sweats eating pizza in front of the television later that evening. My mind is still distracted even as I watch the show, enjoying the gooey goodness of my meal. 

I can't help it. It's one thing to have a boyfriend, it's quite another to have a boyfriend that is currently one of the most famous people in the world. 

When my phone rings during a commercial break I know exactly who it is because it's been our regular chat time while he's been overseas. 

By this time of night he's done with interviews and about to wind down. His voice is low and raspy from talking all day. He'll ask me about work, loving all the work drama and gossip even though he'll refuse to admit it. 

But tonight I don't reach for my phone. I watch it like it's a bomb about to go off if I touch it, staring at it with the weirdest sensation in my belly. I feel nauseated and hot and I don't want to talk to him.  

So for the first time since we started seeing each other, I ignore the phone, letting it ring until it goes to voicemail, 

I watch TV and eat my dinner while I force myself not to think of him. When I finally check my phone before bed I see his missed call and text. 

I missed hearing your beautiful voice. You must be busy. Don't work too hard! I'm heading out for drinks and might be out late so I'll call tomorrow. Sweet dreams baby. Xx

My spiral begins that evening in bed and carries on into the next morning when more videos resurface. Seems the amount of promotional work on this is never ending. And along with that another one. This one with Olivia sniffling him, a smile on her face. 

"That's what I smell like when you borrow my clothes." 

The rest of the interview blurs away. All I can see is his broad smile and the way his eyes follow her movements. He's wearing her clothes.  He's finding reasons to touch her.  He keeps wanting to talk about how beautiful she is. 

His PR team tells him the second he announces he's in a relationship his career is tanked. He's told me in the past that they tell him to play up the flirting angle with his female co-stars. He's not the first to do it; it seems popular for leads in films to cater to this audience-fed delusion. 

So that must be what's going on here. 

"It's just an act," I tell himself. "He's an actor." 

But my stomach is heavy with an insecurity I've never felt before. Another message came through while I slept. 

Morning baby. Xx

For the first time I wonder if Dieter will realizes that this is too much, that he needs a woman or man from the industry, someone who can hop on a plane whenever he wants the company overseas.

 I stay at my desk all day, trying to avoid everyone the best that I can. More videos are sent my way and I watch each one like an idiot, giving myself a migraine. 

My best friend Riley sends a message through just when I think I might scream in frustration.

Are we going to dinner this weekend? Thai place?

And are you finally going to tell me who you're dating?

I'm not dating anyone. 

Suuuure. That's why you've been busy every night and all blushy when you look at your phone. 😜

Why is the world determined to make me think of him? 

I shove my phone into my purse and focus all my energy on the screen in front of me. I hear it buzz every once in a while but I remain on task until quitting time. 

I walk to my car, scrolling through the messages feeling my stomach sink with each one. 

Missed talking to you last night.

A selfie of him holding a cup of coffee

No more interviews please 🔫 Hope you're still alive??  I miss you xx 

I also miss 🍕. But I miss you more.

If I have to answer another question about love I am going to punch something  Are you okay? 

I'm being immature. I need to stop acting like this, I tell myself on the drive home.

He's never given me reason to question how he feels about me, I remind myself as I step into the shower. I want to wash all the negativity off of my body. 

I try to remember all the good times. Nights spent in his arms, the way he traced shapes along my back, his sleepy deep voice murmuring how good I felt when I rode him in the morning light, both of us warm from sleep.  

But no matter how good the memories are, I just keep thinking about how he looked laughing. How it seemed so genuine. 

"Stop it," I mutter as I reheat my leftover pizza. 

We've had the exclusivity talk. The agonizing one where you sit across from each other and try to dance around the subject until one of you admits "I only want to see you” and the other person agrees. He'd been the one to suggest exclusivity and I had readily agreed. 

So why am I so anxious bringing my leftovers to the couch? This is my sweet, thoughtful boyfriend. I open my phone and Face Time him. Moments later a familiar set of dark brown eyes gaze back at me, brows raised when he sees my face. 

"There she is." 

"Hey Bravo," I greet him, trying not to sound tired. 

I rarely call him by his first name, I don't know why. Maybe because it's our thing, our secret little names. Maybe because I'm sick of hearing his first name screamed when he's in public. 

His hair is damp from the shower, stray curls falling into his forehead. His shoulders strain the soft looking T-shirt he wears. It's one of my favorites. 

 His dimpled smile greets me through the screen. "Hey Parker. Was wondering what happened to you." 

Parker is not my name. He calls me Parker for "Nosy Parker". The first time I heard the expression I had to Google what it meant, right there in front of him during our first date. 

nos·y par·ker /ˈnōzē ˈpärkər/ nounderogatory•informal an overly inquisitive person.

He'd meant it sweetly, but I was offended when I read that. The panic that crossed his face when I told him it was rude was almost worth it. 

"No, it's because, uh, uh, uh, you just ask a lot of questions," he stammered nervously, brows knitted as he brushed his wild hair back with his fingers. "But that's not a bad thing. I like it. It's cute. Aw fuck, I’m fucking this up." 

I shouldn't have been so delighted that he called me cute. I was a grown woman, not a star-struck teen. And yet the compliment had my cheeks warming. 

But now as I Face Time him all the usual giggly girlishness is missing from my expression and he can see it. He sits up from the bed he was laying on. He's wearing sweats as well, a forgotten salad left behind on the bed as he stands. 

"What's wrong?" He makes a dramatic frowning face. "Who do I need to kill?"

"No one," I say with a false laugh. "It's not... Nothing. How is the press tour going?"

"How they all go," he sighs. 

I watch him collapse into a nearby chair, the sight of the city behind him. A niggle of jealousy is behind my sternum, knowing he gets to go all over the world. 

He pulls on his green robe as we start to chat, looking so soft and sweet that I have to hold in a sigh. "It's boring and brutal and my back is killing me." 

"Mhmm."

"At least Olivia is fun to be around," he continues with a yawn. "She's funny. You'd like her." 

Why is my stomach clenching? He's had female coworkers before. Beautiful ones. But none that made him laugh like he did in that interview I watched earlier.  "I bet."

"She's making us go out for drinks later."

"Mhmm." 

I look down at my pathetic pizza and think of how different our evenings will be. His will involve alcohol and laughter. Lots of cheek kisses and lingering hugs. 

He's an affectionate man and gets extra touchy-feely when he drinks. It's never bothered me before now. I listen to him talk about the interviews he's finished today. Apparently today they had the three of them compete in decorating a heart-shaped cake 

"Olivia won of course," he mentions with a grin. "She's good at everything, damn her."

He laughs and it takes everything in me to laugh back. He makes a pouty face. "I just want this to be over. I want to be back home with you watching Love is Blind." 

I can't help but smile when he says this. It's our comfort show. But still something gnaws at my insides, not letting me rest. 

"Yeah, well, the weather here sucks so I'm sure you're much happier there." 

I see his eyes go soft on the edges. "I'd be even happier if you were here with me," he says softly in a low pitch that he knows makes me weak. 

I look away from the phone.

"Are you having pizza?" He groans when he sees it in my lap. "Fuck, I miss pizza."  

He faces the camera to the bed where a bowl of wilted salad with a handful of pathetic looking tomatoes sits crookedly atop his mattress. 

"This is my grand meal. Remind me not to sign on to play a love interest ever again. I miss carbs. You know how bad I want a burger?"

I listen to him and I can't get over that he's just acting so unnervingly normal. It's like he wasn't all over his coworker, laughing his head off like she is the funniest person alive this week. 

"Eating in bed is disgusting," I remind him.

My voice comes out harder than I intended, so much so that I flinch. I don't know why I'm being like this. So sharp and unkind. He's being sweet and funny and I'm here like a rain cloud. 

He switches the camera back to face him, his handsome face amused. 

"So come here and stop me," he says, unbothered by my attitude, wagging his eyebrows. "If you're in my bed, the only thing I'm eating is-"

I don't let him finish. "You know I can't just be there with you."

His smile falters.  "I know, baby," he says and he looks so devastated I almost feel guilty. "Sorry for saying that." 

"No, it's not... You didn't do anything wrong." 

I feel cold all over. I want to cry and I want to yell. I want to shake him through the phone and demand to know who makes him laugh harder, her or me? 

I'm insane. That's an insane thing to want.

He's watching me carefully, eyes warm. I can see him focusing on my absent smile. 

"Are you doing okay, baby?" He asks gently. "You seem upset."

How can I get him the truth? That I'm jealous? That I'm insecure because another woman made him laugh? That would be humiliating. 

"Just a long day."

"Oh tell me about it," he says with more laughter in his voice. "The three of us were promoting from five am this morning until an hour ago. Olivia suggested a mass suicide just to get out of tomorrow's events."

He laughs and I hate him for it. I hate her. I hate everything.

Normally I love hearing about his day, I pepper him with questions while I cook dinner. Or I lay in bed cozy in pyjamas while he sends me photos and videos of his day, telling me little anecdotes. 

"I told her I'm paranoid she's serious enough that she might just spike our drinks tonight." 

He laughs again, that sweet chuckle. And the sound of it twists something in me, turning everything bright and joyful into inky darkness.

"Yeah, I think our definitions of a long day are kind of different." That sounded so bitchy even as I was saying it. 

He squints a little, like he doesn't recognize me. "What do you mean?"

Don't say it. 

"Meaning I don't get to dress up and laugh all day doing cheesy cooking segments or asking what my favourite book is. I have to work an actual real job."

The silence that follows is excruciating. 

When his brows lower and the amusement that was in his face diminishes I know I've gone too far. 

"So what I do isn't a real job?" 

I go quiet. Why did I start this? Why am I being such a bitch?  

"Being an actor isn't a real job?" He continues his frown brutal. "Why? Because I'm not in an office?" 

I can't look at him anymore, turning my eyes from him. I'm scared I'll say something worse because I don't feel like myself. 

"Would it be better if I sat behind a desk all day?" He snaps. "Would that make my work legitimate to you?"

I don't want to talk about this anymore. I shake my head. "Don't. Please." 

He's pacing back and forth in front of the window now, jaw ticking. "You ignore my texts, you insult my job and I'm not allowed to say anything back?"

I can feel my chin wobbling and I refuse to face him. But maybe that's for the best because he sounds furious.  

"You get how that was a really fucked up thing to say, right?"

We've never really fought before. It's never been necessary. We usually laugh or make love or sometimes both at the same time.I've seen him mad at other people; paparazzi, assholes who shove their camera in his face. But I've never been on the receiving end of it. Seeing his irritation turned on me now makes me feel dizzy with regret. 

I meet his eyes through the screen and he looks so disappointed in me I want to shrivel up.

"I'm sorry," I whisper through a lump in my throat. "I-"

A knock sounds at the hotel door, cutting me off. I watch Dieter sigh, glancing over his shoulder and then back at me. "Just a sec."

"Okay."

He drops the phone on the bed and I hear him walking to the hotel door, pulling it open. I hear a chorus of voices off screen. 

"Hey fucker," I hear Olivia say in that sweet soft voice. "You were supposed to meet us in the lobby."

His voice is smooth in return. "Sorry I'm just on the phone."

"Is it Levi? Tell him he's late too."

There's gentle laughter again that Dieter now joins in on. The sound is rich and warm. "No no, just a friend." 

My stomach sinks. 

Just a friend. 

Friend. 

I suddenly feel like I'm going to be sick. All my previous regret at being unkind is erased. 

I'm nothing to him. He wants to appear single in front of her.

 I've known enough assholes to know why. 

"I'll be down in ten. I promise," he says and I hear mumbling and more light laughter before the close of the door.  He walks back and picks up the phone. His face is unreadable. 

"Hey, they're waiting on me." He looks so sad all of a sudden, eyes searching mine through the screen. "I think maybe we need-"

He's going to break up with me.  I see the signs; not mentioning I'm his girlfriend, the constant talk of another woman. I refuse to let it happen. I refuse to let my soft heart get trampled on. Not by him. Not with how hard I’ve fallen.

"I think we need to end things." 

He's so still when I say that, I'm concerned his screen froze.  But then he double blinks. "What?" 

"This isn't working for me," I say refusing to let my voice waver. I can't keep my eyes on his face, they move around the screen. 

He speaks softly. "Because of my job?"

Because of how she made you laugh. Because you told her I'm just your friend. Because I'm scared I'm falling for you too fast and too intensely. 

"I just think we need to end things. Before things get... Messy."

Dieter just sits on the bed looking dumbfounded. I want to feel bad but all I can think of is his words. 

Just a friend.

Just a friend.

I'm doing the right thing. If I didn't do it he was going to. I saved him the stress. Maybe I'll be some dating footnote in the future; the woman who dumped him over Face Time. 

He sighs slowly. "You don't want to talk about it?"

Just a friend. 

I need this end to be torn like a Band-Aid. Quick and painful but fast. 

Just a friend. 

"There's nothing to talk about."

"We've been together for five months" he says, throat bobbing. "What did I do wrong?"

I wasn't expecting him to say that. Not with that gentle voice. I thought he would have given a relieved thank you, but instead he looks truly upset. Sometimes I don't trust that he's not just acting. That he's not just playing a part. 

Even still I think about taking it back and insisting I'm just having a bad day. Asking if I can come and see him just for the weekend. But those words won't leave me. 

Just a friend. 

"I just don't want to be in a relationship," I lie.

"Are we moving too fast? Or?" His voice dances the edge between devastated and hopeful.

"I'm just not... I'm not in the head space for it. But I wish you the best. I hope the promo goes well. Have a great time with Olivia."

I watch his expression turn from defeated to completely neutral. He takes a deep breath, blinking as he looks to the side, away from the camera. His earring catches the light, twinkling, reminding me of when I nibble his lobe and he groans my name. Of when he holds me in bed, of when he kisses me goodbye.

A desperate voice in my head is yelling at me to stop this. That I need to talk things out with him.

But the louder part keeps reminding me of the interviews.

 Just a friend. 

"Travel safe, Bravo."

I think I see his eyes go shiny but he double blinks again. "Thanks, Parker," he says in a thick voice. "Sweet dreams." 

He ends the call before I can reply. 

I turn my phone over, breathing shallowly. Tears run down my cheeks but I know I've made the right decision. 

My heart is safe. 

It's been three weeks since we ended things.  Three weeks of blocking his name, three weeks of throwing myself into work and six weeks of missing him so much my heart aches. I still follow him on Instagram because a pathetic part of me still wants to see him every day. He has millions of people following him so I know he won't notice if I watch his stories. 

Plus I scroll through his entire feed one weekend when I'm on my period whilst crying and eating chocolate ice cream and extra salty chips (don't judge me). He's to start promotion on the movie but in England this week. I only know because my Dieter-obsessed co-worker Bea keeps talking about it. 

Her desk is a shrine to him. Candles with his face on them, little Cliff Beasts Lego sets, a Gio bobble head, a mug with his picture on it, his autograph on a playbill she got off the internet, etc. 

I used to smile every time I passed her desk, thinking of my then-boyfriend with a little flush of affection. Just this warm, ridiculous thing in my chest. I’d catch sight of his face on her monitor background, or overhear his name in her cheerful voice, and it would feel like some secret we shared. Mine. Ours.

Now when I walk by, I feel defeated. The second I catch a glimpse of his face, that stupidly cute grin frozen in thumbnail, it spikes something hot and sour in my throat. It’s like seeing a version of him I’m not invited to know anymore.

"Have you watched any of his latest videos?" Emily’s voice floats across the office, chipper and unassuming.

I freeze mid-step. She’s talking to Emily, who’s curled up in one of the plush rolling chairs with her legs folded underneath her. She’s nursing a mug of peppermint tea and nodding along eagerly.

“He and Olivia are gorgeous together,” Emily adds, and they both laugh. A soft, breathy kind of laugh that twists something sharp in my gut.

They don’t mean anything by it. Of course they don’t. They’re just fans. Just watching like everyone else. They have no idea that we split up. That I miss him so hard my heart physically aches. 

I’m typing when I hear Emily call my name. I raise my head. "Hm?" 

Emily tilts her head, smiling kindly. “Bea was asking if you’d seen the new promo stuff.”

I shake my head. 

"Oh my gawd you need to," Bea drawls dramatically. "He is so sexy."

Emily grins, cradling her mug like she’s about to spill hot gossip. "He and Olivia are so touchy-feely. Bea’s obsessed.”

“They’re seriously so cute. The way he's always holding her? I die. Their chemistry is insane.”

My face must do something, flicker, tighten because Emily’s smile falters just barely. Bea is like a watch dog.

“Have you not been watching? I feel like the videos are everywhere. You used to love him.”

My eyes fly open before I realize the context. "Uh… no," I say, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear, pretending to sort through emails. "Not really."

Emily blinks. “Since when?”

I fake a shrug. "I guess I just have Dieter Bravo fatigue," I say with a tight, lopsided smile. “I mean, he’s been in everything this summer.”

Bea laughs. "He is everywhere but I'm the opposite of fatigued."

Bea’s eyes are round with excitement, clasping her hands under her chin like she’s thirteen again, watching her favourite boy band on TRL. Emily has a bite mark on her straw and keeps twisting it between her teeth as Bea talks. 

"And when he laughed?” she says breathlessly, eyes glittering. “Like, that low thing he does when he’s really trying not to break? He’s so boyfriend-coded. It’s not fair.”

I want to crawl under my desk, curl up behind the recycling bin, and wait out the day. But I don’t say any of that. I just swallow, and try to will the heat from my face.

“He’s so into her,” Bea adds with the authority of someone who has re-watched the clip twelve times and taken notes. “Like, he can’t even help it. You can see it all over his face. He was practically purring,” Bea, and now she’s lounging back, legs stretched out, absolutely luxuriating in the fantasy. “Honestly if I were her, I’d be pregnant by now.”

Emily giggles. They’re having the time of their lives. A private fan club at full volume.

I make a small sound of passive agreement and force my lips into something vaguely smile-shaped. My phone feels slippery in my hand. I nod like I’m in on the joke before excusing myself to use the washroom. 

The ladies’ room is mercifully empty. I lock myself in the furthest stall and sit down even though I don’t need to. My thumb moves on its own, muscle memory pulling up the video that they're talking about. 

I shouldn’t click play. I know better, I know how it will end, but I do it anyway. I sit hunched at my desk with one ear bud tucked in, the glow of my phone screen highlighting the width of my eyes.

He’s wearing that soft white T-shirt I used to steal, sleeves shoved to his elbows and Olivia is rubbing at the place behind his ear with the ease of someone who does it often. He’s laughing low, just like Bea said.

The interviewer asks something about on-set chemistry, and Dieter leans back in his chair, grinning like a man with nothing to hide.

“Oh, Olivia hated me at first,” he says, his hand sliding easily over the back of her chair. “Didn’t you, babe?”

She arches an eyebrow, smirking. “Hate is a strong word. Let’s just say you were… insufferable. Loud.”

“Loud?” He widens his eyes innocently, letting his hand brush her shoulder. “I’m so offended.”

She snorts, shaking her head, but her fingers find his forearm briefly, a soft, traitorous little touch that makes my stomach flip. “See what I had to put up with?” she says to the interviewer, but she’s smiling at him, not them.

It’s lighthearted, playful, and so natural it doesn’t even feel like acting. And then Dieter laughs full and easy, like he always does and tosses out, “Don’t let her fool you. She’s just as bad. I couldn’t get rid of her even if I wanted to.”

My chest tightens. The way she leans into him, the way his voice softens when he says it it’s too much. She rubs the back of his neck when she reads one of the cue cards. When he calls her “babe” again, so casual, so unconscious, I lower the phone face-down on the desk, my pulse hammering. Hot tears prick the corners of my eyes.

Not here. Not in front of my coworkers. Their keyboards clack steadily in the background, oblivious, while I force myself to breathe evenly, staring blankly at my screen. All I can hear, looping in my head, is his voice. Babe.      

He called me babe too. Said it low and teasing, like I was the only person on earth he could say it to like that. Told me I was his safe place. Now he’s on every screen in the office. In every group chat. In Bea and Emily’s breathless little conversations like he was never mine at all.

I look down at the phone in my lap. The video’s still playing but I’m not watching it anymore. I turn it off and my reflection stares back at me in the black of the screen, eyes wide and wet and ridiculous.

I press my palms to my cheeks.

Get it together. You’re at work.  It was never going to end well. 

My phone buzzes in my hand, jolting me from the pit I’ve managed to dig in the stall. I wipe at my face with the inside of my wrist and glance down. Riley

pls come out tonight i’m begging club vibe. hot people. cool drinks. u need this.

I let my head fall back against the metal partition with a soft thunk. Clubbing. The kind of thing I normally find overwhelming and sticky and too loud. But Riley knows that, and she’s still pushing.

also. i might have invited someone i think you’ll like. tall. very employed. hot. i’m not saying this is a rebound mission but like… u could bounce. real high.

A sigh escapes me. I tap out a slow reply, thumb hovering over the send button more times than I care to count.

Riley. I’m not really in a “meet someone” headspace.

Almost as soon as I hit send, the dots start pulsing.

The silence in the bathroom is so stark now it feels like it’s cooling on my skin. I think about Bea and Emily laughing.

I think about babe. I think about Olivia’s hand on the back of his neck. The way he leaned into it like it meant nothing. Why should I sit here like a ghost, scrolling through his life on mute, while he flirts his way through interviews like I never mattered?

We’re broken up. This is what broken up looks like. So maybe I should stop pretending I’m still waiting on a version of him that’ll call me and say he was wrong. Maybe I should go out. Dance. Drink something fluorescent. Let a hot stranger press his hand to the small of my back and ask me if I want another. I swallow and text her.

Fine. But I’m not wearing heels.

i’ll be there at 9. wear something slutty.

I exhale and finally stand, legs stiff. In the mirror my face is a little puffy, but not a total wreck. I run my fingers under cold water and press them beneath my eyes, tapping gently like I’m coaxing the sadness out through my skin.

It doesn’t work, of course. But at least tonight, I won’t be crying in bed to the sound of his voice.

Tonight, I’ll wear something short. I’ll drink something neon. I’ll pretend I don’t remember the feel of his hands. The sound of him whispering mine against my throat.

The night I first decided Dieter and I should sleep together I'd been a nervous wreck. I knew his reputation and I was worried he would push me. That he’d be high on cocaine and ask me for a threesome. But he was nothing like the press painted him.

We'd been together a month and he was still there, still dedicated and listening and sweet. No red flags aside from his grumpy mood when he didn't sleep enough. Our make out sessions had gone from tentative to absolutely filthy and truly, after making me cum with his fingers that many times I figured it was time to seal the deal.

I made a special dinner, (okay, I ordered a special dinner and plated it to look like I made it), which impressed him when he showed up and I whirled the door open, trying to stand sexily. He was charmingly boyish in that moment, on my doorstep, flowers in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other. His smile was almost shy until he saw the dress I'd worn. Low cut, revealing. My hair curled and tousled my lips glossy. He could see I'd gone to a lot of trouble. 

"You look stunning," he'd said, taking me in. His voice was pitched low and silken as he walked in and I was a goner. 

Dinner with music in the background, laughter over wine and then finally dessert. Chocolate covered strawberries: not subtle but not overt. We ate the first of them quietly, like we both knew where this was going. His eyes didn't leave my face. 

"I can't believe you did all this for me," he said over his wine glass. 

"I mean, Grubhub did it, if I'm honest."

"Yeah, I saw the boxes in the trash."

I hiccuped a laugh but then sobered as he lowered his glass. I fixated on his deft fingers, the rings that decorated them, the way they curled lightly around the rim, the soft pad of his thumb resting near the condensation. My eyes followed the movement of his hand as he set the glass down, then lifted to his face, his plump mouth slightly parted, flushed from wine and the heat between us.

“Should we take the rest of these to the bedroom?” I asked my voice lighter than I felt. My chest was tightening already, my breath coming shallow with anticipation and nerves.

His eyes met mine, steady and dark and blazing. “Yes. Definitely.”

The chocolates weren’t even remembered. I think one had melted halfway in the box. But I wasn’t thinking about that because he was already on his feet, reaching for me, pulling me into his arms with a quiet urgency. 

He kissed me like he’d been waiting all night to do it properly, heat and affection wrapped up in one long, sinking press of his mouth against mine. We made it to the bedroom somehow, I don’t even remember how. A blur of bumping into walls, breathless laughter, his hands fumbling for mine, guiding me backward. 

We barely came up for air, mouths still searching, touching. All I know is that by the time we fell onto the mattress, our clothes were gone, layer by layer, tugged away between kisses, until there was nothing left between us but skin and breath and the soft creak of the bed beneath us.

He was beautiful, of course he was. That was no surprise. What shook me was the way he looked at me. Like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of me in that moment.

It undid me. All the air I’d been holding slowly left my lungs.

“You’re so…” he started, voice low and rough like he’d been thinking it for a while but didn’t know how to say it out loud. He blinked once, brow knitting faintly. “Important.”

That pulled a crooked smirk from me. I blinked up at him, amused despite the breathlessness in my chest. “What?”

He flushed, pink blooming up his cheekbones. “No, sorry, that was… I mean, like, you’re important to me.”

He looked so earnest and embarrassed to be saying something sincere, like it snuck out before he could dress it up in humour. Something in me softened, completely. I felt it melt down my spine like warm honey.

“You too,” I whispered, a little breathless. “You’re important to me too.”

The look he gave me after that was indescribable. But it made me melt even further. He brushed his fingers along my jaw, slow and careful, then down the curve of my neck, his thumb pausing in the hollow of my throat as if to feel the beat of my heart. 

When he leaned in again, it was gradual, a quiet pull between us, like gravity. His nose bumped mine, breath mingling. His hand settled low on my back, bare and warm and solid. The kiss, when it came, was soft and reverent. Not hungry or rushed. It was like he was tasting the moment itself, not just me.

I curled into him, fingertips sliding along the smooth plane of his shoulder, and he sighed. His lips moved from mine to my jaw, down the side of my neck, slower with each one. 

“You make everything better” he murmured against my skin. “Even in my head. I didn’t know that was possible.”

My chest swelled, aching with how much I wanted to believe him. How much I did believe him, in that moment, even as my mind tried to sabotage it.

His mouth found my shoulder, lips brushing it softly. He paused there, his hand splayed at the small of my back, holding me against him as our hips began to roll together. And still, I couldn’t stop it. Even as he kissed along my shoulder, traced soft, reverent lines down my spine, something in my chest started to twist.

This terrible, creeping voice inside whispering that I couldn’t possibly be the first to hear those words. That someone else had laid here before. Had felt his arms wrap around them and been told they were important, too. That this is what he said to everyone before dumping them. That I was on a long list of many broken hearts.

The fear returned sharp and sudden. Unbidden. Unwanted. But there. And I hated that it was stealing from me. From this.

It made me anxious. Shaky, suddenly and I tensed without meaning to. He stilled instantly, head lifting just enough to see me. His brows drew in the faintest bit, lips parting like he was about to speak but hadn’t yet found the words.

“Hey,” he said, softly. One hand rose to cradle my cheek, thumb grazing just under my eye. “What happened?”

I tried to smile, or something like it. “Nothing,” I said quickly, too quickly. “I’m fine. Just keep going.”

But even as I said it, I could feel how forced it sounded. A defence mechanism with cracks already forming. He didn’t push. Didn’t frown or sigh. He just stayed there, eyes steady on mine, his touch still warm against my face.

There was a pause. Not uncomfortable, exactly, just thick. Like the air between us had changed and neither of us could pretend it hadn’t.

“I don't want to rush this with you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “We can take our time." 

I swallowed hard, willing myself not to cry. It felt stupid. I didn’t even know how to explain what I was feeling. Just this sudden sense that I was one in a long, beautiful line and next to go on the chopping block. I didn’t care that he’d had other lovers, my fear was different. That everything I was experiencing had probably already been said and done with someone else before they were unceremoniously tossed to the curb.

I thought of the men who dumped me, who claimed I was too much work and how could I possibly be different in Dieter’s eyes? It made me want run away or to push from him but when my hands curled slightly against his chest, my fingers began pressing into his skin like I needed to hold onto something solid.

"I just feel... I'm..." I tried to find the words but the more I attempted it the further they flew out of my head.

He smelled so good and felt so good that I couldn't concentrate. He exhaled slowly and sat up a little more, brushing my hair back from my face. His palm lingered against the side of my head, holding me. His gaze didn’t waver.

“We don’t do anything you’re not into,” he murmured, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "It's no fun if you're not into it." 

The way he said it wasn’t defensive or irritated, it was calm. Assuring. Like this was something we’d already agreed on long before tonight.

"I don't want to do this until you're so sure you're jumping me," he continued with a smirk but his voice had that familiar low timbre, gentle but firm, full of care.

“I’m just in my head,” I admitted quietly. “That’s all. I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, brushing the tip of his nose against mine. “No apologizing.”

He kissed my eyelids next, slow and deliberate, like he was blessing me, like he had all the time in the world. Then he wrapped his arms around me, not to pull me back into anything, but just to hold me. One arm lay low across my back, the other hand curled gently against the back of my neck. No pressure, just presence.

I closed my eyes at the weight of it. I was scared at how tender that made me feel. I blinked hard, biting down against the rising sting behind my eyes. Because it would be so much easier if he were a little careless. If he brushed it off. If he laughed it away and kept going and let me pretend it didn’t matter.

But he didn’t. He just stayed. And that, his stillness, his patience, was what undid me most of all.

His arms were a steady weight around me, his palm warm against my back. I tucked my head under his chin and closed my eyes, listening to the steady sound of his breathing as it slowed.We didn’t say anything else. We just lay there, hearts thudding quietly in sync, until sleep took us both.

And now I’m at a crowded club wearing one of Riley’s slutty dresses and wishing I was anywhere else.

It’s a strappy, clingy black number that rides up every time I breathe and has me tugging at the hem like it’s a nervous tic. My heels hurt. My mascara’s smudged from the heat. The drinks are overpriced, watery, and all taste like mouthwash. The music sucks, something aggressively bass-heavy and forgettable and everywhere I look, I see couples pressed together like magnets or clusters of guys with glossy eyes and wandering hands.

I’ve already had to slap one away from grabbing my ass on the dance floor. He called me a bitch and stumbled off. Charming. Riley, meanwhile, is in her element. She’s the social butterfly flitting from our corner booth to the bar to the edge of the dance floor where she’s collecting compliments like tips. She looks amazing—neon pink top, sparkly eye shadow, her hair slicked into a glossy knot and I love her. I do. But I don’t belong here.

The guy she wants me to meet is late. Or bailed. Or imaginary. I don’t care. I’m not planning on sticking around.I chew absently on the end of my straw and open Instagram on my phone.

The first thing that greets me is a gif set of Olivia scratching Dieter's bare chest through his shirt. Another is a Dieter & Olivia interview, this one cropped and captioned by some fan account.

Could they be more perfect together?!!!

Olivia is chatting about the movie while Dieter sits there looking mischievous. I love that little smile he does. 

"Are you tired from all the promoting?"

"No, actually. It's been really fun and we've had a great time together," Olivia says, grasping his hand tightly. But there's something off about Dieter. Something I can't quite put my finger on. He's upbeat but there's something in his eyes. 

Does he miss me?

Yeah right. That's delusional on a grand scale. He hasn't tried to contact me since our final phone call. And I deleted him from my contacts before I did something desperate and pathetic. 

"I find myself staring into his eyes," Olivia says. "He's got such a sensual gaze."

They both laugh. I don’t. Why did he make it seem like he was so upset when I suggested breaking up? He seems to be doing just fine. Olivia is beautiful and she makes him laugh like I used to do.

"Yeah,” Olivia says fondly to the interviewer. “He’s a perfect gentleman.”

The interviewer smiles. “I can see that.”

And she can. Everyone can. It’s right there in his quiet magnetism, this devastating sweetness. 

“Yeah, yeah, you can see what I mean,” Olivia says, gesturing at him like he’s a painting she’s proud of. “This is what always happens. That’s the Dieter effect.”

My stomach clenches.

“I’m not always a gentleman,” he muses with a wicked grin, voice velvet-slick and low.

The interviewer makes a joke, something flirty and light, but I’m not listening anymore. My face has gone hot and my throat feels full.

“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath.

“Shit, at least let me buy you a drink before you write me off.”

I look up. The guy standing in front of me is tall and golden-skinned, with wavy black hair, dark green eyes, and a smile that lands somewhere between sheepish and confident. His dress shirt is half unbuttoned, sleeves pushed to the elbow, and he’s holding out a drink with an eyebrow raised.

I blink. “You must be Will,” I start, and glance across the dance floor.

Sure enough, Riley is pointing dramatically at us from the DJ booth, mouthing THAT’S HIM like she just made a match on Love Island.

He laughs. “And you must be the best friend.”

“I am,” I say, accepting the drink and setting my phone down.

“Good.”

We talk. He’s easy to be around, his name’s William, he works in something half-creative, half-finance (I never quite catch the job title but I pretend to understand).  He tells me he moved here last year, that he’s sick of apps that Riley’s been trying to set him up for months. He smells good, clean and expensive, and he says the right things.

We dance for a while. He’s not pushy. Keeps one hand respectfully on my waist, lets me set the pace. He makes me laugh, once, really laugh, and I’m surprised by how good it feels.

Riley returns at some point and squeals, then immediately starts taking photos. Flash after flash. I groan and try to hide behind William, but she grins wickedly.

“You two are so cute,” she shouts over the music.

“Can’t hear you!” I yell back, rolling my eyes. 

William grins down at me. “She’s committed.”

I laugh and shake my head, heart pounding from more than just the beat. We dance another few songs, we sit, and he gets me another drink.

Later, when the club thins out a little, he leans in and says, “Hey. No pressure, but… do you want to come back to mine?”And for a second, I think about it. Really think about it. It would be easy. He’s attractive. Kind.

And Dieter is probably halfway across the world right now, kicking his feet over another viral Olivia interview, letting everyone imagine what it would be like to be on the receiving end of that slow, suggestive smile. Or he's off with his hairstylist and the rest of the crew hitting up bars and getting laid. Lord knows he doesn't have a problem in that department.

I could say yes to William with no guilt. He single. I'm single. But I don’t.

I offer William a small, honest smile. “You’ve been really sweet. But I’m not… I’m just not there.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t get cold or defensive. “Yeah. Okay. Fair enough.”

We exchange numbers, though I know I won’t call.

Riley doesn’t protest when I say I’m heading out. Just pulls me into a quick hug and makes me promise to text when I get home.

The air outside is sharp and too cold for the dress. I don’t bother fixing it. I walk slowly, heels clicking against the concrete, phone tucked in my palm like a lifeline. I take the long way home. Past the shuttered shops and glowing windows. Past couples leaning into each other, laughing in doorways. The sky is bruised purple above the rooftops.

My phone buzzes when I walk in the door. Riley's tagged me in a video on Instagram from tonight. I pause in the hallway of my apartment building, hitting play. The music pulses and Riley is weaving through the crowd, her face sweaty from all the people. 

"Finally got my girl out dancing!" She announces to the camera before turning it to face the crowd. "Isn't she hot?"

She zooms in on me shimmying between the crowds of people. Her loaned dress catches the light and makes me sparkle. I look really good. 

I didn't even know she was filming me for that long. Will’s hand clasps mine off-screen until he spins me back into his chest. He's saying something and I laugh, head tossed back. 

Riley keeps filming some of the other couples we came with, but she pokes the camera out way like I recall. 

William and I are dancing closely together, hips pressing, his hand splayed over my lower back. It looks more intimate than it was.

“You two are so cute,” Riley shouts over the music, drawing my irritated eye roll. I look absolutely scandalous from that angle, my breasts practically spilling out of my dress. I am never wearing it again.

“Can’t hear you!” I yell back.

William grins down at me and I laugh up at him when he mutters something amusing. That's where the video ends. I smirk to myself, shaking my head. I'm thankful I have barely anyone on Instagram that will ever see that. 

A shower, Gatorade and an aspirin later I slip between my bed sheets and refuse to look at my phone anymore.  Instead I start a chapter of the book I was reading, mind only half focused on the words. I think about how I'll go to brunch tomorrow with Riley. Maybe I'll tell her I was dating someone and it's too soon to be set up. 

Maybe I'll go to the bookstore down the street and grab something new for when this book is done. 

I'm going to stop watching his videos. I'm going to start moving on the best I can. This promo run can't last forever. 

My eyes are growing heavy when I hear the shrill ring of my phone. It cuts through the quiet like an axe, and I jolt upright, heart racing. 

The screen glows in the darkness beside me. Unknown number. It's almost 3 a.m.I hesitate then I swipe.

“Hello?”

There’s a breath on the other end, and then: “How long have you been seeing him?”

The voice is low and rough, tinged with something wet and slurred. My breath snags in my throat because I immediately recognize it.

“Bravo?”

“Parker.”

My stomach coils. He sounds calm. But not the kind of calm I've heard when he's been in heated arguments with his siblings or his agent. This is different. This is loaded.  There's no noise behind him, no voices or traffic or music. Just the eerie stillness of what I imagine is a dim hotel room, thousands of miles away.

“W-why are you calling me?” I manage.

His tone stays quiet but it thrums with anger, more than I’ve ever heard from him.

“You tell me that you aren't ready for a relationship," he hisses. "You end things all of a sudden and now you're tagged in some video all over some guy.”

A sick, curling feeling washes through me. Riley. The club. William’s hand on my hip, my head thrown back laughing, our bodies moving too close under neon lights.

“I wasn’t-” My voice catches. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Sure,” he says with a bitter sort of laugh in his throat. “Sure it wasn’t.”

I swallow thickly, unsure of what to say. "What were you doing before you called me?"

"Having drinks with friends." 

"Right." 

I try not to sound upset. I have no right to be. But he clocked the way my voice went tight. 

"What? That's not okay with you?" 

"Of course it's okay with me," I reply sharply. "It has to be, doesn't it?" 

Silence. 

"What the fuck am I doing?" He mutters angrily at himself. 

He lets out a frustrated sound halfway between a growl and a groan and it scrapes down my spine like a claw.

And I hate that it gets me wet.

That even now, with the heat of his anger wrapping around every word, his voice raspy and low and just this side of wrecked, it makes me whimper softly.

Sudden silence stretches thin between us. I can hear him breathing. Slow, shallow, uneven.

He heard me. 

My face burns as I sit there in the dark, phone pressed to my ear, sheets tangled around my legs like seaweed. I think about hanging up just as his voice comes through the speaker. 

“Touch yourself.”

My stomach lurches. “Dieter-”

“Now.”

There’s no room in that word. No hesitation. Just the way he always gets when something inside him breaks loose. 

I sit back against the headboard, the phone trembling slightly in my grip. My pulse pounds in my ears, my whole body hot and prickling, like I’ve been caught doing something wrong. 

We’ve done this before. On longer stretches apart, when time zones and hotel rooms and bad timing made physical closeness impossible. Nights when we couldn’t sleep and just needed to feel each other. I’d slide my hand beneath the sheets and close my eyes, listening to his voice in my ear while he stroked himself somewhere far away.

But this feels different. It's not warm and lusty, it’s sharp at the edges. Still, my fingers drift lower, under the band of my panties and I'm soaked.

“You thinking about him?” he asks, quiet and bitter. 

"W-who?" I whisper, eyes closing when my fingers splay over my clit. 

“That guy you were grinding all over at the club. Is that who you want right now?”

“No.” My voice is breathless already, shaky.  Fuck no. That guy doesn't even exist to me right now. 

"Who do you want? Who do you wish was there playing with your pussy?"

"You." 

I don't even feel ashamed for admitting it so readily. It's true, I do want him. I miss him. I regret things.  His breathing gets heavy and slow.

My fingers slide between slick folds and I gasp, the sound embarrassingly loud in the stillness of my bedroom.

“God, I can hear you,” he groans. And I know he's touching himself because I can hear that rhythmic slapping slowly starting up. “Fuck. I s-should hang up. I should-”

“No. Don’t. Please don't.”

I don’t even recognize my own voice. It’s desperate and pleading and low. His breathing shudders. 

"Who are you so wet for?"

"You."

“Say my name.”

I don't hesitate. "Dieter.”

"Louder, baby."

“I'm wet for you, Dieter.”

His exhale sounds like he’s just taken a drag from a cigarette. “That’s right.”

I bite my lip hard, trying to stay quiet. But it's hard to do when I can hear him groaning softly. He begins murmuring how he misses how I taste and I can't help but whine his name out again, fingers circling my clit furiously, the pleasure building. 

“Tell me what you’re doing.”

My breath catches. “You know what I’m doing.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

My eyes flutter shut. “I’m… rubbing my clit."

"Thinking about what?"

"Your mouth on me. Your hands. Your cock.”

His breathing deepens. "The way my cock opens you up so perfectly? Hm?" His voice is coming out breathily. "That first push in always feels so good, doesn't it baby?" 

"Fuck… Fuck yes."

It's my favourite moment each and every time. When he's notched at my soaked entrance, his mouth at my jaw before he feeds himself into me. When we both groan gently at the sweet stretch and he murmurs that I take him so well. 

"Yeah, no one stretches you like I do."

"No," I agree, panting, "no one." 

I’m already so close it’s embarrassing. It’s not just the sound of him, it’s everything. The ache in his voice. The possessiveness.

“Dieter,” I whimper, thighs trembling. “I’m gonna-”

“Do it,” he rasps. “Come for me. Let me know that asshole didn’t even come close to taking what’s mine.”

Fuck fuck fuck. What's his. I'm his. I was always his. My moans are turning high pitched and verging on pained. I want to cum so badly for him. 

"Let me hear you come, baby," he rasps between his own frantic strokes. "Make it loud. Make me feel it.”

That does it. The tight, coiled heat inside me snaps and I cry out, legs shaking, my other hand fisting the sheets as he talks me through it.

"Fuck... Fuck...just like that, baby." 

He listens to every broken sound I make, his breath ragged and erratic in my ear before I finally withdraw my fingers from my sex, wiping them on my panties.

My pulse hasn’t slowed. I’m still slick, thighs trembling, the room thick with my shame. But I’m not satisfied. Not really. Not until I hear him. He’s quiet on the other end, his breathing shallow, like he’s fighting it, holding back.

My voice is hoarse, wrecked. “I want to hear you cum.”

A sound escapes him, part groan, part broken laugh. “You already did.”

“No,” I say, sitting up straighter, the sheets slipping down my chest. “You held it in. I can tell. I know what you sound like.”

“You do, huh?” he grits out. 

“Yes. I do.”

A silence. Then, with a rasp: “You’d be on your hands and knees if I were there, wouldn't you? Mouth open, begging me not to pull out."

I suck in a breath, hips twitching at the picture. "Yes." 

“I’d grab your hair, tug a little,” he continues, huskier now. “You love it when I do that." 

“Yes,” I breathe. “God, Dieter-please.”

“You sound so sweet when you beg.” His breath is catching now, rhythm shaking. “So fucking sweet.”

I press two fingers back against myself, not to come again, just to feel something while I listen to him unravel.

“Are you close?” I whisper. 

"You know I am, baby. Thinking about the way you look at me when I fuck you deep. That little sound you make." 

"Is it the same way I look when I'm bouncing on your lap?" I murmur, lust-drunk and warm. "When I'm riding you, begging for you to cum in me?"

His breath stutters. “You’re gonna make me-f-fuck-”

“Do it,” I beg. “I want to hear it. Please, Dieter, I need it.”

That breaks him.

There’s a sharp gasp, then a ragged moan punched right from his chest, low, raw, filthy, and the sound of his hand jerking faster, breath catching hard. 

And then I hear it, that low grunt, the wet sound of his hand, the way he gasps my name like it’s a curse and a prayer at the same time. I swear I hear him whimper my name, a desperate, ruined sound that goes straight through me. I close my eyes just to listen, letting it soak into me like heat.

“Fuck,” he breathes finally, voice wrecked and panting. “Jesus.”

After, there’s only quiet. No apology. No explanation. Just the hush of two people a thousand miles apart, each trying to catch their breath in the wreckage of what they’ve just done.

Finally, he speaks. “I shouldn’t have called.”

I press my fingers to my eyes, trying to hold back whatever the hell wants to come out of me. 

No you shouldn't have called. I'm so glad you did. I miss you. I'm sorry. I care about you. My heart is broken. Why did you call? I'm sorry. 

He exhales, shaky now. “Just tell me the truth. Were you seeing that guy when we were together?”

“No. I didn’t even know him then,” I insist. “I only met him tonight through Riley.”

Another long pause and then his voice, whisper soft and husky. "I shouldn't have called." 

The line goes dead.

I sit there looking at my phone for a long while, eyes wet, lips trembling. My body isn't anywhere near sated; if anything hearing his voice and his words have me aching. 

I feel… stupid. Stupid for ending something that mattered. Stupid for pushing Dieter away before I even knew what I wanted. For letting my insecurities talk louder than he did.

Because the truth is, I don’t think Dieter ever wanted to hurt me. I think I overreacted and instead of talking it out, I just ran. That's what I do when I'm scared. I liked him... I loved him, I think. And I fucked that up. And he’s not mine anymore, but this phone call proved what I already knew. No one else makes me feel like he does and I don’t know how to un-know that.

I want to call him back right now just to hear his voice. To apologize for everything and to beg him to take me back. But I feel like he wouldn't answer or worse, he'd tell me to stop contacting him.

That would be too heartbreaking to bear. 

I call in sick to work the next day eyes puffy from crying. I nestle into the couch, grabbing my favourite striped blanket. But that makes my heart ache too. Because he always used to tuck my feet in, chiding that my feet were always cold.

And I cry for the first time, ugly sobs because it's not just regret I feel, I'm mourning the loss of him. The loss of his body next to mine, his laugh in my ear, his fingers carding through my hair. The way he looked at me as if I was the only person to exist.

I stay off my phone the entire day eating garbage and watching shitty TV until it's time to go to bed. I toss and turn until I promise myself that I'm going to learn from this experience. I'm going to move forward in future romantic relationships where I talk things out instead of running. 

Dieter deserves a partner like that. I couldn’t be it for him, but he deserves someone who can.

When I wake up the next morning, I think it’s possible to start breathing again. Not perfectly, not without the occasional sharp pinch in my chest, but enough. Yes, my heart is going to hurt for a while, but I’m going to get through it.

I tell myself that twice while brushing my teeth, and once more in the elevator on the way to work. I’ve got a plan: head down, focus on my to-do list, drink the gross green smoothie I made out of guilt for existing mostly on coffee and stress this week.

I make it until about 10:15 before the world decides to test my resolve.

"Are you okay?" Emily asks with her brow furrowed as she swivels in her chair to face me.

"Allergies," I lie, rubbing at my nose for effect.

She and Bea exchange a look, the kind that happens in a fraction of a second but communicates entire novels. They know I’m lying. They probably know I’ve been lying for weeks now.

"I know what might help," Bea says suddenly, her tone bright with mischief. She pushes her phone across my desk, screen already glowing. "I know you have Dieter fatigue, but this might just change your mind."

Dieter fatigue. They mean the endless feed of videos, memes, interviews, fan edits that have been shoved my way ever since the Internet decided Dieter was its collective boyfriend. I’ve been careful not to betray how much every single one of them hits a little too close to home.

My instinct is to push the phone away, mutter that I’m busy. But my hand betrays me, fingers curling around the device before my brain can veto it. I press play.

It’s a new Dieter video. He’s sitting beside Olivia, of course he is. They’re angled toward each other, knees brushing. She’s laughing like he just whispered something filthy only she can hear. I try to keep my face neutral, but there’s tightness in my jaw I can’t quite hide.

Then it happens.

"I know my voice can be very seductive,” Dieter grins at the interviewer, eyes alight like he’s testing boundaries. “Some might say it’s my best asset when used… inappropriately.”

The interviewer and Olivia giggle and my stomach drops, heat crawling up my neck. He’s baiting me. There’s no other explanation. It’s a private callback, a needle slid between my ribs with surgical precision. He’s mocking what we did last night, no names, no specifics, but enough for me to feel it like a slap.

What an asshole.

Any lingering softness in my chest, any half-formed regret, evaporates instantly. I shove Bea’s phone back toward her, harder than I intend. She takes it with wide eyes.

"Whoa. You okay?"

"Yeah, sorry," I mumble, cheeks hot. "I just… bathroom."

I’m already halfway down the hall before either of them can reply.

The bathroom is mercifully empty. I slip into the last stall, lock it, and press my back to the door. My pulse is a loud, erratic drumbeat in my ears. How many times it this going to happen? This pathetic running to the bathroom every time I see Dieter’s face?

My phone is in my hand before I consciously decide to take it out. I open Instagram, then YouTube, then Twitter, each one delivering a fresh barrage of clips from the same interview. Every time, he’s leaning in closer to her. Every time, she’s laughing like she can’t help herself. 

Here I am, crying my eyes out in the work bathroom, and he’s off laughing his head off, turning our most intimate moment into a punch line.

Fuck him.

The bathroom door creaks open. I hear the click of heels and then my name.

"Yea?" My voice is thick.

"It’s Emily." She sounds hesitant, like she’s not sure whether to stay or retreat.

I wipe under my eyes, trying to erase the evidence. "Yep?"

"Are you okay?"

She sounds genuinely concerned, and that more than anything makes me feel guilty for running out so abruptly.

"Yep. Fine."

She’s quiet for a moment, and I know she’s not buying it. "I know you’re not fine."

Her voice is gentle but firm. I hate that I’m cornered like this, but hiding in the stall forever isn’t an option. I unlock the door and step out, keeping my gaze low. My nose is red, my cheeks still flushed.

"Did you break up with your boyfriend?" she asks carefully.

I hesitate, and then figure there’s no point lying. "Yeah. A couple weeks ago."

"I figured. Does Dieter Bravo remind you of him or something?"

It’s almost funny, this assumption that the resemblance is one-sided. That it’s me who’s projecting.

"Yeah. He liked his movies," I say, because it’s easier than explaining the truth. Who would believe me anyway? 

"Mine did too," she says softly. "And we ended things about a week ago."

I'm shocked by this, looking at Emily with a new view. I can see the circles under her eyes that weren't there before, her slightly unkempt hair. If I wasn't so self involved with my own misery I might have noticed. 

"I didn't know you were dating."

"Eight months down the drain," she adds ruefully. "Fucking sucks."

"You never talked about him."

She smirks my way. "You didn't talk about your guy either."

She's not wrong. "I guess I'm a private person." 

"Same here. I don't like the office knowing everything about me. Unlike Bea who announces every time she gets laid.” Her expression warms, the shared pain building a quiet bridge between us.

"I'm really sorry, Emily." 

She shrugs it off not unkindly.  "Do you want to get drinks after work? Drown our sorrows in happy hour? Without Bea shoving the latest press photos down our throats?"

I give her a watery smile. 

"That sounds perfect."

We find a booth in the back with padded benches and low-hanging lights that make everything feel warmer than it probably is. The air smells faintly of lime and salt, and there’s that low hum of weekday conversation, couples leaning in close, friends laughing over half-price appetizers.

Emily shrugs out of her coat, drops her bag beside her. "Tequila soda?" she asks, like she’s already decided for me.

"Paloma," I say, and she smiles like that tracks.

When the drinks arrive, she raises her glass. "To heartbreak," she says.

"To heartbreak," I echo, clinking mine against hers. The first sip burns just enough to loosen something in my chest.

We trade breakup stories, hers about a boyfriend who ghosted her in person; bags packed and gone in the space of a day. 

"I came home and... Poof. He was gone. No note and he hasn't contacted me since." 

My story is vaguer. I have to talk around the details, framing it as one of those mismatched-pace situations. Not enough, but too much. By the time we’re halfway through our second round, the tension in my chest has loosened a little. I even manage to laugh when she mimics her ex’s terrible excuse for dumping her.

After a pause, Emily tilts her head. "Do you think you’ll get back together with him? The ex?"

The question hangs there, fizzing like the booze on my tongue.

"No," I admit, tracing a finger along the rim of my glass. "I messed us up pretty good."

She takes another sip, eyes on me. 

"What do you miss the most?"

I don’t even have to think about it. "His heart," I say softly. "He’s just, one of those people. Everyone he meets, they just get drawn in by him. He’s charming and funny and sexy and-" My voice falters. I feel the sting behind my eyes, the telltale prickle of tears. "He's a really good guy." 

Emily watches me for a moment. "You sound like you really loved him."

I let out a shaky laugh, like I can brush it off. "We were only together for a couple months." 

I say it as if that should explain everything, as if a short time frame should mean the feelings don’t count.

She swirls the ice in her glass, thinking. "Time doesn’t measure love, babes. You can love someone in a heartbeat but you can lose them even faster if you’re too afraid to hold on. Fear and love, they kind of go hand in hand."

Her words land with a weight I don’t expect. I look down at my drink, pretending to study the pale liquid, but really I’m swallowing hard around the knot in my throat. "Yeah," I murmur, because anything more will tip me over.

She nudges my glass toward me. "Drink up. If we’re going to talk about love and fear, we’re gonna need another round."

Emily's easy to talk to in the way people are when they’ve been cracked open by heartbreak. I find myself sharing more. 

"His job just took him away a lot," I murmur into my third drink. "And he was always surrounded by these gorgeous women he worked with. Then one night we're chatting and one of them comes up to his room."

"Oh my God." Emily clutches her drink to her chest so violently some of her drinks spills onto her blouse . "We're you still on the phone with him?"

"Yeah. And get this, Em. He goes 'I'm just on the phone with a friend'?" 

Emily's normally cheerful face is cloudy, her voice slurring. "That fucking assssshole!" 

"Yeah he is," I reply back in righteous indignation. Suddenly I jerk to a stand, insisting I have to use the washroom. But I'm going out the front doors of the bar, out to the mostly parking lot and before I can talk myself out of it, I the record button on a voice memo to him.  

"Could you be more transsssparent?" My voice shakes, part fury, part drunken heartbreak. "What the fuck ish wrong with you? Your voice usssshed inappropriately? What happened to your media training?! You think I don’t know that comment wasssss making fun of me? What issss your problem, Bravo?"

I stop, my throat tightening around the sob threatening to break free. For a moment, I consider deleting it, letting this be one more thing I keep to myself. Instead, I hit send.

The little paper airplane icon disappears, and the message is gone, floating in the ether toward him. My heart pounds like I’ve just stepped off a roller coaster and I drunkenly weave back to the booth where an equally tipsy Emily is typing furiously. 

"I'm telling that fucker off," she mumbles. I watch her type out a scathing message, cheering her on. 

We commiserate some more, until the world is blurry and everything Emily says is funny. It's only eight but it feels later.  Then my phone vibrates against the tabletop and I don’t have to look to know who it is. He's probably returning home after interviews, horrified by my vitriolic voice memo. 

"Do you need to get that?" Emily asks, draining the last of her drink.

I see his name pop up. Bravo. I should have blocked him. But I still don't have the heart. Instead I put it on do not disturb. 

"Nope," I say quickly, sliding it into my bag without glancing at it further. "I don't." 

Later, when Emily and I have hugged and Uber-ed home and the apartment is quiet, I remember my phone. I finally open my messages. There’s one from him, a brief one without his trademark emojis. 

I would never do that to you. 

I stare at the screen until the words blur, my thumb hovering over the call button. For a moment, I imagine it, his warm voice on the other end, the way he’d explain, the way I’d want to believe him.

But I can't stop thinking about how I was "just a friend" and the innuendo he's been tossing around in this promo tour in a way he never has before. 

Instead, I lock the phone and set it face down on the nightstand. I'm just drifting off when it rings shrilly. 

My eyes blink rapidly as I take in the name.

Riley.

I answer quickly, holding in a yawn. The sound of pulsing music and people laughing and shouting comes down the speaker and I cringe. 

"Riley? What's up?"

"Are you in bed? Did I wake you up?' she laughs. "Is not even eleven." 

I roll my eyes. "

"Okay, well, I've got a new guy for you," she says breathlessly. "I just met him tonight. He's handsome and sweet and when he saw your photo he begged me to give you his number." 

I hide a groan. I know Riley is just being supportive, that she wants me out of my depressive funk. "I’m really not ready for anything," I explain, irritable at being woken up. 

"What? Why not?" 

"Because... I'm just not ready for a relationship." 

"Doesn't need to be serious."

I know Riley is going to try convincing me that I'm wrong or that I need to fuck someone else to get it out of my system but I'm not in the mood. 

"It's late Riley. I'm going back to sleep. Love you."  I end the call and just hold the phone in my palm. The black screen reflects my miserable expression. 

I open the messages. 

I would never do that to you. 

It fights the voice that reminds me: 

Just a friend. 

Just a friend. 

I would never do that to you.

My fingers are fumbling, bringing up his number and pushing call. It rings only twice before his voice reaches me. 

"Hey." It's warm and soothing and I close my eyes hearing it. However some of the alcohol is still in my veins causing irritability to escape with my words. 

"You're a liar." 

A deep chuckle now. "Hello to you too,"

I hate that his response to my anger is almost always levity. It stokes my frustration into a feverish frenzy.  "You would never do that to me? What bullshit. And that interview was such a dick move."

He sighs and I hear him collapse into a chair. 

"I got a particularly drunken message from you, one where you claim I'm an asshole and now I'm a dick? Pick a lane, Parker."

I sit up in bed more, rubbing at my eyes angrily. I hate that his late night post interview voice is low and scratchy. It makes something in my body turn gooey. 

"You know exactly what you were doing in that interview. You said it to embarrass me." 

He exhales gently, voice smooth. "No one knows about the other night except us, baby." 

"Don't baby me, that was a clear message," I say sourly. "That your voice gets me off.

That you can just call and tell me to cum and I'll do it." 

His breathing hitches and I know he's thinking of what happened last night. Is he hard? Is the memory turning him on? 

Why do I care? 

But then I hear him exhaling through his nose. Something he does when he getting pissed off. Then the creak of a chair as he stands. "Shouldn't I be upset with you? You're the one who dumped me out of nowhere. You're the one who sent me a shitty voice memo." 

I'm quiet. I know he's pacing around his hotel room, I can here is socked feet moving over the carpet. 

"Yeah, I was being flirty because the studio tells me to be in order to drive ticket sales. And maybe... " I hear his voice go shy, "yeah, maybe I was hoping you'd watch. And maybe I was hoping you'd be jealous and regret dumping me out of the blue because you hurt me. You really hurt me." 

My throat runs dry. The vulnerability in his confession stuns me into silence. And not for the first time I wonder if I did the wrong thing. If I acted too rash. 

"I didn't...I wasn't trying to hurt you." 

I hear him swallow. "Then why did you do it?" 

I was insecure. I was jealous. I was hurt. 

"I thought we were good," he says and I don't miss the hitch at the end of his sentence. "Weren't we good?"

"Yes," I whisper. "We were good." 

"Then why end things?"

I feel my heart blowing up like a balloon, so full of feelings for him that it's hard to manage. 

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "It's just when-"

A sudden knock at his hotel door cuts me off. Like some dark deja vu. He crosses the room, the phone with him this time. So when he opens the door I hear Olivia's soft lilting voice clearly. 

 "Hello love, you wanted a chat?"

He invited her to his hotel room for a chat? I'm here in tears and he's setting up some one on one time with his hot costar?! The one he's been incredibly handsy with? 

Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him. 

All the hurt is gone, replaced by venomous fury on my end. 

"Give me a second," he says to her before his voice is back. "Hey, I think we s-

"I don't want to hold you up," I sneer before he can continue. "Go on and enjoy your company."

A beat. He's trying to understand. "No, that's not-" 

"I'm just some friend, right?" I cut in. "That's what you tell all your female coworkers right? Hell, at this point I'm probably not even qualified as a friend. You'll probably say I'm just some chick." 

"What the hell are you talking about?" 

I feel all my old resentments building up.  "Seriously?" I feel fresh tears along my waterline. "You're seriously going to tell me that I imagined you telling Olivia I was just a friend on the phone all those weeks ago?" 

Silence. A long one that allows the moment to breathe. I hear him shift the phone, voice soft as he speaks to Olivia. 

"Hey, can I talk to you later? This is important." 

"Of course, darling." 

"No," I say loudly, hoping he can hear me. "Don't. I'm hanging up." 

He says my name but it's cut off as I end the call. I'm crying softly, tears dropping from my cheeks onto my blanket. I see his number flash up on the phone again.

Without hesitation I block the number.

Then I cry myself to sleep.

The loud knocking on my door wakes me from a dead slumber. It startles me to a stand, groaning at the pounding in my head. I blink, opening the door without thought. I go to give shit to the figure knocking when my eyes blow wide. 

It's Dieter, standing there with his suitcase at his side. He looks exhausted, eyes drowsy and his hair mussed. My heart breaks a little as much as it melts. 

"What-"

"Is that why you ended things?"

His voice is husky with emotion and this close I can set the sheen to his dark eyes. He doesn't blink; he just stands there in the doorway like he's a stranger, like he doesn't still have a copy of my key. 

"It's two in the morning."

"I know what time it is, I borrowed Leo’s jet to get here," he says with a frown. "Please, just answer my question." 

My brain is still sleep-addled, hung-over. I blink at him blearily. "I don't even know what you're asking me." 

"Right. You're right." He exhales, looking exhausted. "Can we just... sit and talk?" 

I don't hesitate, I stand back to let him pass. "Come in." 

He walks in, his suitcase rattling in after him. He glances around the room probably thinking that it looks a little barer. The little knick knacks he bought for me when he was overseas are gone. Hidden in a box under my bed. 

I take a seat on the couch wishing my hair wasn't so knotted from sleep, that my face wasn't splotchy from my earlier crying. 

"Why are you here?" I ask, no venom left in me. 

"You weren't answering my calls." 

"I blocked your number." 

He gives a bemused sigh “Figured.”

Silence stretches between us. I watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his thumb is rubbing at a crease in his jeans like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Finally, he rests his arm along the back of the couch, fingers grazing my hair, then my cheek. It’s so familiar it hurts.

“Did you end things because I was hanging out with Olivia?” His voice is low, probing, but not cruel. “I didn’t take you for the jealous type.”

“I’m not,” I say automatically. My cheeks burn. “Not usually.” I look down, pulling the blanket tighter.

“Then why? If you didn’t want me hanging out with her I would have stopped. You just needed to say the word.”

“It’s not her.”

“Then-“

“It was your laugh.”

 A beat.

“Gonna have to give me a bit more than that, Parker.”

I scrub at my face, embarrassed.

“You were laughing so hard with her in those interviews. Your real laugh. I’ve never seen you laugh like that with anyone but me.”

 “She’s just funny,” he says with a little shrug, giving me that crooked smile I know too well. “And she reminded me of you. You’re both hilarious, so I guess when I was with her, it made missing you a little more bearable. When I saw her, all I could think of was you.”

Oh. 

It’s like a slow tide pulling at me, anger ebbing away into something quieter.  I shift closer without realizing, my knee brushing against his. The contact is small, almost nothing, but I feel the way his muscles loosen a fraction, as though the space between us has been holding him taut.

“It’s just…” I swallow hard. “You always said the thing that attracted you to me was that I was funny.”

“That’s true.”

“I guess when I saw you laughing with her, I got-”

“Jealous.”

I don’t answer, just shrug. His mouth curves slightly, like he’s fighting a smile, and for a second I hate that he can find any amusement in this.

“Pretty sure I wasn’t the only one,” I mutter.

The smile fades from his face. “No,” he says, voice low. “You weren’t.”

The words make my pulse trip. “And it wasn’t just the laughing thing,” I push, my tone sharpening. “How about when you called me from the hotel and she showed up for drinks? When you said I was just a friend?”

His brows pull together in disbelief before his eyes soften. “Baby.” He leans forward, hand cupping my face. His thumb rubs gently, the metal of his rings cooling my heated cheeks.

“You know who was with Olivia that night?” he murmurs, “A bunch of people from set who were joining us for drinks. A ton of prying eyes and gossip-loving friends.”

I blink quickly, but my eyes still fill. “So you were hiding me.”

“I didn’t want people turning you into a headline. I didn’t want every part of us picked apart until nothing felt like ours anymore.” 

"You were the one who said you didn’t want any press. That you didn’t want attention. I was respecting that, Parker, I was trying to protect you."

The nickname lands like a stone in my chest, sending ripples of warmth and ache out in all directions. I lean my face more into his palm, my heart swollen.

“But I was selfish too,” he says, his expression stripped bare. “I wanted to keep you for me. I was afraid if the world saw what I saw in you, they’d take it and ruin it. That they’d scare you away from me. That you’d leave.”

The confession lands with more weight than anything he’s said all night, a truth laid out with no defense, no attempt to spin it into something less fragile. It cracks something open in me I didn’t realize I was still holding shut.

“But you left anyway,” he whispers, like he’s afraid of the words, afraid of what they mean. His hand lowers from my cheek, as if the weight of what he said is too much to physically bear.

We sit in that heavy quiet, the rain pattering steadily against the windows, a rhythmic, steady backdrop that makes the moment feel suspended outside of time. My anger has thinned, melted down into something raw and uncertain. Not gone entirely, but softer.

“I’m sorry for it,” I say, the words heavy in my mouth, hard to push out. “I never wanted to hurt you. I was doing it because I was scared.”

His brows draw together, his hand tightening slightly on his knee. “Of me?”

I shake my head, quick, sharp. “Never.”

The knot in my throat grows. “Of how I felt-feel, about you.”

The truth tastes strange in my mouth. I’ve skirted around it for months, pretended it wasn’t sitting there, quietly swelling between us. I see his eyes scanning my face, hopeful, bright. 

"How do you feel about me?" 

I look down at the blanket he pulled over me, running my thumb over the worn stripe, soothing myself before I keep going.

“In the months we were together…” My voice falters, the words catching like they don’t quite want to come out. “Somewhere in all of that, between the late-night calls, and the way you’d make me laugh when I was trying to stay mad, and the way you looked at me when you thought I wasn’t paying attention, I fell in love with you. Completely. All at once. And it scared the hell out of me.”

I glance up at him then, my chest tightening when I see he's gazing at me with sweet, soft eyes. 

"I didn’t expect it to happen that fast, and it’s like the closer we got, the more I could feel the possibility of losing you, like some kind of countdown I couldn’t stop. And when I saw you with her,” I shake my head, pressing my lips together. “It was easier to believe you’d choose someone else before I put my heart all the way on the line.”

Dieter’s hand comes to rest on my knee, warm and solid. When I look up, his eyes are glassy. “You think I didn’t already know?”

I blink. “What?”

“That you loved me,” he says, voice low but certain. “I could feel it in everything you did. You didn’t have to say it.”  He takes a breath, thumb brushing absently over my knee. 

“I loved you early on, baby. Earlier than I thought was smart. It was impossible not to. And the only reason I didn’t say it out loud was because I knew what you’d been through before me. I knew you’d been burnt, and so had I. I wanted to… I don’t know. Nurture it? Protect it? Make sure it had roots before I gave it the chance to get blown over by everything else in my life.”

Something breaks open in my chest at the same time a tear slides hot down my cheek. The sound that escapes me is somewhere between a sob and a laugh, soft, helpless.

“You knew the whole time,” I say, swiping at my face. “How?”

"Your eyes give you away, every time," he murmurs. "That's why I knew I had to come and see you face to face." 

His mouth curves, but it’s trembling too, and then his eyes brim and spill over. He doesn’t try to hide it. Doesn’t look away.

I move before I think about it, sliding closer until I’m in the curve of his body, my head against his shoulder. His arms come around me instantly, folding me in tight, his palm smoothing over the back of my head like he’s afraid I might vanish if he lets go.

For a long time, we just sit like that. My tears dampen the shoulder of his T-shirt; his breath is warm against my temple, uneven. I can feel the steady thump of his heart under my cheek, the way his chest expands and contracts like he’s trying to breathe through something heavy.

“I missed you so much,” I whisper into the fabric. The words vibrate against his chest.

“Missed you more,” he murmurs back, and I can feel the truth of it in the way his arms tighten, rocking me slowly, just enough to soothe.

He presses a kiss into my hair and lingers there, breathing me in like he’s trying to make up for every moment he’s missed. “I hated every day you didn’t pick up,” he murmurs. “Every night I had to go to sleep without your face or your voice." 

I tip my head back just enough to see him, my voice low. “I thought about you constantly. And watching those interviews?” My throat tightens. “It was torture.”

His gaze holds mine, steady and searching. “I thought you wanted space. I thought i came on too strong for you and scared you away.” His thumb brushes under my eye, warm and gentle, catching the tear before it falls. “I didn’t know you were sitting here thinking you didn’t matter to me. You’re everything to me.”

The room feels smaller now, warmer, as if the rain outside has wrapped us in its own cocoon. My anger feels so far away it’s hard to believe it was the thing that drove me to shut him out.We stay tangled together until the ache in my chest eases, until the weight in the room feels less like grief and more like something we can carry.When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to take my face in both hands.

 “You can't push me away like that again,” he says, like it’s an order. "If you're upset let's try therapy before breaking up over the phone." 

I cover his hands with mine, holding them there. “Deal.”

His mouth curves, not a smirk, but something softer, steadier. “Deal.”

For a moment, we just look at each other, the quiet between us not heavy anymore, just full. His thumbs trace lazy circles along my jaw, his eyes flicking over my face like he’s memorizing it all over again.

Eventually, he leans in and presses his forehead to mine. The simple contact sends a shiver through me, all the fight draining from my body, replaced with something fragile and bright. For a moment, neither of us moves, just breathing the same air, until his hand slides to the back of my neck, guiding me closer. His lips brush mine in a slow, lingering kiss, more a promise than an apology, and my chest aches with the relief of it.

We stay like that, foreheads touching again afterward, until the exhaustion in both of us starts to seep in, our breaths slowing to match the rain’s rhythm.

When he stands, he takes my hand without hesitation, threading his fingers through mine. “Come on,” he says softly, giving the smallest tug.

There’s no grand gesture, no dramatic sweep of passion. Just the quiet certainty of moving together toward the bedroom, his suitcase abandoned by the door.

We don’t undress each other; don’t even kiss again right away. We just climb into bed and find each other under the blankets. His arm slides around my waist; my face tucks into the warm space under his chin.

He exhales like it’s the first real breath he’s taken in weeks while I close my eyes, letting the steady beat of his heart lull me.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know we’ll have to talk more about trust, about fear, about how we don’t let ourselves get here again. But for now, with his hand clasped firmly around mine under the covers, I just let myself believe him when he said he loved me early on.

Because I believe him.

And because, for the first time in weeks, I’m not scared.

I wake to the sound of muffled voices and the soft click of the bathroom door. Blinking against the early light, I push up on one elbow just in time to see Dieter step out, towel slung low around his hips, hair still damp and curling at the ends.

Droplets slide down the curve of his shoulder and down the soft of his belly before disappearing into the fabric at his waist.

He’s holding his phone to his ear, voice low but firm, pacing a slow line across the room. I shouldn’t stare this blatantly but it’s hard not to. My eyes follow the movement of his chest as he breathes the flex of his forearm where he holds the phone, the little crease that forms between his brows when he’s listening intently.

When he finally ends the call, he tosses the phone onto the dresser and turns toward me. The moment his eyes find mine, his expression softens, and then he’s crossing the room in three long strides.

“Morning,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss me before I can even reply. It’s warm and slow, tasting faintly of mint toothpaste and the kind of comfort that makes me want to pull him back into bed for another hour. 

“Who was that?”

By the time we’ve resettled under the covers, he’s lying on his side, one arm hooked around my waist. “My agent,” he says, voice still a little rough from sleep, “he was clear telling me that a public relationship would be a bad PR move.”

“Of course,” I answer, because it’s what I expected to hear.

“But I don’t give a shit,” he finishes, eyes locking on mine with quiet conviction. “I don’t ever want you thinking that you’re some dirty secret.”

The words land heavy in my chest, in a good way. I press my forehead to his, smiling despite myself.

“I appreciate that more than you know,” I murmur. “Really. But, I think I want to keep us to ourselves a little longer.”

His brows draw together slightly, but not in anger, just curiosity.

“Why?” 

“Because it’s peaceful this way,” I admit, my thumb brushing over his wrist where it rests against me. “And my life is my own, my job private. Once it’s out there, it won’t just be ours anymore. We’ll be answering questions, dodging cameras, having strangers weigh in on us like they know what we are. I like waking up and knowing it’s just us, no one else’s business. I want to enjoy that while we can.”

Dieter’s eyes search mine for a long moment, the weight of his gaze steady and warm. “You’re sure?”

I nod. “Positive. I’m not hiding because I’m ashamed, I just… don’t want to lose the peace. Not yet. Not when we just got it back.”

His thumb makes a slow pass over the curve of my cheekbone. “Then we keep it quiet,” he says, matter-of-fact. “But you tell me the second that stops feeling right.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

That earns me the faintest smile, the one that starts in his eyes before it touches his mouth. And then the shift happens, the moment his seriousness melts into something lighter, more familiar.

“So,” he murmurs, his nose brushing mine, “you were jealous.”

I let out a breath of a laugh. “Maybe a little.”

“More than a little.”

“More than a little,” I concede, rolling my eyes. “But you were worse. Calling me and telling me to touch myself! And-"

“-and I don't remember you complaining,” he finishes for me, smug, his mouth curving against mine.

I don’t get the chance to throw out my comeback before he’s leaning in and kissing me properly, slow and deep, like the last few weeks apart never happened. His hand slips to the back of my neck, holding me there, while the other traces the line of my waist beneath the covers.

By the time he pulls back, my pulse is already thrumming. “You know,” I say, eyes flicking briefly to the towel knotted at his hips, “this is in the way.”

He glances down deliberately, lips twitching. “You’re not wrong.”

He grins, quick and sharp, before reaching down and tugging the towel loose. It falls away, and I take a second to appreciate the sight in the pale wash of morning light: broad shoulders, lean muscle, and the way his skin still glistens faintly from the shower.

His hands find the hem of my sleep shirt and I lift my arms without thinking. The cotton is gone in a second, his palms skimming up my sides before they settle at my waist again.

We meet in the middle, mouths finding each other like they’ve been waiting, aching for it. The kiss starts playful but deepens quickly, his fingers threading through mine until our hands are locked between us.

It’s slow, deliberate, as if he’s savoring every second, every inch of me. His mouth moves to my jaw, then my neck, warm breath skating over skin as he whispers, “Missed you.”

I feel the words like a brand on my flesh. “Missed you more.”

He laughs quietly, the sound vibrating through me. "Not possible, baby." 

We shift together, my back sinking into the pillows as he hovers above me, his weight a welcome comfort. Sunlight spills in from the window, painting his skin in gold, and the unguarded look in his eyes makes my throat tighten.

His free hand roams, mapping familiar territory like he’s relearning it after too long apart. I arch into him, the slow slide of his body over mine coaxing a sigh from my lips.

“I love you,” he says, low enough that I almost think I imagined it.

I open my eyes to find him watching me like he means every word, and something in my chest twists tight.

"I love you too,” I manage, smiling faintly. And it doesn't feel scary to say it.

It feels right. 

He blinks rapidly and then his mouth is back on mine. 

We move together in an easy rhythm, nothing rushed, just the reunion of something that had been missed. Fingers stay laced, his thumb brushing over mine in a steady, soothing pattern even as the heat between us builds.

There are murmured words in between, sweet, half-breathed promises, little reassurances I didn’t know I needed until I heard them. That he’s here. That he’s not going anywhere. That we’re okay.

When we finally come undone, it’s with our foreheads pressed together, both of us catching our breath in the quiet aftermath. His thumb strokes over the back of my hand, and he presses a lingering kiss to my lips like he’s sealing something in place.

We stay tangled up long after, the early morning light spilling over us, the world outside still unaware.

And for now, that feels perfect.

authors note

this is for all the people disapointed I abandoned my other dieter bravo story. i hope you enjoy this one. i know its not the series you wanted but i thought this was a nice happy story

[gothicpaperback]

the quiet | part seven

wc: 8,3k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Boston QZ to Jackson Joel Miller x reader

summary: you don’t speak. not since outbreak day stole your voice and everything that mattered. when a smuggling job gone sideways leaves you in the care of Joel Miller and Tess, you don’t ask for help, you don’t want it from the powerful woman and intimidating man. but Tess sees something in you, pulling you close, showing you warmth. her partner Joel keeps his distance and you prefer it that way, you’ve learned not to trust men. Joel doesn’t want to get involved with you, not when his loyalty already belongs to Tess. but feelings don’t listen to reason and as tension builds between the three of you, so does the quiet pull between you and Joel; dangerous, unwanted, impossible to ignore.

the OC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely physically described aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab. she has a back story.

tags/warnings: family trauma/abuse, alcoholism, slow burn, sexual tension, descriptions of violence, enemies to lovers-ish, love triangle, boston to jackson joel, mentions of violence. i will add more tags as they become relevant.

taglist: @druwstark | @hermionelove | @enchantedreader | @76bookworm76 | @harriedandharassed | @thunderdownunder | @glitterspark | @haileycopter17 | @druwstark | @googlingsexyvampires | @fishingforpike | @@aliensfeltmyjoy | @secretlettersfromyourlove | @sptbear | @yellowbrickyeti | @enchantedreader

the quiet | part seven

Tess keeps her hands in her jacket pockets as she waits in the same spot she always does, just where the tunnel mouth widens into the grove. Footsteps crunch ominously and her hand unsheathes her pistol before she sees Maggie. Slower than usual, the other woman emerges from the shadows with a weary smile. 

She’s holding a battered flask, the bottom of it wrapped in a strip of fabric for grip.

“Apple vodka,” Maggie says in place of hello, the corner of her mouth twitching up. “None of that skunky weed. Not tonight.”

“Didn’t know you could be talked out of it,” Tess says, watching her closely. Maggie’s gait is different, more pained. 

“I can’t be talked out of it,” Maggie says, easing herself down onto the crate they use as a seat. “I just… decided I don’t feel…. like being foggy. Vodka’s cleaner… Doesn’t stick in your lungs."

Tess doesn’t sit right away. She keeps her stance loose, eyes flicking to the mouth of the tunnel behind Maggie, then back again. No signs of anyone else. She finally lowers herself onto the opposite tree stump. 

They talk for a while about routes and patrol schedules, about which guards are on the take and which ones have been getting twitchy lately. The kind of talk that has weight in this world, even if it would sound like paranoia anywhere else.

Eventually, Tess mentions you. It’s casual but the way Maggie’s gaze sharpens tells her she’s been waiting for that update.

“She’s adapting well to the QZ,” Tess says. “Better than most people I’ve seen.”

A small exhale escapes Maggie, almost invisible unless you’re looking for it. Her grip on the flask loosens.“That’s good,” she murmurs, nodding to herself. “That’s… real good.”

Tess doesn’t elaborate, and Maggie doesn’t push. But after a beat, Tess can't help but ask, “How come she doesn’t talk?”

Maggie smiles faintly, tilting her head. “She used to for a bit,” she says, voice soft, like she’s talking about a kid in a photograph she keeps in a drawer. “Couldn’t shut her up for anything, silly thing.” 

She takes a long sip from the flask, holding the burn in her throat a moment before swallowing. The smile fades, slow but sure, like a candle snuffed. "But then, uh… well. Things happened. Life happened. You know how it is. And one day she just stopped talking unless she had to. I think she just felt safer that way.”

Tess studies Maggie in the moonlight. She doesn’t understand how silence could be safer, not really, but she doesn’t say it out loud.

Maggie swirls the liquid in the flask, watching the light catch the pale gold surface. “She’s a smart girl, in a lot of ways. But she’s naive in others. She’s loyal to a fault though. You gain her trust you have it for life."

Tess feels a slight niggle of guilt at that. 

"She's wickedly funny," Maggie continues on. "But she’s got a bad temper. Can thank her daddy for that, the fucking asshole.” There’s no humor in the way she says it.

“You’ve known her since she was…?” Tess prompts.

“Seven, maybe eight.” Maggie’s eyes go distant. “Always seemed younger than her age. Parents kept her in this old trailer next to mine. Her daddy wouldn’t let her go to school. Kept her mama beat up. Terrible fucking life.” She drinks again, a longer pull this time.

For a while, they don’t talk. Maggie sits hunched, elbows on her knees, turning the flask in her hands. Tess keeps her eyes on the shadows, listening for anything that doesn’t belong. When Maggie finally speaks again, her voice is quieter. “You keep her safe, Tess.”

Tess doesn’t react right away. She could deflect, could make a joke, but Maggie’s eyes are on her, steady and expectant. “Yeah,” Tess says at last. “I will.”

Neither of them says it aloud, but they both feel it, that prickling sensation of something ending. The air between them feels heavier. The usual ease in their trade is gone, replaced by a silent acknowledgement that this will be their last meeting.

Maggie stands first, slower than before, slipping the flask into her coat pocket. Tess rises too, and for a moment they just stand there. They part with a handshake and grim smiles that don’t reach either of their eyes.

Tess watches her disappear into the tunnel, the sound of her footsteps fading until there’s only the distant hum again. And even though Tess has spent decades convincing herself that other people’s feelings aren’t her problem, she can’t ignore the sting in her eyes. She keeps her head down the entire walk back to the QZ, blaming it the booze. 

You keep your head down as you walk the weight of your decision somehow heavier this morning. You're going home to Maggie. You'll explain that this can't happen. This place isn't good enough for a dog despite Lucia's promise of joyful snippets. 

Between what? Pathetic rations? Jobs that crack your skin? A home you feel dirty in no matter how many times you wash? 

Life with Maggie wasn't necessarily easy. It still required patrolling the cabin and acreage, checking traps, practicing your shooting and hand to hand combat. But it was a slower life, one punctuated with fresh air and laughter. Of watching Maggie bake bread and helping her tie the tobacco. 

Your legs ache from yesterday’s shift and your eyes sting from not sleeping. It takes effort to walk steady, especially as you pass the row of idle trucks near the checkpoint wall.

That’s when you see the familiar face of the FEDRA officer from the work detail sign-up. The one with the clean uniform and sharp eyes. He’s standing near the barrier talking to another soldier with a ration bar half-unwrapped in one hand. 

You hope you might slip past unnoticed, Joel's words of warning always in your mind. But you catch the tilt of his head and know you've been seen. 

“Well,” he says, pushing off the barrier, stepping into your path with a slight grin, “look who’s still breathing.”

The suns at your back and you can feel yourself sweating beneath your collar, but you think it might just be from the man's heavy gaze. A few people from sanitation glance at the two of you but keep moving. No one wants to linger near FEDRA if they can help it.

He clicks his tongue softly and walks a slow, circling arc around you. Not menacing, exactly, more curious. “No cousin today?"

You shake your head slowly. Just answer him and he'll let you go. When he takes a step towards you he notices you flinch. He frowns, hurt. 

"You don't have to be afraid of me," he mutters too low for his comrade to hear. 

He’s close enough now that you can smell the protein bar in his breath; fake chocolate and chalk. He's broad like Joel and blocks you from the view of the other officer. You shift your weight but hold your ground, eyes on the dirt below. 

“And you don’t have to worry,' he says gently. "I’m not gonna report you for being mysterious.”

That draws a shaky smile to your face and you can't help but glance up. Despite the fear and the concern there's levity in his eyes. Something you haven't seen from anyone yet. 

Under the ghastly lights in the building the other day he'd appeared waxen. But now in the light of day you can see he's, a deep olive with the darkest blue eyes you've ever seen. So dark they could be black if one didn't look close enough. The lashes that frame them are impossibly thick. 

Waves of glossy, ebony hair are pushed back from his handsome face. His beard is thick, trimmed with military expertise. When he smiles it's a slab of white against the warmth of his dark skin. 

He might be one of the most beautiful men you've ever seen. Clean and handsome and gentle in a way the others here aren't. He's older than you, but not by much. You wonder how long he's been stationed here. 

He reaches into his pocket and your smile drops. You wait to be written up or have your rations halved for talking to him. Instead he pulls a bar from the interior breast pocket. He holds it out to you, close to his body as not to be seen. 

"Here," he murmurs quietly. 

You look at it warily. Nothing comes for free in this world. You know it better than most. 

"You don't owe me anything. This isn't a trade," he says as if he knows your thoughts. "You just look hungry." 

A voice breaks in between the two of you. 

"Patel!"

The man looks over his shoulder at the other officer, a freckled man that holds his gun at his side. 

"Doing zone two rounds. You coming?" 

"Be right there." 

On impulse you take the bar, your stomach rumbling. You give him a nod, a silent thank you. 

He studies you for a beat longer, then tips his chin. “Have a good day."

And with that, he’s gone, back to his post like nothing happened, following his colleague to a new zone.  You stand there a moment longer, pulse pounding behind your ribs and then you walk.

Tess tosses her coat onto the back of the rickety chair and drops the paper-wrapped package onto the table with a grunt. “Three hours of sitting on my ass for that,” she mutters, rubbing at her lower back. “And he was short, again.”

Joel doesn’t say anything. He’s leaning against the far wall of his place, arms crossed, jaw ticking as he watches her unwrap the goods. A few cans, two packs of batteries, and a crumpled pouch of powdered milk.

She looks up, catches the sour look on his face. “Don’t start.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t say anything’.”

“No, you just look like you’re about to.” 

Tess knows what those in the QZ whisper when her back is turned. That she’s ruthless, cold, and violent when she needs to be. And they're not wrong. Her name carries weight, enough to make men step back without testing her temper. That’s what survival demanded: hard edges, quick fists, a mouth that cuts sharper than any blade. She became the kind of woman no one fucks with, and it’s kept her alive longer than anyone expected.

There was a time Tess had been soft. Not weak, but softer, more quick to laugh and smile. She’d been someone’s wife. Someone’s mother. Before the world went to hell, she lived in a modest house with white trim and a cherry tree in the backyard that bloomed every spring. 

Her son, Thomas, used to climb its branches and shout down at her like he was king of the world. Her husband would mow the lawn with his shirt off, music playing low from the kitchen window, and sometimes they’d dance barefoot on the porch at dusk, just for the hell of it.

 Thomas had only just turned five when outbreak day happened. Her husband, a local sheriff, came home one evening with blood on his collar and panic in his eyes. He said he’d been scratched breaking up a fight at the grocery store. 

By midnight, he was screaming in the hallway, eyes gone milky, foam bubbling at his lips.This was the man who had once touched her like she was something precious. Who kissed her eyelids when Thomas was born and thanked her for the miracle. And now that man was gone and what stood in front of her was a monster.

She shot him in the kitchen with his own gun, blood blooming across the linoleum when Thomas stumbled into the room. He was still in his pyjamas and for a moment Tess thought he was sleepwalking. But then she saw the blood at his neck and the way his jaw hung open unnaturally. 

She locked him in his room and bolted the door. Stuffed a towel under the crack so she wouldn't hear his gurgled cries. And then she left the house behind with her hands shaking and her chest split open.She tells herself he didn’t suffer long. But she doesn’t know.

She still dreams of that door. Still hears the thud of his tiny body throwing itself against it. 

That was the day Tess was forged in fire. Everything after became about control, survival, never hesitating again. The woman who once gardened barefoot and hummed lullabies while folding laundry is gone and in her place is someone harder. Someone that survives.

But sometimes when the nights are quiet and the wind sounds too much like a boy crying behind a locked door, Tess wonders if what she became was strength or penance.

Because the truth is that her reputation didn’t just protect her, it transformed her. Every time she played the role, it took something. Gentleness. Trust. The mask became her skin. Even the sound of her own laugh, once warm and unguarded, feels foreign now. The only time it hints at her previous self is rare times with the tall man now standing at the window. 

Joel’s never looked at her like the others do, with fear or suspicion. And not with that twitch of challenge some men wear, the ones who think they’ll break her down, tame her, own her. From the first day Tommy introduced them, Joel had offered his hand without arrogance. He treated her like someone worth listening to and in this world that kind of thing carves itself deep into a woman’s memory.

She watches him sometimes, when he’s not looking. The way his jaw tightens when he's thinking, the measured way he moves like he's always conserving energy. There’s a quiet strength to him, but not just the kind that crushes skulls or threatens death. It’s the kind that holds up a crumbling roof so someone else can get out. She admires that about him. 

It was never romantic between them. And even when they fell into his bed that first time it was just need between two people who understood the weight of surviving. Tess never expected more. But somewhere along the way, between the quiet nights smuggling and the long talks with he and Tommy, she started to want him and not just his body but the parts he kept locked away.

But Joel’s heart had closed the day Sarah died, sealed up tight behind grief and guilt. And Tess, for all her fire and bite, knew better than to try and pry it open. But there's a part of her that feels it, low in her belly during the times he takes her to bed. When she's convinced he wants her the same way she wants him. 

Not just for what's between her legs or under her bed, but behind her ribs beating furiously. Aside from Tommy he’s the only man who’s never tried to hurt her and maybe that’s why she’s never been able to shake the way her eyes drift toward him when she thinks no one’s watching.

Like now, watching his profile silhouetted by the grey daylight streaming through grimy windows. He runs a hand over his beard thoughtfully and something tightens in her chest. "Maggie looked like shit." 

Joel's head tilts, dark eyes narrowed. "You think..."

"I just know," she says softly. "I saw enough when I worked in the hospital."

Joel grunts in agreement. 

"Haven't seen where she lives so I don't know how much is at her place, but I think a lot." She gestures to the table. “Then we'll be sitting pretty. We won't have to deal with this Mickey Mouse shit anymore." 

Joel pushes off the wall and starts pacing. “Won't be if your new friend gets herself hung first.”

Tess sighs, already knowing where this is going. 

“She was out past curfew, alone,” Joel continues. “Didn’t even have her bag with her.”

Tess leans her weight onto the table, bracing herself with her hands. “She knows about the curfew now. She's not stupid.”

Joel doesn't argue. He just shakes his head, the muscle in his jaw clenching again.

“She’s a liability,” Joel says after a beat. "A big one. And if she drops your name? Or mine?"

Tess drags a hand through her hair, lips twisting. "Maggie's as good as dead, Joel. And once we know for sure we raid her place and then we come back and take care of the daughter." 

Joel grunts again and goes still near the window, eyes tracking the movement of people in the street below. "Take care of her? Like we took care of those guys last week?"

"If we have to."

Joel has known Tess almost a decade. He knows she's ruthless when she needs to be, but it never extends to children. Not the innocent. And despite your age, you are innocent. 

“You really think you'd be able to do it?" Joel murmurs. "She isn't one of the assholes late on payment." 

Joel cuts her a look when she doesn't reply right away. Both of them know she won't have the stomach for it. He grabs his jacket, making for the door.

“I’m not getting shot chasing her down after curfew again,” he tells her. “And I’m sure not putting my neck on the line for someone I barely know.”

Joel steps out into the hallway without a goodbye, the metal door clanging shut behind him with a hollow echo. He’s halfway down the crumbling stairwell when a figure slinks out from the corner.

“Joel! Hey, wait up, man.”

Joel grits his teeth. 

Ghoul. Always trying to worm his way into deals he didn’t earn, always two steps behind whatever action Joel and Tess were making.

Joel doesn’t slow, he just keeps moving without so much as a glance at the twitchy man. 

Ghoul hurries to keep pace. “I heard you’re heading over to collect from Garrity. That true? Tess with you?”

Joel stops on the landing, turns just slightly, enough to make Ghoul flinch. “You followin’ me?”

“What? No, no. Come on, man. I’m just saying I could help. You know I can handle myself. And I got ears. People talk to me.”

Joel’s face doesn’t move. “You got nothin’ we need.”

Ghoul sniffs, rubbing at his neck. “Yeah? Well, maybe if you gave me a shot once in a while. Tess trusts me.”

“No she doesn't,” Joel says flatly. “No one does." 

Ghoul’s mouth twitches, his pride bruising. He goes to grab Joel's bicep in desperation. "C'mon man, it was one fuck up."

Joel swings his arm out of Ghouls reach before pushing him into the concrete wall. His face is menacing.  "One fuck up that nearly got my brother killed." 

Ghoul shrinks under Joel's touch. Joel can see how his hands shake, how his eyes dart from side to side. He's in withdrawal and desperate. Exactly the kind of person you don't want on your side. Joel starts to move again, but Ghoul doesn’t let it go.

“You know that woman you and Tess were with? I sure hope you're not taking her on. People are already talking about the fistfight her first day." 

Joel pauses mid-step. Doesn’t turn.

Ghoul has a way of weaseling himself into situations. Of blowing up weeks of careful planning. If he starts hanging around you and catches onto what's happening with Joel and Tess, that's they entire plan fucked. 

“We both know I could run circles around her. Plus I tried talking to her and-"

Joel turns now. Slowly. His expression is blank, but his eyes burn cold. 

Ghoul raises his hands like it’s a joke. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. I was just talking.”

“You don’t talk to her,” Joel says, voice low and flat. "And you don't go near her." 

Ghoul blinks. 

“I ever hear you said one more word to her,” Joel says, taking a slow step forward, “I will put your face through the fucking wall.”

The words are calm. Too calm. That’s what makes Ghoul stumble back, real fear flickering across his hollowed-out face.

Joel stares at him, shoulders square, jaw locked. “You understand me?”

Ghoul nods quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I got it.”

"Repeat it."

"I got it Joel. Jesus." 

Joel lingers another second, just to make sure it sinks in. Then he turns and walks off without another word.

Ghoul watches him go, wiping sweat off his lip, breath catching in his throat like he narrowly avoided getting put down.

Joel doesn’t look back. His fists are still clenched long after he hits the street.

THEN 

It’s been weeks since you and Maggie crossed into Bruce’s land, tucked deep into a wooded valley that once held summer cabins and fishing sheds. Now, it holds traps and tripwires and rusting cans that jangle in warning. 

The old man’s rigged the outer perimeter with chicken wire and broken glass, strung at child’s height to snag anyone or anything that doesn’t belong. You and Maggie catch eyes across the garden when you hear a light chatter of cans. Her hands are already wiping dry on her apron, moving for the shotgun.

Bruce doesn’t run. He never runs. But he moves quick enough that you stumble after him, heart in your throat. Maggie grips your wrist, stopping you from following. 

"You stay here," she orders. 

You nod. You're good at following orders. Mama told you to stay put lots of times. Like when Daddy was angry or when people came by to demand money. You plop yourself down on the ground and wait as Maggie turns the corner to join Bruce. That’s when you hear it: voices. Human ones. A woman, pleading.

"Please! We saw the smoke. Just food, please! We have children."

"Please sir," a tiny voice says. Young and girlish. You hear the tinkle of metal. "I'll give you my charm bracelet for it."

The voice is so young; the child sounds no more than five. 

"Anyone sick?" Bruce calls out, not unkind.

“No. Just hungry.”

Bruce doesn’t speak for a long time. Finally, he says, “Maggie. Bag.”

You hear Maggie disappear into the cellar, her sandals rasping against the dirty concrete. Still you remain sitting. 

“Take it,” she says. “Then go.”

You hear shuffling and the tinkling again. Maggie's voice is loud but gentle 

"No honey, you keep your bracelet."

They come back to see you sitting there and Bruce pulls you into his arms, popping you onto his hip. You like it when he does that. He's tall and he makes you feel like you can see everything. 

"You did as you were told," he says proudly. "And you were quiet. You're a clever kid."  

Your father never had kind words for you. To have this gentle man saying these things make your tiny heart swell. 

But his eyes turn concerned as he looks at Maggie. 

“Shouldn't have given them anything."

"We help when we can, Bruce. It's what makes us human." 

“They’ll come back,” Bruce mutters.

“You don’t know that,” Maggie says gently.

But he's right. 

You're walking back from your shift, the bar still in your pocket. You saved it all day, telling yourself that you'd enjoy it when you could get a moment of rest. You bring it out now, taking the first bite and sighing happily. This has raisins in it, a welcome sweetness. 

You're about to step forward when you stop, a creeping sensation taking you by the back of the head. You have the bizarre sensation that you're being watched. You glance around seeing nothing but exhausted people just like you heading home or to friends. 

No one is watching you. 

You move down the streets, taking another bite of your bar, trying to savor it. You glance over your shoulder when you notice movement from the opposite sidewalk. A small child looks up at you from the curb, face gaunt and body tiny. You can see that a deep purple bruise has started at her left eye. 

She sits on the curb with her knees drawn up to her chin, her large eyes hollow. 

The explosive sound of a plate crashing drags your eyes to the apartment complex behind her. A poorly made shack if anything. She clearly lives on the first floor because you see a broken tricycle by the door and the sound is coming from that direction.  

"YOU DUMB FUCKING BASTARD! WE BARELY HAVE ANYTHING THANKS TO YOU AND YOU SPEND IT ON WHAT?!"

Your eyes go back to the young girl and the way she doesn't look ashamed or afraid. This is just her reality. She doesn't know others don't live like this: with eggshells underfoot and flinching at loud voices.

"CAN'T EVEN AFFORD TO FEED YOUR FUCKING KID!"'

She looks dirty and hungry. And you don't miss how her large eyes go to the ration bar in your hand. Tess taught you to watch for this. 

You can't give anything of yours away.

Don't stop. They'll think you're weak. 

Nothing comes for free. 

You take a moment, a beat, and then you walk past the girl, ignoring her hungry expression. Your feet scrape the cement, not loud enough to cover the sound of her parents screams. You shouldn't look back but you do, a quick peer over your shoulder shows the girl still sat on the curb, tiny knees drawn up to her chest. 

You give it to one and they'll come out of the woodwork asking for more.

You try to step forward but you can't. Maggie is there in your ear. 

We help when we can. That's what makes us human. 

You go back to where the girl sits and without a word you hold the bar towards her. She glances at it, then at your face, and then she rises. The two of you stand there a long time with the sound of her fighting parents as a backdrop. Finally she backs up from you, heading on tiny legs to go back into the home, closing the door behind her, keeping the screams in.  

It seems she too has been taught that nothing comes for free. 

THEN

You lie on the cot in with Bitsy tucked under one arm. Maggie snores in the bed across from you, low and steady and somehow calming. You raise Bitsy to your face and note that the stuffed animal smells like smoke. Maggie once tried to clean it with boiled rainwater and a thin towel, but it only made Bitsy look more dingy. 

You're about to fall asleep when you hear the slightest crack of feet over dirt. If you hadn't been awake fighting insomnia you don't think you ever would have heard it. You slip from the cot, careful not to wake Raven, who’s curled up like a shadow at the edge of the stairs. You tuck Bitsy under your arm like always. 

You don’t take a light. Bruce has drilled it into you. No lights at night, not this close to the perimeter. So you move by memory down the back path, past the shed, toward the garden rows.

The fence isn’t meant to stop people. Not really. It’s meant to confuse them. Chicken wire layered with old tin and bent forks, glass bottles dangling like wind chimes without song. Enough to make someone loud before they get close.

But not this one.

You see her crouched by the beans, half in shadow, half real. A girl your age, or close enough to count. She’s so small she’s slipped through the first ring of wire. Just past the garden line now, crouching low to the dirt.

It's the girl from earlier, you're sure of it. As you get closer you can hear the light twinkle and realize she's wearing a charm bracelet. Her hand snakes through a gap in the chicken wire, fingers reaching, trembling toward the soil like she’s foraging. 

Bruce would tell you to go back to bed. Maggie would grip your wrist and force you back inside. But you're seven and you've been watching them for months. You know how to keep safe. 

You hold your breath and crouch slowly. “Hey,” you whisper because talking to someone your age doesn't seem daunting. 

She jerks a little, but doesn’t run. You keep your voice soft. “It’s okay. I heard you before. You were with your family.”

Still no answer. You remember your mama’s voice then, like a ghost in your ear. Always be kind. We're all Gods children.

“I can get you food,” you go on. “If you’re quiet, I can sneak some apples out.”

You rush over to the basket Maggie was filling earlier, reaching in for one of the biggest apples. You walk back and ease closer with Bitsy under your arm, holding the apple out slowly. “Here,” you whisper. “You can take it.”

The girl moves her hand forward to meet yours just as the clouds move and the moon shifts. It rises through the trees, casting just enough light to see her fingers are wet and bloodied at the nails. Her mouth glistens dark in the shadows. Her lips twitch.

She’s not hungry for fruit. She’s already eaten. And when she sees you she gives a devastating noise, wet and thick in her throat. She tries to scratch at you through the chicken wire. You go to scream, but no sound comes out. Bitsy drops from your arms and lands face-down in the dirt as you scramble backwards. 

BOOM.

The sound of a shotgun cracks the air, deafening and final. The girl is thrown backward, shoulder torn open, a growl rising from her throat as she tumbles into the dirt.

Bruce steps out from the shadows, smoke curling from the barrel of his gun. His face is stone.

“Inside,” he growls. "Now.”

You run with your heart in your throat and you hear the second gunshot just as the door slams behind you. 

Then silence.

You run into the bedroom, ignoring Maggie's drowsy confusion. You do as you have always done, you crawl under the bed, shaking and covering your ears.

But the gunshot sound replays over and over as does the sight of the girl being shot. It will replay over and over in your mind until it becomes a part of you.

Forever.

Its late afternoon by the time your shift ends. You clock out without speaking, eyes cast low. No one notices as you peel off your gloves, stow your coveralls and slip away with the impulsive plan humming quietly behind your ribs.

Your body aches from hauling sanitation bins, from hunching over rancid waste and rotted food, from pretending you don’t feel terrified to be leaving.  Maggie and Bruce taught you better than to act rash. Especially in a world like this one. But you're desperate for escape, almost frantic. 

Your eyes widen when you hear a muffled thud near one of the buildings.

You stiffen and duck instinctively behind the half-collapsed concrete divider you’ve been walking past. Your breath stays shallow but steady. You’ve learned not to rush toward sounds. That being quiet is safest  Still, you peek around the side.

There, in the alley between a dented food cart and the skeletal remains of what used to be a tailor’s shop, two figures stand locked in some kind of grim standoff. 

One of them is FEDRA. Broad-shouldered with a blond buzz cut. You’ve seen him before, patrolling the outer edge of the market, smirking at teenage girls; jaw twitching like something’s always just beneath the surface.

The other is gaunt, a woman about your age. A civilian you've seen around town that ignores most everyone. She's shifting from foot to foot anxiously. 

"You owe me my cut," the blonde man says sneering. "The way I see it, about 30." 

You know that he's referencing, you hear whispers of it all the time: pills. Pills are currency here. Pain pills like the ones Maggie gave you being the most in demand.  

They make you forget where you are; with booze they put you out like a light. They are a refuge in a world like this. 

"I didn't get any deliveries," the civilian insists looking nervously around. Her eyes are bugged. 

"Not my fucking problem."

Your eyes stay on the blonde officer, noting how he twitches. He’s got that look you’ve come to recognize, that raw, desperate sheen in the eyes. 

He's in withdrawal. 

From this distance, you can’t make out the rest of the words, but the posture says enough. The FEDRA officer is crowding the woman, gloved hand shoved against her sternum chest, driving her back until her shoulders hit the wall.

"C'mon man what do you want me to do?" She whines. "You can't get blood from a stone."

The soldier seems to ponder this seriously before he abruptly slams the butt of his rifle into the woman's stomach.

You flinch when you see it. The woman folds forward with a wheeze, her legs scrambling to stay upright. She tries to speak but the officer isn’t listening. He’s amped up, barking something and you can only catch the tail end of it. 

“...worthless to me.”

The next blow lands square across the woman's temple. A sickening sound and you hold in a gasp when the woman crumples to the ground.

No one else seems to see it, o if they do, they keep walking. A short woman with a basket of greens tightens her scarf and turns down another alley. A teenager across the street ducks inside an old metal door without a backward glance. It’s not that people don’t care, it’s that they can’t afford to.

But you’re still there, frozen behind that concrete slab, watching the officer stand over the woman’s limp body. For a long second, he just looks down at her. His jaw works, his hand flexes on the rifle. You wonder if he’s deciding whether to finish the job.

Then he spits, turns and walks away like he didn’t just leave a woman unconscious in the street.

You don’t move until he disappears around the corner, boots stomping like a warning. Your limbs are slow to obey when you finally rise, every nerve tight. You step out cautiously, eyes scanning for more soldiers as you cross over to the woman. There’s no one.

The woman is still breathing when you approach him. She’s got a scrape across her nose, hair sweaty and unkempt. 

Her head’s bleeding, a red halo soaking into the cracked pavement. You crouch beside her and press two fingers to her neck. There's a pulse but it's weak. The stench of sweat and something sour makes your stomach turn. You briefly check to see she’s got nothing in her pockets. No ID, no rations, not even a scrap of anything to stop the bleeding. 

After a moment's hesitation you take the bandana you always wear around your wrist, the one that reminds you of Maggie, pressing it to the woman's temple and holding to stop the blood. It soaks up much of the fabric, but it's enough. 

You stay crouched beside her a short while, long enough for her to stir, groaning. When she sees you sitting next to her, hand at her temple she stares. 

You stand, offering your hand to her gently. She takes it, holding her head, standing wobbly. She's dizzy, blinking at you. Your bandana lies on the ground between you, bloodied and wet. She looks at it, then at you, peering at your features before her own darken.  

"Stay the fuck away from me." 

You're confused by this acidic response and despite how much blood she's lost she's quick when she lurches towards you and shoves harshly. You take a step back, grimacing in irritation. The woman was weak, her strength feeble. Still, it unnerves you as the woman hobbles away, hand at her temple. 

You were the only idiot to help her and look where it got you. And what if the officer saw you? This realization hurries you along the street, your eyes scanning as you go. You're halfway down the long block before you remember Maggie's bandana. You think about stopping and going back, but you're terrified you'll run into another angry officer. 

Instead you try to focus as you hurry down the street. You go over your plan again. You'll get your gun and your bag from Tess'. You’ll bribe the right guard just like she did. You follow the tunnels the best you can remember and you'll go back home. 

Maggie might be upset but she'll have to listen to reason. The only issue is finding the right officer to bribe. You don't know which one patrols at night near the entrance point. 

All of a sudden you hesitate because something is making your skin pickle, a familiar feeling of being watched. But when you twist your neck to glance around you there's no one looking your way.  

Just paranoid after what you've seen. Focus on the plan. 

You’ll get your gun and your bag from Tess’. You’ll bribe the right guard, the same as she did, with the plentiful stock in your bag still hidden at Tess'.

You’ll follow the tunnels; retrace the path Tess took you through on your first day. You’ll keep your head down, and if you’re lucky, if no one clocks the way your hands shake or your eyes keep darting to the gate, you’ll be gone before nightfall.

Gone home. Maggie might be upset. She probably will be, but she’ll have to listen to reason. You can’t stay here in this QZ. You can't breathe in it anymore. It isn't worth it. Not the barbed wire perimeter, not the way you flinch every time boots echo too close, not the way you feel you can't trust anyone.

You came here for safety, for something better than the infected brushland and slowly decaying cabin you grew up in. For Maggie to be close to health care. 

But instead at night you're curled up on a cot in a room that still smells faintly of bleach and smoke, trying to convince yourself you’ll feel better as soon as your boots hit the other side of the wall.

I can leave whenever I want. 

That’s the lie you hold onto. The one that keeps your spine straight as you push yourself up every morning. 

And even now as you walk you cling to it. You just need to focus on the first step to your plan. Getting your items back from Tess' place. 

You're fairly certain you know the route to Tess’ place. You count the corners, the peeling signs on the wire fence. You stay vigilant and you don't draw attention.

“Hey stranger.”

You don’t flinch. Not outwardly. But your body stiffens all the same.

"By yourself this time eh?"

His voice scrapes low across the back of your neck, ugly and raw. You close your eyes. Count to three. Then you turn. It's the man from your first day. The one you beat the shit out of. He's smiling and you can see the missing front tooth as evidence of your violence.

"Remember me?"

He's smiling at you but it doesn't seem sincere when coupled with the empty look in your eyes. You nod slowly, eyes fixed on him. 

"Yea," the man says cracking his knuckles as he steps towards you. "Yea, I bet you do." 

The movement hits before the pain does: hot, sharp, across your cheek. Your head jerks sideways with the punch, your balance gone instantly as your shoulder slams into the brick wall of the building behind you.

“You think you can humiliate me?” he snarls, already reaching for you again. 

You shove at him, but he's stronger than you remembered. Or maybe you're just tired. Tired of pretending not to be scared. Tired of watching your back. Tired from hauling garbage and bodies all day. 

And yet you still throw a punch, connecting with his jaw and sending him back with a yelp. The sound reminds you of Joel's warning to stay out of fights, to avoid conflict and attention. 

You attempt to move past him but he blocks your path with a wet growl, gripping your throat and pulling you back. You taste blood, the metallic warmth causing you to spit onto the man's well-worn shoes. The man looks pleased with this. 

"Just don't learn, do you?" 

He’s drawing back for another swing when a voice cuts through the chaos like a whip.

“HEY.”

It's him. The one the other officer called Patel.

He doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the guy by the collar and yanks him backward so hard he stumbles. Patel doesn’t even wait for him to regain footing before driving a punch square into his gut. Then another.The second hits harder, enough to knock the wind out of him, enough that he crumples onto his knees, wheezing.

“What did I say about staying out of trouble?” Patel spits, voice low but vicious. “Huh? And now I catch you beating up a woman. You fucking disgrace ”

The man gurgles something. Tries to stand but Patel kicks his legs out from under him.You’re still against the wall, breathing hard, your cheek throbbing as you watch the scene unfolding in front of you. 

Patel doesn’t look away from the man on the ground, not until two other FEDRA soldiers rush in and start hauling him up by the arms, dragging him down the alley with blood on his chin and hatred still thick in his eyes.

Only when they turn the corner does Patel turn to you, eyes soft. “You okay?”

You nod, too fast. His eyes scan your face, the darkening bruise on your cheekbone.  

“I’ll take care of it,” he says finally. “You won’t have to see him again.”

You’re not sure what that means in a place like this. But still, you nod. He steps forward and you press yourself against the building. 

He raises his hand between you and you flinch. He looks saddened by your reaction, exhaling softly as his hand comes to gently cup your cheek, thumb hovering over your swelling cheekbone. 

You stand still, heart rabbiting in your chest cavity as he touches you delicately. There's nothing forceful in it. 

"You're so much softer than the rest," he murmurs almost to himself. You swallow, unsure of how to react. 

You've noticed it in your weeks here. You're fuller than the people that have always lived in the QZ. Your cheeks round from years of good food you've caught and grown with Maggie, skin free of scars, hair healthy. You lived well in that cabin and your face and body communicate that. 

Maybe Patel doesn't see that very often and it's what attracts him to you, like he can't stay out of your orbit. He lowers his hand slowly, eyes drifting from your mouth to your eyes. 

"Curfew is in an hour, best be heading home soon." 

You nod again, throat dry. He gives you a brief smile before murmuring a soft goodbye. You watch his tall form move down the street, disappearing around The corner. 

Your breathing is shaky when you finally allow yourself to exhale as you make your way to Tess' place, heart kicking against your ribs, nerves clawing up your throat. You get lost once before you turn yourself the right way. 

Her crumbling apartment comes into view and you sigh in relief. You finally make your way to her apartment and knock. 

No answer. 

You wait for a moment, listening but nothing sounds out aside from the low creak of metal shifting in the pipes and the hum of someone’s radio a few floors down.

You try the handle and find it locked. You don't have time to wait. Not with curfew approaching and if you want to be prepared for tonight's escape. After your experience today you don't want to be in here another second. 

You reach into your bag, retrieving the metal piece you use for your own exterior lock. No one walks by so no one says anything when you begin jimmying the lock. It doesn't take much finessing before you hear the pop of the latch. 

When the door swings open, you step inside and stop cold.  The apartment isn't empty. 

Joel is there. 

He’s leaning against the edge of the window, one shoulder pressed to the sill, arms crossed, gaze already on you like he knew it would be you coming through the door. There’s a rifle leaning near his thigh, his worn green jacket slung over a chair. The air smells faintly of gun oil and old wood. He doesn’t speak at first and he doesn’t move. Just watches you like an apex predator.

You glance toward the shelf near the kitchen where Tess hid your gun. Your pulse is a drumbeat now, fast and loud. You weren’t anticipating another person. 

Joel clears his throat. "She’s out,” he says simply.

You nod once, already moving toward the shelf. You grab the gun, feeling his eyes on you before you sling it over your shoulder.

Joel’s eyes narrow. “You goin’ somewhere?”

You freeze for half a beat, and then continue adjusting the strap. Your silence is instinctive.. Your mouth is dry, your jaw locked tight.

He uncrosses his arms, pushes off the window and takes a step forward. Joel looks you over slowly. His brows pinch, and something complicated flickers there.

"What happened to your face?" 

You turn from him, letting your hair fall over your cheek. You don't need Joel's fake sympathy.  

“You tryin’ to leave?” he asks, tone low and sharp like a blade wrapped in flannel when he sees the gun in your hand. 

You don’t respond but your silence answers for you.

"You really thinkin’ about goin’ out there by yourself?”

You keep your gaze trained on the strap buckle, fiddling with it like it’s jammed.

“Jesus Christ.” He runs a hand down his face as you move past him towards the bed. 

He watches you kneel down beside the bed, focused as you pull the bag out from under the bed. You tug a few times before jerking it free. He sees the plank that Tess has hastily put in place under the bed pop out, caught on the edge of your bag. 

So you know their hiding spots. He scowls. 

The two of you are quiet as you stare into the space. Tess shoved as much as she could down into the narrow area under the floorboards. Pills, tobacco, even the homemade apple vodka. Joel's face flushes when he sees your eyes go from the bounty there to your heavily depleted bag. His greed and Tess' clearly on display. 

You reach inside, fingers brushing a few packages of pills. You quickly pocket them before wordlessly slipping the bag across your back. Your fingers are trembling so you fist them at your sides as you stand.

"You think they’re gonna let you just walk outta here?” he says. “Bribe a guard, head off into the great fuckin’ wilderness like it’s a Sunday stroll?”

Your eyes flick to the door and he steps in your way. You blink up at him and it's not confrontational, just waiting. He looks down at you, mouth tight.

"S'not as simple as that. You need to cultivate relationships with certain guards,” he mutters, “If you try with the wrong one you're done. You get caught and if they don’t shoot you, they'll hang you out where everyone can see you.”

You swallow hard. Your throat is suddenly raw. He doesn't get it. He doesn't understand. Joel exhales hard through his nose and moves past you toward the kitchen. He leans against the counter, dragging a hand through his hair.

"And Maggie?"

The sound of her name hits you like a slap. Your hand tightens around the strap.

"She's countin' on you to build a life here." He pauses. "For the both of you."

He watches your face. His own is unreadable, but there’s something behind it. Frustration. Maybe anger. But not just that.

“She needs you to stay,” he adds quietly. "You running back there doesn't help her any. If you get yourself killed, how do you think she's gonna handle that?" 

He shifts close and it's not aggressive but it's not comforting either. “You leave now and you screw the both of you.”

Joel sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. You stare at the floor. Joel’s boots. Your bag.

He lowers his voice. “You go out there alone, you're dead. If you're lucky, someone shoots you quick. If you're not...”

The silence stretches until you move to step past him. Joel shifts sideways again, blocking you with his body. Not touching. Just there, solid and tall. That makes your head snap up to see him staring at you, jaw tight.

Joel glances at the bag again. “Put it down.”

You hesitate. You shake your head enough for him to see it. You think you see a flicker of something in his expression but you can't name it. 

“Stay one more week,” he says. “If you're really serious about leavin', I'll organize it for you." He sees your eyes widen. "I mean it. But you leave tonight? You’re on your own.”

The threat is clear. And not because he means you harm but because he knows what’s out there. You think of the dangers in the QZ and all the filth. You think about Maggie and what she asked if you. She never asked much, just to listen, to keep your head down. And you think of your death, not because you fear it, but because it means Maggie would be left alone. 

So you slowly slide the bag from your shoulders and set it down on the floor by your feet. The gun follows, placed atop the canvas bag. 

Joel nods once and there’s an awkward beat of quiet before he looks away. He doesn’t speak anymore. He just stands at the window again, arms crossed, watching the street below with that same guarded, impenetrable stillness.

And you leave without looking back

[gothicpaperback]

the art of the deal | part 10

<<<PART NINE: COMPETITIVE ADVANTAGE | MASTERLIST | PART ELEVEN COMING SOON >>>

wc: 5,3k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Harry Castillo x You | FALSE RELATIONSHIP

summary: you don’t believe in love. neither does he. that’s the only thing you agree on. after swearing off romance, you’ve built a quiet life in art preservation and avoiding anything resembling vulnerability. but when Harry Castillo, arrogant, infuriating, and stupidly rich, proposes you pretend to be his fiancée for the sake of getting his overbearing mother off his back, you’re thrown. but the money is good and with your detached views on romance and love, you make the perfect polished, commitment-free partner. It’s just a deal; cold, clean and temporary. but pretending to be in love with a man you can’t stand has a way of making you feel things you promised yourself you’d never feel again. especially when he starts looking at you like you're more than just a line item in a contract. And worst of all? You start looking back

the MC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely described physically aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab.

tags/warnings: romcom, fake relationship, mentions of materialists film spoilers, smut, enemies to lovers, money issues, fake engagement, pining. more tags when relevant.

taglist: @chasingthepoguelife | @tnsmara | @sarahhxx03 | @taehyungxjungkookistaekook | @bluenightmarepost | @kakiki3 | @pascal-mynightlyobsession | @immyowndefender | @dedicatedfangirl2001 | @dotyoureyez | @decadent-hag1 | @madmelz | @sarahhxx03 | @orcasoul | @papapappapapapa | @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 | @greenwitchfromthewoods | @insertclevernamehereplease | @titlee78 | @thedisagreeablegirl | @millersgirll | @brinapedroswife | @15christyxoxo | @brinapedroswife | @magicxmiller | @sesdeuxyeux | @@hannahlupinblack | @pedritotito | @bellatopo25 | @suzysface | @kellyxo1

part ten | deterioration

The auction room is quieter than the main hall, the swell of strings dimmed to a faint hum through the closed double doors. The lighting here is warmer, focused on the art: pools of gold and ivory light that make the displayed works glow. 

Conversations are hushed and Harry’s hand rests lightly at the small of your back as you step inside. You can feel the faint pressure through the fabric of your gown, the heat of his palm anchoring you in the slow-moving tide of guests. It’s casual enough to look natural, but you’re certain he knows exactly how close he is.

"I need advice for what I should get for my office," Harry explains as you make your way through the silent auction. "Something to liven up my office." 

"I'm sure you have a decorator at your beck and call."

“But you’re the art expert,” he murmurs, leaning just enough for his voice to curl past your ear. “Help me find something perfect.”

You glance at him sidelong, aware of the line of his shoulder brushing yours. “I don't know your taste.”

His mouth lifts faintly. “Surprise me.”

You do, weaving between displays, but the feeling of eyes on you is harder to ignore in this smaller space. Not just on you, but on the two of you together.  Women in sleek gowns glance over, some appraising, some assessing. Harry Castillo is handsome, wealthy, and famously unattached until now. The way their gazes slide to you feels like quiet judgment, or maybe jealousy. 

You tell yourself you don’t care, but you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks.

Most of the pieces here are good, too good, really, to end up hidden away. “Most of this will vanish into private collections,” you say before you can stop yourself.

“That’s kind of the point of owning something,” Harry replies smoothly, his thumb brushing lightly against the curve of your back as if to steer you toward the next table. The contact is brief but enough to make you wonder whether it was necessary at all.

“That’s the point for the owner,” you counter, pausing in front of a muted still life. “But the point of art is to be seen. To exist beyond the walls of someone’s dining room. It’s frustrating when a piece ends up somewhere no one else will experience it.”

He gives you a side look, and you can tell he’s thinking of something specific, probably the halls of his family estate, lined with paintings no outsider has seen in decades. “So you’d rather it hang in a museum?”

“I’d rather it live somewhere it can breathe,” you say. “Where it becomes part of a shared history instead of a private indulgence.”

“It’s a little self-righteous to dictate how people enjoy what they’ve paid for,” he says, but his voice is lower now, thoughtful rather than sharp.

“And it’s a little selfish to keep something in the dark just because you can,” you reply evenly, meeting his gaze.

For a moment, there’s a flicker of something in his eyes: challenge, maybe, or the quiet thrill of finding someone who doesn’t defer to him. The air between you seems to pull taut, and you’re both still until a woman in diamonds sweeps past, her gaze flicking over you with a tight smile before turning warm for Harry.

You let the conversation cool, wandering past a few more lots until a collecting of small terracotta pots catch your eye.

“These are good,” you murmur, leaning in. “The technique’s clean, but there’s something raw in the composition. Early work, I think, you can see the artist figuring themselves out.”

When you straighten, Harry’s gaze isn’t on the etchings. It’s on you. The look is unreadable, but it makes you aware of the space between you in a way that has nothing to do with the art.

"You're very passionate about your work."

"Aren't you?"

" Private equity isn't really passion inducing," he chuckles. "At least not to me. More just a means to an end."

You're half-listening as you pass by the next item; a vintage etching set, rare and beautifully preserved, tucked inside a velvet-lined box. It’s the kind of thing you'd never dream of owning but had the privilege of working on once. You've never gotten over how beautiful it was, how disappointed you were when it was picked up and whisked back to the original gallery. 

Harry notices the way you perk up a bit, feet slowing. He smiles and leans in close to your ear. “You like it.”

It’s not a question.

"It’ll go for a ridiculous amount," you tell him. "One came through my work last year that was worth ten grand.”

He’s already scribbling down a number and when you glance over you read Fifty thousand dollars. Nowhere near the last sum of nine grand. You feel your breath catch when Harry looks over at you, pleased. 

"Castillo, that's too much. You could’ve gotten that for a fraction of the price,” you whisper, lips barely moving.

He smiles at you, smoothing a hand down the front of his jacket. “Maybe. But then that money wouldn’t go toward the scholarship fund, would it?”

You blink and he shrugs, almost like it’s nothing

"Was that your way of proving you were listening to me earlier?” you ask with a light tease despite how breathless you feel. 

“Perhaps,” he says, setting the pen down. “Or perhaps I just like the idea of owning something you chose.”

The words are casual, but there’s something beneath them that makes your pulse trip, the same way his hand still lingering at your back did when you first stepped in here. 

“Every dollar I spend tonight supports someone like you, a few years ago. Some girl with talent and no budget, wondering if it’s all out of reach.”

Your throat tightens unexpectedly. You don’t say anything at first; afraid your voice might crack if you try. You’re still standing by the etching set staring at him when the cultured voice of Mona cuts through the low murmur of the room.

“There you are,” she says, gliding toward you both, hooking your arm in hers and guiding you across the floor. “You must tell me what you think of this piece, lot twelve.”

She motions to the small art podium holding an acrylic case protecting a framed landscape in oil, the kind that could easily slip into sentimentality if it weren’t for the way the light dances on the horizon.

“It’s lovely,” you say, studying the brushwork. “The palette’s unusual; you see how they’ve muted the greens so the sky feels bigger?"

"Oh, yes."

"It keeps the eye moving. If you hang it somewhere with natural light, it’ll change with the daylight.”

Harry watches the two of you, how easily you lean in to point something out, how she listens with genuine interest. He’s never seen his mother take to anyone quite so quickly. There’s no performance here, no polite mask.

Mona’s expression warms, delighted by the detail in your answer before her attention flicks past your shoulder, and her face lights up. “Oh, there’s Mason! I want to get him something for the nursery."

Before either of you can respond, she sweeps away, crossing the room toward a tall man waving from near the far wall, her silk gown catching the light as she goes.

Harry exhales softly beside you, but doesn’t move his gaze from where you’re still looking after her. “She likes you,” he says quietly.

You flush, a bit touched at the comment. "She's really lovely." 

"What's your mother like?" Harry asks, suddenly realizing he knows so little about you. "What does your father do for work?"

He registers the stiffness of your body immediately, the way you step back from him like he's on fire. This is a subject you will not be engaging in and he’s thankful that the quiet hum of bidding slips into stillness as the woman running the fundraiser, a poised figure in a midnight-blue gown with a crystal pin at her shoulder, steps up to the small podium at the center of the silent auction room.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she begins her voice warm but carrying with effortless authority, “the silent auction is now officially at an end. Thank you for your generous bids and your support for the arts. Please, make your way to the ballroom for the banquet, our program will begin shortly.”

There’s a rustle of silk and murmured conversation as people turn toward the double doors, their faces lit with the flush of wine and winning. 

Harry’s hand finds the small of your back again, guiding you through the crowd. You tell yourself it’s for appearances, but the truth is that the press of his palm has started to feel comforting. 

The ballroom is already aglow when you arrive, awash in candlelight from dozens of tall, tapered flames set in gleaming brass holders. Crisp white linens drape each table; their centres piled high with low arrangements of orchids and winter roses. 

You take your seat beside Harry as the last of the guests settle in, the clink of glasses and the muted thump of chair legs marking the transition from mingling to dining.A man in a tailored tuxedo steps onto the stage, accepting the microphone with the practised ease of someone who’s chaired a hundred such evenings. 

"Tonight, because of your generosity, we will be able to provide over a dozen full scholarships to students in need."

There's a visible sheen to your eyes when you hear this and Harry notices, of course. His fingers find yours beneath the table, just briefly, and squeeze. You squeeze back. 

"That means more young artists will have the tools, the space, and the support to create work that will inspire for years to come.”

The applause swells, polite but genuine, though not without the occasional sidelong glance. When you look across the room, you catch Bridget’s eyes on you. She’s smiling, but it’s not the kind that reaches her eyes. It’s tight, knowing.

Scholarship kid.

The unspoken label slides between you like a knife: a reminder that in circles like this, it’s not just what you’ve accomplished, it’s who paid for it. And in your case, the answer was a stranger with deep pockets and no personal connection. 

You look away, focusing on the speaker’s voice as he continues to outline the evening’s successes. Dinner arrives in elegant courses: roasted quail, shaved truffles, something green and delicate that tastes faintly of citrus. The hum of conversation rises, champagne glasses clink, and a small ensemble begins to play from the corner of the room. 

The shift is gradual, but soon couples are drifting toward the open space at the centre of the ballroom, where the first notes of a waltz are spilling out into the candlelight.

Harry watches this with subtle fascination. He's never been a fan of attention when it wasn't earned, but tonight he stands and extends his hand your way. "Shall we?"

You take a sip of champagne and set the glass down. “I’m not much of a dancer,” you murmur. 

“No?”

“I’ve just… never seen the point,” you say, keeping your gaze on the couples already moving in time to the music. “It’s always seemed like a performance for other people’s benefit.”

“Much like our evening, then.”

You give him a look and his smile tilts, just slightly. His head drifts your way, mouth at your temple and you hold your breath. He’s warm and he smells so good, spicy and warm and alluring.

“I did pay for an entire evening of your company,” he says, low enough that only you can hear. “That includes dancing.”

The words are clearly meant as a joke but they land like a misstep on a polished floor. Heat rises in your chest, blooming on your cheeks in ugly red circles as you jerk your head back, just in time to glare up at him.

“Wow,” you say flatly. “That’s charming.”

Before he can answer, movement to your left catches your attention. Bridget, all liquid grace in her low-cut gown, is cutting through the tables toward yours. Her eyes are locked on Harry with a look that borders on predatory.

“Harry,” she says, her voice dipped in something sweet and slow, “I was just wondering if you might be free for this dance.”

She doesn’t look at you. Not even once. She's all but pressed up into his side, arching her back so get cleavage sticks out. 

You don’t give him the chance to answer. Pushing back your chair, you stand, the legs scraping softly over the carpet.

 “Actually,” you say brightly, sliding your hand into Harry’s, “this dance is spoken for.”

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab his hand and lead him toward the dance floor. There’s a flicker of surprise in his expression, but no resistance. In fact he's grinning as he follows, his long stride easily matching yours.

The music swells as you step into position, his right hand finding the curve of your waist with practised ease. Your palm rests in his, your other hand settling lightly on his shoulder.

The nearness is instant and unnerving, the heat of him bleeding through the thin barrier of your dress. You’re not sure if you’re dancing for the benefit of the watching crowd, or because some part of you wants to prove to Bridget that she can’t simply cut in and claim him. Maybe both.

Harry’s eyes search yours, and for a moment it feels as if the rest of the ballroom has gone soft around the edges. Then his mouth curves, slow and knowing.

“Well,” he murmurs, “that's one way to shut Bridget up."

The two of you turn slowly, the polished marble floor glinting under the warm light. The music wraps around you like satin. His fingers curve around your hand, your body leaning ever so slightly into his. It isn't awkward or forced. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says suddenly, his tone softer than you’ve heard all night. “That thing I said before, I was just joking. Poorly, clearly. I didn’t mean it to sound like-”

“Like you bought me for the night?” you supply, arching an eyebrow.

He exhales through his nose, half a laugh, half defeat. “Yes. Exactly like that. I was aiming for teasing. Somewhere along the way, I missed the mark by a country mile.”

Your mouth twitches despite yourself. "You apologize better than you joke.”

“Noted,” he says, and you swear there’s a faint trace of relief in his voice.

“Well, since you’ve apparently bought the full evening’s package, you might as well get your money’s worth.”

His grin deepens something dangerous flickering there before he schools it away. “That’s the spirit.”

Across the dance floor, Bridget has found her own partner; her ancient but distinguished fiancé, Rupert. She looks absolutely miserable. When Rupert’s eyes find you and Harry, he offers a genuine, almost conspiratorial smile. It’s warm enough to make your shoulders drop a fraction, the tiniest reminder that not everyone in Bridget’s world is sharpening a knife for you.

Harry follows your gaze, and then leans down slightly, his breath brushing your temple.

“You’re a good actor” he murmurs quietly, just for you. "You've convinced everyone you're charming." 

“I am charming you asshole," you say quietly through a grin. 

He smiles crookedly and for a moment you feel like you’ve slipped, like something just tilted slightly off balance when you feel his hand drifting from your waist to the small of your back. 

Your fingers flex slightly at his shoulder, and you don’t know why, but your breath catches when his thumb brushes absentmindedly along the edge of your spine. Tingles break out everywhere in your body. 

You try to focus on the dance, the gentle push and pull of his lead, the sweep of your skirt around your ankles, but it’s impossible not to notice the little things. The steady warmth of his hand at your waist. The faint scent of his cologne, rich and expensive but understated. The way every now and then, when he adjusts his hold, his thumb grazes your ribs like he’s forgotten you’re not actually his.

“So,” you say, letting the sway of the music guide your steps, “unless some other philanthropist went insane and outbid you on that etching set, where in your office are you going to put it?”

His mouth tilts, the kind of smile that feels like it holds a private punch line. “Where would you put it?”

You glance up at him, caught a little off-guard by the question. “I've never seen your office but somewhere you’d see it every time you looked up from your desk. Not tucked away where you’d forget it was there.”

He studies you for a moment longer than is comfortable, long enough that you have to remind yourself to keep moving your feet. “Interesting.”

His palm is warm through the silk of your gown though and his lips a deep pink in front of you. This causes the sudden memory of how he kissed you that day at the baseball game runs through your mind.  

Don't think about that. 

From the corner of your eye, you notice Bridget watching you again. This time she’s not smiling. Her gaze slides away as Rupert murmurs something to her, but you don’t miss the faint edge of irritation in the set of her jaw.

You tilt your chin a fraction higher and lean in just enough for Harry to catch your next words. “She’s glaring at me.”

“Good,” he says simply.

You laugh under your breath, partly because it’s absurd and partly because you can’t quite think of a clever comeback with him looking at you like that. Your bodies continue moving together as if they’ve done this a hundred times; your head nearly resting against his chest now, his breath near your temple. The fake engagement twinkling in the gold light.  

The orchestra shifts into the final bars of the song, the melody winding down. You feel him looking at you. Not the glancing kind of look he does when people are watching, not part of the performance. This one lingers. You glance up, expecting a smirk, but he’s just watching you.

“What?” you ask, softly.

His gaze moves from your neckline to your eyes, slow and deliberate. “You look beautiful.”

He doesn’t dress it up with a smirk or a wink. And he doesn't say it loud enough for anyone else to hear. His face is so close to yours, lips looking so kissable. You remember how he kissed that day at the ball game, the way his tongue teased yours, the way it felt so natural. 

He smells divine and this near you can see the black of his pupils edging out the brown. Harry's hand slides around your waist, tugging you a little closer than is necessary. Flames go up your body, your breath hitching because you're very close to saying something stupid. You just don't know what it's going to be. 

"Let's get a photo of the lovebirds!" 

The air between you two snaps back taut, like a rubber band remembering its shape. You both step away, as if on cue. Harry and you turn at the voice, about to request no photos when a flashbulb goes off. You flinch as the photographer stalks off in search of his next victim. 

"Jesus," you mutter, rubbing at your eyes. "Who the hell was that?"

"The gala photographer." 

The blood drains from your face. One photo. That’s all it would take for this whole thing to show up in some glossy society spread.

“I didn’t want my photo taken, remember?" You hiss. "It’ll end up in those tacky society papers you’re always in.”

“I’ll try not to be offended by that,” he says dryly.

“And I-oh, fuck!”

You're about to lay into him when something over Harry's shoulder temporarily stops your brain from working, then your stomach drops. Across the dance floor, just beyond a tall floral arrangement, you see Gemma.

Your Gemma.

She's dressed exquisitely; hand wrapped in that of a tall, handsome man with slightly oversized teeth. You’d seen pictures, of course, but seeing them together is like watching a different world overlap with yours in real time.

And if she sees you here? Not just here: here with Harry. Here in this dress, on this dance floor, playing this role. The whole façade would crumble, taking your normal life down with it. Your only two options would be to come clean and risk the loss of all your financial dreams or you lie to a woman who has been nothing but sweet to you.

Harry is still talking; something about the photographer but his voice is muffled under the static in your head. You step slightly behind him, instinctively using his height as a shield while your brain fires off emergency escape routes.

Harry’s eyes sharpen. “What is it?”

But you’re already moving toward the washrooms again, unable to stop until the door swings shut behind you with a dull thud.

Harry watches you go before the flash of lights brings his attention back to the photographer who smiles, looking at his raw images with satisfaction. 

Harry's following movements are precise and efficient in a way that makes you think of a man handling a business deal. Harry presses a folded wad of bills into the man’s hand, his grip firm in the handshake.

“My fiancée doesn’t enjoy candid photos,” he says smoothly, lowering his voice just enough to make the words sound like confidential knowledge rather than a command. “You know how women are. I need you to delete any and all photos you’ve taken of her tonight.”

The man hesitates only for a second before nodding. “Understood, sir.”

Harry watches the camera’s small display as the offending images are scrolled through and deleted, each click of the button a small insurance policy. When he’s satisfied, he turns, walking back to the washroom, hoping you give him some kind of explanation 

When you finally re-emerge, Harry is leaning against a marble column, jacket-less, his phone in one hand. He straightens when he sees you peek out of the washroom door like a burglar checking for guards.

The coast is clear; Gemma and Beauford are deep in conversation with a couple near the champagne tower. 

“Come on,” you murmur when you notice Harry, tugging lightly at his sleeve. “We need to go. Now.”

His brows knit. “What’s happened?”

“Later,” you hiss, scanning the room one last time to be sure you’re still unseen. “But if we don’t leave now, my entire life is going to implode.”

Something in your tone must convince him, because he doesn’t argue. He just shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over your bare shoulders, the sudden weight and warmth making you blink. He's trying to disguise you. 

“Let’s go,” he says simply, steering you toward the exit with an ease that suggests he’s done this before, ushered people out without drawing attention.

He studies you for another beat, and then reaches past you to push the heavy doors open.The cool night air spills over your skin, mingling with the scent of his cologne still clinging to his jacket on your shoulders.

“This way,” he says, guiding you down the last steps. You lean into him, terrified that you're going to trip over your ridiculous high heels. 

“You want to tell me what this is all about?" Harry asks as he texts Raj to bring the car around. 

You glance toward the ballroom doors, then back at him. “Gemma’s here and she doesn’t know about this-” you wave vaguely between the two of you, “and I don’t want her to. I don’t want anyone I actually care about to know I’m fake-engaged to you. No offence.”

 “So you were hiding from her," Harry clarifies as the car pulls up to the curb. 

“Yes. And now we need to get out of here before she sees us.” 

Your dress catches the soft amber light of the gala, the hem brushing your ankles as you crawl into the town car, giving a brief (and ignored) greeting to Raj. 

Harry slips inside the car after you, the leather seat sighing softly under his weight. The city’s glow spills through the tinted windows, painting his profile in muted gold.

You’re still catching your breath from the night when your face suddenly contorts in frustration. “Fuck, the photographer-”

Harry’s brows arch effortlessly. “I handled it.”

“You… handled it.” You repeat slowly, eyes wide. “Like... Tony Soprano would handle something or?...”

He smirks, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Money buys silence and is much less messy than murder."

You shake your head, the tension in your chest easing with a reluctant laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

Harry chuckles, eyes turning soft. "I must say, you do keep things interesting."

"I’m a fascinating woman," you say as you shrug. 

He leans back, hands folding neatly in his lap. “And for someone who claims she hates dancing, you were surprisingly good tonight.”

Your cheeks flush at the compliment, but you toss back a playful grin. "Slow dancing is really just rocking back and forth."

“We'll have to do it again sometime,” he says with a teasing glint in his eye.

“It's your money, Castillo.”

The car pulls up silently in front of your building. The soft hiss of the town car door opening cuts through the low hum of the city night.

Harry reaches across the wide seat, offering you a steady grip as you slide out onto the sidewalk. His hand is warm as it closes around your wrist, steadying you. You glance up, catching the faintest shadow of something unreadable in his gaze.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice low and smooth. “The pavement’s slick.”

You nod, the cool air rushing past as you step out, but he doesn’t release you. Instead, his hand slides from your wrist to your lower back, fingers resting there briefly on the exposed skin, guiding you toward your building. 

The nearness makes your breath hitch, your skin suddenly too sensitive for the chill air. Neither of you speaks. The charged silence hums between you. Something primal that makes your blood warm and your thighs clench. 

"Almost forgot," you murmur, sliding the ring from your forth finger and handing it back to him. 

He takes it with a nod as you pull away just enough to reach the steps of your building.

“Thank you for the ride,” you reply softly, your pulse still racing. "And for all the help."

He nods once more, eyes flicking to your lips before settling on your face.

For a suspended moment, the world contracts and you feel a surge of attraction for him. He's handsome, he's funny, he's charming. He came to your aid tonight; he apologized when he hurt your feelings.

And he's paying you. 

This is a transaction. This is a performance. It would be humiliating to forget that.  You take a step back, eyes on his shoulder. “Goodnight, Castillo.”

“Goodnight,” he says in a soft rasp. "Pleasant dreams." 

You watch him step back toward the car, his silhouette framed by the glowing streetlamp, impossible and distant all at once. Then, with a deep breath, you turn and unlock your door, stepping inside to the quiet sanctuary of your apartment, alone, but strangely warmed. 

The smell of lacquer and old wood fills your little corner of the workshop, mingling with the faint metallic tang from the tools laid out in careful rows. Your hands are steady on the restoration piece in front of you, a delicate Art Deco clock whose brass inlays have been dulled by decades of dust and neglect.

You’re halfway through gently coaxing one stubborn screw loose when your mind drifts to last night.

The gala feels like it happened in another life, one where you wore a gown instead of paint-stained jeans, where your hair caught the light instead of the fine dust of sandpaper, where you walked in heels instead of your battered flats. The swirl of champagne flutes, the candlelight catching on crystal, the murmur of money and power moving effortlessly through the room, it’s still vivid enough to make you feel a little dizzy..

You can still see Harry in that perfectly cut tux, wavy hair swept back like he’d stepped straight out of a magazine spread. He’d looked so at ease in that environment, moving from guest to guest with a charm that seemed effortless but never shallow. He had that rare magnetism that wasn’t just about looks, it was about presence. When he spoke to you, it was as though the rest of the room ceased to exist.

It’s not hard to see why women trip over themselves for him. It’s not just the Castillo name or the family money or the way he can hold a conversation about practically anything without missing a beat. It’s the subtle way he watches people really sees them. How he notices when a waiter looks overwhelmed and quietly redirects a crowd away. How, when he caught you in a moment of nerves before stepping into the main hall, he’d simply rested his palm against the small of your back until your breathing evened out.

Harry Castillo is a real catch, a warm and wonderful man when he isn’t saying the wrong thing. And yet, wonderful or not, he doesn’t want love. He told you that from the start. No romance, no strings, just an arrangement to suit you both. And you told him you didn’t want it either. The trouble is, last night made it a little too easy to forget that.

You’re still turning that thought over in your head, half-lost in the memory of his hand warm against your spine, when you hear the sharp click of heels approaching. A voice follows, bright and cutting through the quiet hum of the workshop.

“When were you going to tell me?”

The tone makes you look up instantly. Gemma is standing in the doorway to your space, her brows arched so high they might launch into orbit. She’s got her bag slung over one shoulder, a paper cup of coffee in one hand, and an expression so animated you wonder if someone swapped her regular espresso for a triple shot.

“Tell you what?” you ask cautiously, setting your screwdriver down.

She strides forward like she’s marching into a boardroom, eyes glittering with some kind of feral satisfaction. Without another word, she slaps a folded newspaper onto your workbench so hard that the brass polishing cloth flutters. The tools rattle against the scarred wood with a metallic clink.

You blink down at it.

The New York Times. Specifically, the weddings and engagements section.

And there, printed in crisp black and white, is a photograph of you and Harry from last night’s gala. Apparently, Harry didn’t handle the situation as neatly as he thought he did.

Your first instinct is disbelief because it’s such a good photo it almost doesn’t look real. The lighting makes your skin look perfect and his tux impossibly sharp, the two of you caught mid-smile in what could easily be mistaken for a candid moment of pure happiness. His hand rests on your waist, your head tilts toward him, and your bodies angled like you’d been choreographed.

And there, directly beneath that photograph, in bold serif font, is the headline:

“Announcement is made of the engagement of Harrison P. Castillo to-”

You don’t even realize you’ve reached for the paper until your fingers are on it, gripping the edge like you can physically hold back whatever comes next. But the words are there, unyielding and printed for the entire city to see.

Your name in the New York Times linked to Harry’s in a formal wedding announcement as if this isn’t a carefully fabricated arrangement but the real deal.

Fuck.

authors notes

evil laugh

xx

💋💋💋💋

[gothicpaperback]

absolutely love The Way He Cares! Will there be more drabbles about it in the future? I seriously can’t live without them 😭

i will think about it. i have some ideas. maybe when i reach 1,000 followers as a thank you?

[gothicpaperback]

the art of the deal | part nine

<<<PART EIGHT: MEDIATION | MASTERLIST | PART TEN: DETERIORATION >>>

wc: 4,5k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Harry Castillo x You | FALSE RELATIONSHIP

summary: you don’t believe in love. neither does he. that’s the only thing you agree on. after swearing off romance, you’ve built a quiet life in art preservation and avoiding anything resembling vulnerability. but when Harry Castillo, arrogant, infuriating, and stupidly rich, proposes you pretend to be his fiancée for the sake of getting his overbearing mother off his back, you’re thrown. but the money is good and with your detached views on romance and love, you make the perfect polished, commitment-free partner. It’s just a deal; cold, clean and temporary. but pretending to be in love with a man you can’t stand has a way of making you feel things you promised yourself you’d never feel again. especially when he starts looking at you like you're more than just a line item in a contract. And worst of all? You start looking back

the MC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely described physically aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab.

tags/warnings: romcom, fake relationship, mentions of materialists film spoilers, smut, enemies to lovers, money issues, fake engagement, pining. more tags when relevant.

taglist: @chasingthepoguelife | @tnsmara | @sarahhxx03 | @taehyungxjungkookistaekook | @bluenightmarepost | @kakiki3 | @pascal-mynightlyobsession | @immyowndefender | @dedicatedfangirl2001 | @dotyoureyez | @decadent-hag1 | @madmelz | @sarahhxx03 | @orcasoul | @papapappapapapa | @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 | @greenwitchfromthewoods | @insertclevernamehereplease | @titlee78 | @thedisagreeablegirl | @millersgirll | @brinapedroswife | @15christyxoxo | @brinapedroswife | @magicxmiller | @sesdeuxyeux | @@hannahlupinblack | @pedritotito | @bellatopo25 |

part nine | competitive advantage

Harry steps back from the intercom to the car, hand braced against it as he scrolls through his phone. Another message about Munich, another one about a meeting and-

The sound of a door closing and heels clicking his way draw his attention up and Harry blinks hard, jaw tight. God, he should’ve picked something else for you to wear. Something that didn’t make his mouth dry just looking at you.

You turn to glance back at your door and Harry stiffens as the bare slope of your back is showcased to him. Harry told Stella to keep it sophisticated. Understated. She clearly hid the back from him on purpose. She wanted him discomfited. 

Mission accomplished. 

You're moving down the sidewalk also scrolling through your phone. Likely checking your work emails, so you don't notice the slight widening of his eyes as he takes in the quiet, devastating line of your body as you move.

You finally glance up and Harry feels his cheeks growing warm when you shoot him an appraising look.

You're checking him out. 

Harry shifts in his tailored black tuxedo, the satin peak lapels smoothed over a white dress shirt fastened with onyx studs. Polished black Oxford shoes and a slim black watch complete the look. He knows he looks good. 

But you? You look devastating. Maybe not to a less discerning eye. Maybe not to those who don't know your every day dress for comfort. His neck is warm now. You're an attractive woman, he's seen plenty before. But there's something extra, an edge he can't quite pinpoint. 

You approach him with a tight smile. The two of you aren't on good terms yet. But he's captivated, slightly entranced. 

But you? You're stiff shouldered, self conscious in this sleek get-up that doesn't feel like you, not really. He holds open the door for you, a dumbstruck look on his face. 

"Hi," you give in greeting, not waiting for him to reply before your smooth shoulder brushes his chest and you climb into the back seat. 

You're hands are a tangle on your lap, not looking up when Harry joins you, body tilted forwards, long legs tucked slightly to one side. You don't even have the courage to greet Raj tonight, but he seems to prefer that. 

You listen to the low murmur of traffic outside the windows, the quiet rumble of the car moving through the streets. 

You sit angled toward the window, gown smooth under your palms, back straight despite the motion of the road. You’re aware of everything, the drag of fabric across your thighs, the leathery smell of the car and Harry sitting just to your right, close but not touching. You just keep staring at the bit of leather between the two of you.

He's scrolling his phone and just the sight of it makes your face flush when you recall the reason for all this awkward silence. He hasn’t brought the photo up yet and maybe that’s for the best. Maybe it’s easier to pretend he didn't see the sexy selfie you sent him, the one that left very little to the imagination. 

You squirm, uncomfortable. Harry notices this, eyes following the curve of your hip before he stops himself. 

"So what's the gala for? And where is it?" You say suddenly, your voice pitched high. "I realized I never asked." 

“Of course, that's my oversight,” he says suddenly, his voice a little rougher than usual. “It’s a fundraiser for a foundation that sponsors arts programming for underprivileged schools, gallery exposure, visiting artists."

You glance over, surprised. His profile is sharp and elegant.

“And scholarships,” he adds, like it’s an afterthought. “For students pursuing fine arts. University, apprenticeships, portfolio training. Oh, and it's at the Met.”

You swallow, nodding. 

"It's why Ada asked for you specifically," Harry explains, lowering his phone to glance your way. "She thought you would find it meaningful." 

Your body goes cold. He knows. 

"Why just me?" you say, aiming for even toned when you feel like you're going to be sick. "Why would I find it more meaningful than someone else?" 

Harry looks at you in confusion. "Because of your job, I imagine." 

You look back out the window before he can read your face. Of course he doesn’t know. How could he? You’ve never told him about the student loans you’re still quietly paying off, the scholarships that determined whether or not you were able to graduate. 

And you don't want him to know. He's already aware you don't come from money. There's no need to compound it. No need for you to feel more shame than necessary. 

"Right. Of course." You force a weak smile. "That's great. I'm glad to be supporting it. What's the donation amount?"

"It's already been taken care of," Harry says. He adjusts his cuff links with unnecessary precision.

You smooth your hands over your skirt again. God, your palms are damp. You haven’t been this tense around Harry since the beginning. Not even when you first met his grandmother. 

“I didn’t know you were so involved in education,” you say, trying to steer the conversation somewhere neutral.

“It was my father's area of passion, he was always quite the patron of the arts,” he breaks off, then finishes with a quiet, “I'm just trying to keep it going, for him I think.”

You glance at him despite yourself. There’s something unguarded in his voice. And you understand it, the pain of loss. 

And then because the silence is too thick again and because neither of you has mentioned the thing that you're both thinking about, he says, “About earlier.”

You freeze, eye closing. "I'm so sorry. It was a total mistake, I didn't-"

"You have nothing to apologize for," Harry cuts you off as he shifts beside you, like even he’s not sure if he’s making it better or worse. “I actually wanted to apologize for the boutique... I should have knocked that day. I didn’t mean to just barge in and catch you like... like that.”

Your first instinct is to brush it off, laugh it away. But your face is hot, your pulse an anxious flutter in your throat.

“It’s fine,” you say finally, though your voice is too soft, too careful.

“I'm happy to move on and put all of it behind us,” he says.

You raise your eyebrows just slightly. "Really?"

"Of course." He clears his throat, smoothing his necktie absently. "You'll have to work on being more attentive when sending photos like that to future flings."

You gurgle a shocked laugh at that, watching him smile in return. You watch him reach into his pocket, producing the engagement ring. 

"Your prop for the evening." 

He extends it your way, dropping it into your palm and you slip it on. The silence that follows is completely different, with a hint of tension. 

"We're here, sir," Raj says from the front. 

The car slows as you near the venue. Through the window, the glow of the gala filters with crimson ropes and flashes of jewellery. 

The performance begins now, you’re about to step out into a crowd of strangers and pretend to be in love with a man drives you crazy just as often as he amuses you. 

You sit up straighter, smoothing your hair. You look at Harry with a concerned expression. "Do I look okay?"

Harry feels an obscene thrill at the question because now he can openly scan your face and your body, taking his time before fixing you with a heated look. "More than okay." 

You blink back at him, mouth parted to say something else when Raj is at the door, opening it. 

Harry clears his throat. “Ready?”

"Not even a little."

He grins and when his hand rests lightly on the small of your back to guide you up the steps of the Met you don't flinch away. 

The flashbulbs start the moment your heel hits the first step. A pop-pop-pop of white light explodes in your periphery, sharp and relentless, and your breath catches before you even realize what’s happening. Your hand tightens instinctively on Harry’s arm. 

The stone steps the Met rise ahead of you, wide and dramatic, carpeted in deep crimson. Harry leans in just enough that you feel the warmth of his breath near your ear, though his voice stays quiet.

"Smile, darling. We’re being watched.”

He's confused when you whirl back from him, shielding yourself with his body from the snapping bulbs. 

"What the-"

"You didn't tell me there would be photographers everywhere,” you hiss your voice low and urgent.

“You’ve been to galas.”

“Not ones like this. Not with paparazzi on the fucking steps.” You cringe away when another snap of light flashes nearby. “That was the deal, Castillo. No press, no public photos. No posts. Nothing. If my family finds out -"

Harry's eyes flick once toward the press line and then back to you. He remembers the promise and you're right. Its one thing for his parents and society knowing, its quite another to have your family learning of it. 

"Right, come with me.”

His hand leaves your waist only long enough to catch your wrist, firm but careful, and then he veers off-course without hesitation, guiding you down a narrow side path that loops behind a pillar.

You pass two stunned wait staff and a security guard who nods immediately when Harry murmurs something clipped. Within seconds, you’re behind the scenes off the carpet, out of the light, breath echoing in the quiet marble alcove just behind the main entry hall. 

Harry lets go of your wrist but doesn’t step back. “Give it a minute,” he says calmly, eyes scanning the corridor. “Then we’ll go in through the staff corridor. No one will see you.”

All around, guests flow into the main gallery in curated pairs: women in sweeping gowns, men in sharp tuxedos, clusters of stylists and museum liaisons keeping the flow moving. 

You've only ever been on the sidelines of these, in the periphery as the art restorer,. Yes, you've brushed elbows with the upper echelon, but you've never been one of them. You've never had to worry about having your photograph taken, or the attention of others. You forgot that it existed. 

Harry walks in step beside you, unhurried and composed. His tuxedo fits him like second skin, crisp and elegant, with a gleam of silver at the cuff. He glances at you once, briefly as you fall in step with the crowd, unseen by the outdoor photographers. 

“You’re doing that thing with your face again,” he says without looking directly at you, reaching into his breast pocket for the invitation.

You tilt your head. “What thing?”

“The one where you look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

“I would rather be anywhere else.”

"Try something more upbeat,” He allows the faintest pause, just enough to draw breath. “Just remember the bonus.”

Ah yes, your sweet monetary top up. That does make you feel better. You force a smile, more teeth than warmth, and let your fingers curl into the crook of his arm.

“Good?”

He glances down, a smirk crossing his full mouth. “Terrifying.”

The massive doors ahead open, revealing the vaulted grandeur of the Great Hall. Inside, the light softens to gold, warm against the marble. You feel Harry’s hand press ever so slightly at your back again, a silent cue to keep moving. Your heels click against the polished floor, echoing faintly.

A server passes with a tray of champagne, and Harry takes two flutes, handing you one without breaking stride. You sip and scan the room to see massive floral installations stretch toward the ceiling, pale orchids and deep red ranunculus exploding out of clear pedestals. 

A quartet plays something classical but slow, lush. You recognize the Temple of Dendur just beyond the hall, the iconic sandstone temple surrounded by rippling water and lit like a dream. You’re just starting to take it in when a couple drifts toward you, all smiles and practiced familiarity.

“Harry,” the man says. “And this must be the fiancée.”

You smile before he can finish the sentence, nodding once, polite and poised. You are ready for it this time, the ring heavy on your fourth finger. 

Harry’s voice turns smooth, just a shade warmer. “Darling, this is Kennedy Marsh, board chair and his wife, Bailey.”

You murmur your hello, extend a hand, and Bailey takes it with hers, her diamonds cool against your fingers.

“I have been absolutely dying to meet you,” she purrs. "But it seems Harry's been keeping you all to himself." 

“It's my fault actually," you say smoothly, much to Harry's surprise. "I'm like a very discerning groundhog. I only pop up every so often." 

They both laugh, as expected, that clipped rich, false way that makes you cringe. 

"Oh Harry, she's a scream!" Kennedy tells him, clearly delighted. 

"Just a doll," Bailey nods, looking at you with a sweet smile. 

You try not to be irritated that they're talking about you like you're a show pony.  Kennedy glances to his right and waves another couple over at the laughter ebbs. 

"Ah! Rupert!" 

A tall man of about seventy wanders over, one hand on a mahogany cane, the other in the hand of what appears to be his young, blonde daughter. She wears a plunging neckline that makes you fight not to stare when they approach. 

"Sweetheart, this is Rupert Lacey, owner of Lacey Ventures," Harry says. 

"How business-like, Harry," Rupert says with a wide smile. He looks your way with a cheeky smile. "He forgets the part where I've known him since he believed in the Easter bunny."

The group laughs sweetly, all but the blonde who looks bored.

"Rupert and my father were in business school together," Harry explains to you. "I've known him all my life." 

"And this is my fiancée, Bridget," Rupert says with a grin, motioning to the blonde on his arm. 

Harry watches you quickly school your features when you realize they're a couple and he has to swallow a laugh. 

"Love is in the air," Kennedy says with a wide smile. Like it's not strange for a beautiful woman in her mid twenties to be with a man coming up to eighty. Maybe in this world it isn't. 

"Pleasure," Bridget says with a put on vocal fry that makes you wince. 

You don't miss the way she appraises your engagement ring as you wrap a hand around Harry's elbow. You watch her icy grey eyes flick to Harry, expression dark. 

"I never thought I'd see the day. Harry Castillo is finally settling down." 

"The rumours are true," Harry grins with a charismatic smile. 

You can feel Harry's hand on your back, steady and warm. If you weren't covertly watching Harry you'd have missed the slight clench of his jaw. 

Bridget gives a humming response, disbelief etched in her features.

"It's so nice to see you, Harrison," Rupert says warmly. "You're usually abroad for these sorts of things. Last I heard it was Iceland?"

You feel Harry press against your hip. He feels uncomfortable with this topic but you don't know why. You catch the subtle shift in his body, how his hand doesn’t press into your back but rests gently against your hip, holding you.

"When your fiancée works in the arts, you don't get much of a choice," he says, chuckling like it's a huge joke.   

Bridget's voice cuts through the group line a blade.

"You work?" 

All eyes go to the blonde who looks at you with both surprise and what feels like pity. It makes you embarrassed when you see her staring at you like you're an exhibit. 

You try not to shrink into yourself but your cheeks are warm and you feel like you did that day you couldn't afford a coffee in the University cafeteria. Not after books and tuition. The pity on everyone's face, the confusion as to why you were there. It all comes back.  

And then there's Harry's fingers pulling you closer to him, as if his body's strength will leech into yours. 

"She studied fine art and conservation,” he says proudly, a smile on his face. “She's got the most brilliant eye. She actually works with pieces most of us would only ever see behind glass.” 

"Oh,” Bridget says her smile too sweet. “That’s... charming."

It’s meant to sound harmless but it lands sharp and dismissive. Like you're decorative, Harry's latest acquisition. Harry doesn’t say anything more, but his hand on your hip tenses just slightly. Like he's not sure if he should draw more attention or let it go. 

Your face stays composed, but inside, you're burning. You try to shake it off, to remind yourself that you don’t need her approval. That this whole thing is just for show.  But your fingers tighten slightly around your glass and when the conversation dips into a lull, the words come anyway.

“Not only do I work,” you say, voice even, “but galas like this are the reason I was able to attend school at all. Art restoration wasn’t something I could afford without scholarships and grants. So events like these really matter. At least, they did to me.”

You expect silence. Maybe one of those polite half-smiles that says how noble but means how quaint.

Bridget sips her champagne and doesn't look at you anymore. Harry looks nonplussed because he’s used to these circles, used to women like Bridget with their sleek hair and patent charm.

"You, my dear are a breath of fresh air." 

The pink in your cheek runs from shame to delight as your eyes move to Rupert. He leans forward slightly on his cane.

“I respect that; working for what you want. Means a hell of a lot more than coasting by on someone else’s name.”

Bridget shifts beside him, plump smile fixed but just a little off-centre now. 

The crowd begins to murmur to one another in agreement and for the first time all evening, you feel like you’re not the outsider in the room. You catch Rupert's eyes and give him a small nod of thanks. He returns it with a and wink before being pulled into a conversation with a passing couple. 

Someone gestures toward the Egyptian Wing and the flow of guests begins to shift. Harry guides you in that direction, his voice low again once you’re past the crowd.

"Well done." 

You give him a sideways glance. You worried he would be upset with you, for being combative. But if anything he looks impressed. 

The Temple of Dendur opens before you like something from a dream. A raised, glass platform stretches across the reflecting pool, surrounded by candlelight and velvet benches. People are still arriving, the room humming with energy. Somewhere to the left, a small riser waits for speeches, and a string ensemble plays near the rear wall.

Harry slows as you take it all in. He sees the way you survey the other couples, watching the way they talk and move and laugh with grace. He notices the way your hand smooths your dress at the hip, a nervous tic.

"I feel like I stick out like a sore thumb here." 

He watches you for a second too long. “You look like you belong.”

You scoff softly, shifting your champagne glass from one hand to the other. “I don't know if I want to. That Bridget woman-"

"Ignore Bridget," Harry says rolling his eyes. "Everyone else does. Just enjoy the night the best you can. You are in the Met after all." 

For a moment, neither of you moves. The space around you glows with reflected light and centuries-old stone. 

You feel the quiet pull of the past around you, anchored by the sharp, modern edge of performance.

"C'mon," Harry says, hand at your lower back. "Let's make the rounds."

An hour later the gala is in full swing with crystal glasses sounding out like wind chimes, gold light spilling from chandeliers and curated laughter bouncing off the marble. 

You and Harry have been making the rounds like pros: his hand resting lightly on your back, your shoulder against his like the two of you talked about as you entered. 

And then you catch the gaze Bridget throws across the room, arm in Rupert's. He's talking with another couple, leaving Bridget out. 

She looks at you dismissively, eyes wandering up over your dress. But it's when her eyes travel to Harry and you see the open desire written in her face that you realize she isn't being cruel to you for no reason. It's because she wants Harry for herself. 

So you pivot smoothly, reaching up to fix his tie.

"Darling," you murmur sweetly, voice pitched just loud enough for anyone nearby to hear, fingers grazing his collar. "Let me."

Harry blinks down at you, caught off guard for the briefest second, but he plays along. He lets you tug his tie gently, brushing the silk flat against his shirt. He feels your fingertips graze the side of his neck and he swallows thickly. 

His hands settle at your waist, purely for effect but the weight of them feels too real, too steady. Harry likes how you look at him right now, all doe-eyed and sweet. 

You smooth the knot, patting his chest once for good measure. “There. Presentable.”

He smiles then, warm and amused, lowering his head a little so your faces are close.

“I knew I brought you for a reason,” he says under his breath, his voice the kind of teasing that flirts along the edge of intimacy.

You glance up at him, still smiling, your fingers lingering a second longer than necessary on the lapel of his jacket. He’s so close now you can how his mouth curves, not quite smug, not quite sincere.

For a moment, you could almost fool yourself that this moment is sincere. That Harry is holding you because he wants to, not because he's trying to fool a room full of people. 

"Harrison."

The voice is so close, a sharp blade that cuts down the middle of you two. You both step back, eyes going to the figure next to you. 

 Ada stands just off to the side, her gown a sleek silhouette against the low amber light of the gallery. Her expression is composed, unreadable but expectant, as though she arrived precisely at the moment she intended.

Harry straightens almost imperceptibly, like a soldier falling into line, and his arm slips away from your waist almost unwilling. 

"Grandmother."

Ada stands with one gloved hand resting lightly on her clutch, her posture impossibly straight, her mouth twisted in something that might pass for a smile if you didn’t know her better.

“How nice to see you again," you say, inclining your head with practised grace. 

“And to you as well,” Ada replies slowly, eyes flicking down your body. "Stella did well. You look marvellous."

For Ada this feels like the equivalent of a bear hug. It makes you quietly preen, feeling not only beautiful but appropriate. “Thank you.”

"A marked improvement on the last time we met."

Her voice lands like a judge’s gavel and all the goodwill just made now disappears through your fingers like sand. Harry takes a physical step in front of you, jaw tight. 

"I think she dresses heads above some of the hideous fashion I've seen over the years from the women Mason dated.” 

It’s not defensive, not overtly protective, but the kind of statement that makes Ada’s eyes settle on him, narrowed slightly. 

"Be that as it may,” she says crisply, “this isn’t about Mason.”

“No,” Harry agrees, calm and unbothered. “It’s about the woman I'm engaged to.”

She acknowledges him with a slight incline of her head, and then turns her attention to you.

"I hope you're enjoying yourself this evening. With your background in the arts I thought it only natural for you to attend."

You appreciate the change in topic. "I'm having a lovely time, thank you for extending the invitation."

Her eyes sweep over you like a curator inspecting a borrowed piece. "I heard you made quite the impression with Rupert Lacey."

“He was very kind,” you say, smoothing your hands along the hips of your gown again. You don't know why but you feel nervous. 

Ada studies you a beat longer, and then nods. "The night is young and I've people to meet. Your mother is here, Harrison. See to it that she doesn't linger by the bar." 

And then she’s off, gliding into a nearby conversation, her voice already shifting into charm, the picture of polished grace. Leaving behind only the faint echo of expectation and the subtle, unmistakable pressure to rise to it.

Harry exhales once through his nose. “That went better than it could have. She seemed to like the dress.”

You watch Ada work the room like a diplomat, calm and cutting and perfectly in control. 

“She didn’t come here to talk about my dress,” you murmur to Harry, voice light but laced with meaning. “She came to see if I'm buckling under the pressure."

He leans in slightly, the curve of his shoulder brushing yours. “And are you?”

His voice is low, amused, and edged with something more intimate. His eyes glint when they meet yours, the beginnings of a smile pulling at his mouth. 

You tilt up in your heels, the motion bringing you flush against his side, lips near his ear.

“Not for what you’re paying me.”

The laugh that escapes him is warm, surprised. He leans back slightly to look at you, his eyes still dancing.

"You’re good,” he murmurs.

Your faces are too close now. The laughter falters, not awkwardly, just ebbs away. His eyes drop to your mouth and you could swear you feel the way the air tightens between you.

“Darlings.”

You both jerk slightly apart as Mona’s voice cuts through the moment like a velvet ribbon. You turn just in time to see her approaching, a graceful sway in her step, champagne flute in hand. Her lipstick is impeccable, her curls pinned up in a style that feels Parisian and effortless. She’s glowing, and maybe just a little flushed.

She kisses your cheek with a cloud of perfume and warmth, then embraces Harry lightly. Her smile is indulgent, affectionate, but her gaze doesn’t leave you.

“You look absolutely stunning,” she breathes, eyes crinkling at the corners. “No wonder Harrison can’t keep his eyes off you.”

Despite everything, the play-acting, the contract, the deal, you can’t help the smile that curls up. And beside you, Harry goes visibly pink.

Mona gives a delighted little hum at the sight of it. “The silent auction is about to start,” she says, already looking toward the adjoining room. “And with your background, I just know you’ll be able to spot the gems. Mason’s already there, let’s join him.”

With a wink, she drifts off in a blur of champagne silk and well-practised charm.

You and Harry are left standing in her wake, almost shy beside each other now. A half-second passes. Then Harry clears his throat and steps closer, extending his hand.

“Shall we?”

You glance down at his hand, then slide yours into it, warm and solid, his fingers closing over yours with that familiar quiet confidence.

“Lead the way."

i'm sorry for the delay updating.

xx

💋💋💋💋

[gothicpaperback]

I love the art of the deal! It's the best Harry Castillo

story I've ever read! I can't wait to read the next chapter!

i am working really hard at bringing it to life. ive been so busy with real life stuff but i hope to get back to it soon

[gothicpaperback]

the way he cares | epilogue

<<<PART TWELVE | MASTERLIST | >>>

wc: 2,0k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Joel Miller x You | Enemy Pregnancy

summary: Joel Miller has been my pain-in-the-ass neighbour for years. we argue more than we speak and when we do speak, it's usually through gritted teeth. but when my doctor tells me my fertility’s running out of time, panic sets in. I want a baby and I don’t have the luxury of waiting around for Mr. Right. Joel's a damn good father to his daughter, Sarah. that much, I can’t deny. so one night, fuelled by nerves and just the right amount of wine, I ask him the unthinkable: get me pregnant. no strings.no romance. just biology. i never planned on falling for him. but nothing about Joel Miller ever goes according to plan.

while the story is first person narrative, the OC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely physically described aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab.

taglist: @himboelover | @harrypotteranna23-blog | @isabella-rose-trastamara | @ro4nix | @sunndroppp | @harriedandharassed | @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 | @titlee78 | @olafsmiles2020 | @sophiagladiator | @sunnytuliptime | @6kaja9 | @magicxmiller | @redvelvettsunflower | @smvtwitchmiller | @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff | @doblasftcisco | @brinapedroswife | @vallyb | @bowie-frommars | @thepilatesprincess | @bug-boy32 | @madmelz | @boscogirlsworld | @isabella-rose-trastamara | @honestly-really-magnificent | @diirtymartini | @praisethekook

the way he cares | epilogue

One Year Later

There’s a wind today amongst the sun, one of those soft breezes that picks up petals off the sidewalk and makes everything shimmer. I stand on the porch barefoot, a mug of tea cradled against my belly.

My eyes move across the street, to the home that used to be mine not so long ago. Now the shutters are a sage green instead of navy and there’s a plastic tricycle in the yard. I thought I'd miss it more. The independence, the quiet rituals of living alone, but I don’t.

A new family moved into it last month, loud and chaotic and happy in a way that makes me smile instead of ache. For a long time, I thought that house was my castle, my protection from the outside. But it turns out I didn’t need a fortress. I just needed someone who wouldn’t let me face everything alone.

Selling it wasn’t just a move, it was a choice. A quiet, solid yes to this life.

I feel him before I hear him. His hand slides around my waist from behind, warm and familiar. I lean into him without thinking.

“You’re barefoot out here again,” he murmurs against the back of my neck. “Reckless.”

“I’m hydrating. And grounding.”

“You’re five months pregnant and standin' on a porch that’s seen better days. You’re nestin' on unstable architecture.”

I laugh and tilt my head toward his, letting his stubble scratch my cheek. “You built this porch.”

“Exactly. S’how I know it needs a repair.”

Sometimes I catch Joel looking across the street too, back at the house that used to be mine. The porch light still flickers when it rains and the rosemary bush I planted has grown wild over the walkway. I think he must see memories of our past selves, the fights, the laughs, the tears, the love. 

So much love. 

Joel asked me to move in three months after our hushed confession to one another, like he already saw me living here long before he asked. He never made a big show of it. He just handed me a key one morning and said he’d cleared a drawer.

And Sarah didn’t just accept me; she folded me in like she was waiting for me to admit I wanted to stay. From the very first night Joel and I entered into the kitchen hand in hand to see her smug expression. 

"About time." 

There was no testing period. No teenage angst thrown my way. Just a kid who decided I was hers and in that, I found something I didn’t know I was missing. It filled a part of me I’d spent years pretending didn’t ache.

And then between kisses and long nights in his bed, Joel whispered that he wanted us to be a family on paper, not just living situation. We went ring shopping the next afternoon and spent weeks dreaming of a quiet wedding with family and fairy lights somewhere in the country. 

And then I woke up nauseated, convinced I had food poisoning. It wasn't until Joel noticed my shift in mood that he recommended a pregnancy test, "just to be sure."

It happened quickly after that, two pink lines and the axis of my life tilted. But it didn’t feel like a rupture, it felt like a continuation, a delightful inevitability that began that day I crossed the street. 

I already had everything that mattered. I already had Joel, with the way he listens even when he’s quiet. The way he fixes things without fanfare. The way he looks at me like I belong in every room he enters. I already had Sarah, who made me feel like love didn’t have to be earned, just returned.

But when I told them both that I was pregnant and saw the way Joel's eyes went glossy and Sarah's smile turned bright I realized that this was it, the missing piece. Her.

The baby kicks behind my ribs, sharp and sudden as if she knows I'm thinking about her. Joel feels her too when he flattens his palm across my stomach with reverence. His eyes go soft.

“Jesus,” he says under his breath, then presses a kiss just below my ear. “She’s strong.”

“Terrifyingly so.”

He shifts to stand beside me, his arm slung around my shoulders, both of us looking out at the cul-de-sac like it belongs to us now. Across the street Mrs. Shellstrop is yelling at her husband, who’s pretending to rake the leaves while actually talking with his buddy Don about the Phillies.

Joel’s fingers find mine. “Want to take a walk later?”

“If by ‘walk’ you mean ‘waddle slowly on swollen feet and then cry',’ sure.”

He grins. “You love crying.”

“You love that I cry.”

“I love everythin’ you do.”

I glance at him sidelong, heart hitching the way it always does when he gets that look on his face; quiet, unguarded, full of a love neither of us believed we’d get to have.

“You know what today is, right?” I ask.

“Saturday?”

I nudge him with my elbow.

“Okay, okay,” he says, smiling. “One year since the day you marched over and asked me to get you pregnant?”

“Wrong,” I say. “One year since the day you told me you were in love with me.”

“Think it was the other way around.”

“You really want to fight me on this, Miller?”

He kisses me then. Not the fiery, aching kind we used to survive on, but something steadier. 

“Never, baby.”

Behind us, the wind chimes on the porch start to sing. The sun presses warm across my back, and from inside the house I hear the soft creak of the rocking chair Joel built for the nursery. Sarah is on it , practising her knitting. 

Joel swore up and down it would never squeak.

 It squeaks.

Joel rests his forehead against mine. “Do you ever think about how close we came to missing this?”

I nod. “Every day.”

One year ago, I thought love was something I’d missed my chance at. That motherhood would be something I endured alone. That Joel and I were too broken, too bitter, too late. But now, with his hand in mine and a second heartbeat inside me and a girl who calls me her best friend, I know the truth: we weren’t too late, we were right on time.

“You hungry again?”

“Always,” I murmur. “But I like it when you ask.”

He chuckles and kisses my temple. "Good thing I anticipated this and made extra muffins.”

When he twists I see the breadth of his chest and the muscled biceps that stretch his t-shirt.

"What if it's a different kind of hungry?" I mutter, fingers coming to curl in his t-shirt. I don't overlook the flush to his cheeks as he gives me a crooked grin. 

"Then I can help you with that, too," he murmurs against my ear. "Just in the bedroom unless you want the neighbourhood judgin'."

"Considering how loud we were last night I think they already are." 

We laugh together like naughty schoolchildren before his finger crooks under my chin, leading my lips to his for a long and tender kiss. We stay like that for a moment, just long enough for the baby to kick again and for Sarah to come barrelling out onto the porch with a sloppily knitted onesie in one hand. 

“I made this for the baby!” she says proudly, holding up a haphazard yellow abomination. 

Joel pretends to grimace. “You didn’t make me one?”

She gives him a long suffering look that makes me chuckle. He takes it with a grin and folds it over my swollen belly. "Looks like a perfect fit." 

“You're so annoying today,” she throws over her shoulder, already running down the steps. “I'm going to get a soda." She stops to look at me. "You want the usual?"

Sarah knows my cravings all too well. For the last three months I've been obsessed with grape soda and pop rocks.

"Yes please."

"I'll take a pack of gum-" Joel starts. 

"Sorry, not enough hands!" 

She starts jogging to the corner store as I laugh. Joel shakes his head, murmuring something about being ganged up on. 

"When this one is born it'll be three against one," I tease, curling my hand over my navel. "We'll have to get you a boy dog or something." 

I shift the mug in my hands, watching Joel’s face light up with mock seriousness when he sees mine.

“We still need to talk baby names.”

He raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Already? I thought we agreed ‘Baby’ would work just fine for the next, I dunno, five years?”

“Very funny. But I’ve been thinking about it. What about Ellie?”

Joel’s grin turns mischievous. “Ellie, huh? Sounds nice. But what about something more… bold? Like ‘Seven'?”

I nearly choke on my tea. “Seven? Are you fucking serious?”

“Okay, okay,” he says, hands raised in surrender. “How about ‘Rex’? Strong. Like a king.”

“Joel, I don’t want to name my daughter after a dinosaur or a dog.”

He chuckles. “Fine. What about ‘Tater Tot’?”

I snort, shaking my head. 

He just grins wider. “Alright, alright. Ellie works I guess.”

I look into the distance in thought. "Maybe Grace for a middle name? Like your mom?"

He reaches over, brushing a stray hair from my forehead. “Ellie Grace it is then. But I’m keeping ‘Rex’ and ‘Tater Tot’ in reserve, just in case.”

I bump his arm playfully. “Deal. But if we ever have a boy, ‘Rex’ is gone.”

He laughs, eyes full of warmth. “Fair enough.”

One year ago, we were barely speaking. One year ago, we couldn’t look at each other without flinching. And now his thumb is brushing slow circles over the inside of my wrist as we discuss baby names. 

His voice is low and content as he says, "I love you. I love this." 

And I reply with the same, my heart bursting the longer we gaze at one another. 

I think about all the quiet ways Joel loves. Not just the big declarations or the nights that end in breathless kisses and me caged underneath him, but the little things. Like the extra saltines he puts in the glove box for when I'm nauseated or how he always lets Sarah go first when we’re picking a film for movie night, even if it means watching Legally Blonde for the third night in a row.

That’s the thing about Joel, it's not that he changed for me; it's that I finally saw what was always there. His stubborn heart, steady hands, his impossible, infuriating, incandescent love. And somewhere in all the chaos, the fights and the fragile truce and the long aching detour to get here, I figured it out. He wasn’t just the first choice, he was the right one.

Because no one cares the way he does.

authors notes:

thank you for reading my cute little story. i hope you enjoyed it and keep coming back for my other stories.

xx

💋💋💋

[gothicpaperback]

the quiet | part six

wc: 5,5k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Boston QZ to Jackson Joel Miller x reader

summary: you don’t speak. not since outbreak day stole your voice and everything that mattered. when a smuggling job gone sideways leaves you in the care of Joel Miller and Tess, you don’t ask for help, you don’t want it from the powerful woman and intimidating man. but Tess sees something in you, pulling you close, showing you warmth. her partner Joel keeps his distance and you prefer it that way, you’ve learned not to trust men. Joel doesn’t want to get involved with you, not when his loyalty already belongs to Tess. but feelings don’t listen to reason and as tension builds between the three of you, so does the quiet pull between you and Joel; dangerous, unwanted, impossible to ignore.

the OC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely physically described aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab. she has a back story.

tags/warnings: family trauma/abuse, alcoholism, slow burn, sexual tension, descriptions of violence, enemies to lovers-ish, love triangle, boston to jackson joel, mentions of violence. i will add more tags as they become relevant.

taglist: @druwstark | @hermionelove | @enchantedreader | @76bookworm76 | @harriedandharassed | @thunderdownunder | @glitterspark | @haileycopter17 | @druwstark | @googlingsexyvampires | @fishingforpike | @@aliensfeltmyjoy | @secretlettersfromyourlove | @sptbear | @yellowbrickyeti | @enchantedreader

the quiet | part six

You are assaulted by vicious nightmares, of the officer’s lingering stare as he announces you're an illegal here in the QZ. You're taken to the centre of town, neck strung up in a noose as Joel and Tess watch you impassively from the crowd. 

You wake up with a jerk, breathing heavily, tears in your eyes. When you blink, it’s the ceiling above your cot that stares back. Cracked plaster. Rust on the sprinkler head. You sit up slowly and rub at your eyes. Your back aches from the too-short cot, and your legs feel leaden from standing in line yesterday for so long. 

You’re lacing your boots when the knock comes and you freeze. No one knocks here. You've been here not that long but manners don't exist. Your breath lodges in your throat as you glance toward the door, already calculating. Can you reach the window if you have to escape?

Maybe its Tess?

You stand up, quietly as you can, and cross the room. You unlatch the deadbolt but keep the chain in place, then open the door a crack.

It’s a woman, slender, dark-eyed, with long sandy hair pulled into a fraying braid. She’s bundled in a worn cardigan over a patched dress, and in her arms, she cradles a baby swaddled in a thin blanket. The child looks up at you with huge, blinking eyes and lets out a soft, cooing hiccup.

The woman smiles, tentative but kind. “Hi,” she says in a low voice. “Sorry to bother you. I live next door.”

You don’t answer. Just watch her, lips pressed together.

She nods like she expected it. “I just… wanted to introduce myself. My name is Lucía. This is Alma.”

The baby makes a snuffling sound and presses her face to Lucía’s collarbone. You shift your weight still not moving to open the door further.

Lucía keeps talking, soft and slow, like she’s used to being gentle with people. “We were brought here a few months ago by my brother-in-law, Mateo. After my husband was killed…” She trails off.

"The walls are thin.” She adds. “I heard you move in. I thought we should meet. What’s your name?”

She doesn’t ask for your name. Just gives you the option. You hesitate for a long beat, then shake your head once. Not yet. You don't know the people here. You don't trust them. 

To your surprise, she doesn’t flinch or look offended. She nods again. “Okay. No problem.”

A breeze stirs the edge of her cardigan. Alma kicks once in her wrap, and Lucía bounces her absently. She gestures over her shoulder.  “We’re in 204, next door if you ever want company.” She gives you a tired look. "It's hard to make friends in five. The people here are... Rough." 

You nod. Yes, you know. 

You glance down at the baby, who has fallen back asleep. Lucía follows your gaze. “She’s a good baby,” she murmurs. “She won’t cry much. I promise.”

You shake your head again, but this time it means its okay. You don’t mind the baby. To show this you raise a hand, forefinger trailing across her downy cheek. 

Lucía’s smile shifts, more real this time. “Okay. Well… nice meeting you.”

She waits one second longer, like she’s leaving a small door open. Then she turns and walks away down the hall, her boots soft on the concrete, her child curled close to her chest.

You watch until she disappears through her own door then you close yours again, the chain rattling gently as you slide it back into place. You stand there for a moment, heartbeat slowly returning to normal, and look around your empty room.

You scrub and dress, fighting back a yawn. You hope that today's work isn't too laborious. That you'll have energy to pull an extra shift for an extra ration card. 

You keep your identification in your back pocket along with your key. You carry a small piece of metal you found while scrubbing the place. It helps to lock your place from the outside. 

Your eyes fly up when you exit the building. A tall man with is looking at you intensely. He's faking a smile which makes him seem all the more insincere. 

"You know Tess and Joel huh?"

You ignore him, attempting to go around him but he blocks your path. 

"C'mon. I saw you with them." 

You continue to ignore him just like Tess and Joel told you to. You clench your fists when he steps on front of you to tell you that he's a good guy.

“Me and Joel go way back. I used to work with them and Tommy.”

You have no idea who Tommy is.  You slip around him, ignoring how he tries to crowd you. He calls you a bitch but he doesn't follow you. 

At the west side gate of Zone Three, workers gather. A mix of hollow-eyed men and sunburned women, their faces gaunt from hunger and months of this labor. Most don’t speak. The ones who do, don’t speak to you.

Officer Lang is easy to spot. Stocky, square-shouldered, with a clipboard and an impatient scowl. He just points when workers approach him and calls orders.When he gets to you, his eyes flick over your face. You hand him your identification before tilting your head down.

Don't stand out. 

“Trash line, north sector.” He jabs a thumb. “Move.”

Sanitation duty is exactly what it sounds like; carting bags of waste down damp corridors, scrubbing out broken-tile bathrooms with half a brush, sorting through piles of rotting fabric that were once uniforms or sheets. 

The work is just as brutal as you thought it would be. Your hands scraped raw through thin gloves. Rusted cans and rotting cloth everywhere. Plastic that crumbles when touched. You almost choke on the stink of it. Your arms burn from the weight but you swallow down the ache.

Hours crawl by as you let your mind go back to the cabin with Maggie. Lazy mornings with tea and homemade biscuits smothered with strawberries. 

The sun climbs, and then falls. You let your brain take you away from this filth and more. You disassociate so well that when the whistle finally blows, you stand there in the dirt, shaking with your fingers numb. 

Officer Lang signs your hours on the card and doesn’t look at you twice.

The gingham cloth remains in your pocket next to your ID. A tiny talisman that reminds you of what you’re doing this for.

But… is this worth it?

Is living in this place worth the stress, the horror? No, the cabin won't do anymore with its rotting floorboards and open elements. But isn't there an alternative? A way to survive that still makes you feel human? You go home and think about a place like that. Somewhere with acres you can venture in safely.

A place where you don't feel so alone. 

The agreement between Tess and Maggie is a weekly meet at the grove. A trade off of tobacco and now, weed for information on you.  This lets Maggie know how you're doing as well as letting Tess know that Maggie is still alive. 

At the end of the first week Maggie is anxious, her body fidgety when Tess approaches, body half hidden in the trees. 

"How is she doing? How is the apartment? You found her somewhere safe, right?"

Tess knows the truth will only hurt Maggie and it won't change anything, so she forces a smile and a nod. 

"Found her a cute little spot in zone Three. Safest one in the whole QZ."

"Good good." Maggie takes her bag and motions to a fallen log. "Take a load off." 

Tess is about to refuse when she watches Maggie bring out a joint from her pocket, lighting it with a matchstick. She takes a long inhale before smiling at Tess as she exhales. 

"Might as well enjoy it while I can.”

They sit on a nearby log and pass it between them like sorority sisters, smiling and giggling. 

"I can't believe you never told me you had weed," Tess says exhaling smoke. "And that it's really good shit."

"Tobacco is a lengthy process," Maggie says smiling serenely. "But the weed? You could have come to take it for yourself."

"I wouldn't have."

"Not now,' Maggie agrees. "But that wasn't always the case, now was it?"'

She's right. If Tess knew about all the shit Maggie had stockpiled in her place a decade ago, odds are Maggie and you would have already been dead. 

"You're getting soft in your old age," Maggie grins before turning serious.

Tess gives a half laugh. She's always been hard, always had that quality about her even when she was a nurse. Back in her life before the outbreak. Tess muses that this is a strange sort of meeting. A morbid one, and that's saying something considering the world they live in. 

It's colder tonight and for a moment the weed makes Tess feel more emotional, more inclined to feel something cozy like flannel. She thinks of Joel's broad back, how warm he is when she snuggles against him during naps. 

Would he really be upset if she spent the night? 

"Is she making friends, Tess?"

Tess is dragged from this reverie, looking at Maggie with bleary eyes. She hands the joint back to Maggie, she's had too much. 

"How would I know?"

Maggie is irritated, stubbing the butt against the bark of the log. She fixes Tess with a dark, serious look. "We had an agreement." 

Tess doesn't know if it's the weed or the night or the fact that watching over you makes her feels like she wants to crawl out of her skin. Whatever it is propels her to an angry stand, glaring down at the old woman. 

"I got her an apartment; I got her ID and a job. What else do you want from me? Should I tuck her in? Read her to sleep?" She takes a few steps back, pacing in front of the old woman. “I mean for Christs’ sake, Mags, she’s a grown woman.”

Maggie continues to watch her shrewdly. "You are supposed to look out for her. Help her navigate the QZ for the first little bit. There are rules there that we've never had to deal with. I don't want her hurt or scared. Lord knows that'll come when she learns I'm not joining her." 

Tess wants to bite back that putting you in the QZ was a crueler fate than letting you die at the mercy of a clicker. At least then you'd be with Maggie. But then Tess' eyes fall on the patchwork bag of tobacco at Maggie's feet. Her weekly payment. 

 She has to play along. 

"You're right," Tess says with a deep exhale, like she's just realizing her mistake.

"I'll take better care of her. I promise."  

THEN 

A week ago you were playing tea party with Bitsy on the cracked linoleum of your RV. 

Now you’re in a cabin that smells like wood smoke and pickled vegetables. There’s a rough wool blanket over your shoulders and a mug of warm oat milk in your hands. Maggie said it’s good for your stomach and even though you don't like it you drink it anyway. You don't want her to give you up. 

You don't really understand what's happening on the world but you do know that it's bad. 

Bruce is sitting at his desk, fiddling with the dials of a dusty old ham radio. He hums when he works, low, tuneless sounds that make you think of bees trapped in jars.

He talks to the radio like it’s a person. Says names you don’t recognize. “Truman? You out there?” or “Almanac, this is Sierra-Two. Anybody copy?”

Outside, the wind carries the smell of pine needles and something sour. The woods around the cabin are dark and endless. Sometimes, when you look too long into the trees, you think you see shapes shifting. Maggie says you’re safe here, but she also keeps a shotgun by the door.

You sit at the window most mornings as instructed with Bitsy, watching Bruce and Maggie work. She and Bruce have started building things. Dragging sheets of rusty metal across the yard. At first, it looks like they’re just stacking junk, metal sheets, rusted fencing, broken pallets and stuff like that.

Bruce says it’s “a perimeter.” Maggie calls it a fence, but it looks more like a wall.

“Doing good Mags,” Bruce muttered once, his sleeves rolled up, hands blistered from work.

“Damn right,” Maggie said, hauling a log twice her size onto her shoulder. “We’ll keep them out or die trying.”

You don’t know what “them” is. 

 Maggie drives wooden posts into the ground with a sledgehammer, her face clenched tight, sweat soaking the collar of her flannel. Bruce weaves chicken wire between the beams, winding it tight with thick, callused fingers. There are spikes now. Nails hammered through old planks. Glass bottles broken and glued along the tops like teeth.

They dig l big holes, too. Covered with dead leaves, sharp rocks inside. Those are outside the perimeter. A first line of defence. 

Maggie builds a tripwire trap with tin cans strung on fishing line. When the wind shakes them, they rattle like ghosts. She sets them across the entry trail and down by the creek. “Not to stop them,” she says, not looking at you. “Just to hear them coming.”

They move the chickens inside a wooden pen, reinforce it with wire and plywood. “Don’t want them drawing attention,” Bruce mutters, hammering in another plank. “Clickers go toward sound.”

It's like a monster from a scary book. Them. 

You've been at Bruce's place for a month before you learn what they are.  It’s storming outside soft thunder and steady rain tapping the windows. The radio crackles with static and a voice comes through. 

“Delta Delta. Potential clicker sighting down Belmont. Be sure to keep locked and loaded. Over and out.” 

You listen intently before Bruce turns it down.Maggie’s knitting something, or pretending to. She glances at Bruce and then back at you. Her mouth is tight.

“You need to know what's out there,” she says, “and you need to know how to keep yourself safe." 

You don’t say anything. You just pull your knees up to your chest.

"You know the night your mama and you were driving away?"

You nod. 

"You were driving away like I was to go somewhere safe. That's because there's these... Infected things out there." 

Bruce leans forward and taps his temple. “They sorta look like people or so they say. But they're not right in the head.”

Maggie frowns, not appreciating Bruce input when she sees how confused you are. 

"You know mushrooms, honey?”

You nod not you stick out your tongue. You hate mushrooms. 

"Well these are mushrooms the get into people's brains. Only is not like regular mushrooms."

“Exactly,” Bruce says. “These ones, they take over. People stop being people. They don’t think and they don’t feel. They just listen to the fungus and it tells them to bite healthy people like us.That's why we're working hard to make sure this place stays safe.”

Maggie’s hands have gone still in her lap. “Some of them are fast. Others are blind, but they… click. To see. Like bats.”

That part sticks. Click. It sounds almost funny. But Maggie’s voice is flat, heavy.

“They’re the ones you have to be quiet for,” she says. “Real quiet.”

You don’t understand all of it. But you understand enough. There are monsters out there, people who aren’t people anymore. Your tiny body shakes with both anxiety and fear. 

Bruce nudges a piece of chocolate toward you, just a square, saved from somewhere. You take it, chewing slowly, even though your stomach hurts. Maggie’s watching the window.

“The wall and holes all keep us safe,” Bruce says.

Sometimes Maggie watches you too closely, like she’s checking to see if you’re still whole. She and Bruce are gentle with you, they voices soft and entreating. At night, when Maggie thinks you’re asleep, she tucks your hair behind your ear and whispers the same thing. 

"You're safe, little one." 

Bruce gave you a box of crayons he found in a drawer. Most are broken and the red is worn to a nub. You draw on scrap paper when no one’s looking; trees, a dog you used to have, the outline of a woman with long hair holding your hand. You don’t know if it’s your mom or Maggie anymore.

One morning you feel bold and ask Maggie when you’re going back home. She crouches in front of you, her hands on your knees, her face worn soft from sun and grief.

“This is home now,” she says.

You don’t understand what that means. Not yet. But in the coming years you come to know what she meant. Home was where they cared. 

At the end of your second week you return home from your shift with aching feet and the stink of bleach still clinging to your hands, your whole body hums with exhaustion. 

You turn the corner toward your door and see something waiting: a small container on the floor. Still warm when you crouch to pick it up.

Inside are lentils, a few bits of root vegetable, something green and wilted. It smells… good. Your stomach growls loudly.  There's no note but you know where it came from. You smile to yourself, bringing it inside. 

You eat it slowly, sitting on your cot with your back against the cold wall, letting yourself chew instead of rush. 

There's a quiet knock on your door shortly after and you rise, wincing. Your back is so sore. You open it faster than you did this morning. 

Lucía stands there with a scarf looped around her neck and Alma bundled up against her chest in a sling. She has a blanket over both of them, tucked in like she’s done it a thousand times.

"Did you like the soup?"

You nod, smiling brightly. You hand her back the empty bowl. You wish you could do something for her. You hold up a finger. One second. 

You return moments later with your ration of lentils. You extend them her way but she shakes her head, refusing. 

"I have my own ration cards and Mateo drops by food every week. You keep it." 

She doesn't want anything from you. She just wanted you to have something. She wanted you to feel welcome. It makes you uneasy. You’ve always been taught that nothing comes for free in this world. But the kind way Lucía looks at you makes you think otherwise.

"Thank you," you offer in a rough whisper. You don't speak often, but in this moment you need her to understand the depths of your appreciation. 

She blinks, a little surprised before she smiles widely. 

“Come with me after work tomorrow,” she says. 

She notices your hesitation, the way you back up a step. You're like a cat, not afraid but cautious, on high alert. 

“Just for a little while,” she adds. “You’ve seen the worst of this place. You should see something better. Mateo is coming to see Alma. He can babysit for a while."

And so after another hard day on sanitation and with the sun still in the sky you head home and knock on her door, a bit anxiously. She throws it open, already expecting you. You notice a small man with a moustache holding Alma by the window. He gives you a once over and a sharp nod. 

"Let's go!"

She’s already turning, already heading down the hall before giving you any more information and so you grab your jacket and you follow. 

"I saw you with that big man the other day," Lucía says as the two of you walk out of the building. "He's always with that tall woman."

You nod, shifting uncomfortably. 

"Are you friends with them?"

You shake your head. Not really. 

As the two of you walk you notice the air always smells like rust here. Even now, with the sun still up and the wind cutting through the alleys, there’s that ever-present tang in your nose like metal and dust.

You pull your jacket tighter and follow Lucía through the maze of back paths and broken fencing that line the QZ.

She walks like she’s done this route a hundred times; braid swinging lightly across her back. There’s no map in her hand, no weapon at her side. Just confidence and the unspoken understanding that no one really bothers a woman with that kind of walk.

You trail half a step behind. Not because you’re nervous but because you don’t know where she’s taking you. And because people stare less when you don’t walk side by side. Lucía glances back at you once, her expression lit by something gentle. “You okay?”

You nod.

She doesn't know what you're capable of, otherwise she'd never ask. She doesn't know what you've had to do to survive. Much like most of the despots you pass as you follow at her heels. 

The QZ looks different at this hour. Not welcoming but a little less like a cage. The streets aren’t as full, the shouting has died down, and the soldiers at the main post look half-asleep behind their sandbags. 

A kid bikes past with a squeaky wheel. Someone’s hung laundry between two collapsed balconies, flapping against the skyline like threadbare flags. You pass an alley where someone tried to paint a mural of a landscape but it’s faded, half-covered with dirt and cracks. Still, Lucía slows down for it and touches the chipped edge with her fingertips.

“This way,” she says and then turns sharply through a rusted gate. She moves purposefully and with confidence. 

You hesitate just a second before following her.

What she’s brought you to isn’t a secret but it’s hidden well enough that it feels like it belongs to someone. A courtyard surrounded by old brick buildings, patched with tarps and wire. A garden used to live here, you can tell from the sun-bleached planters and the dry fountain in the middle, but now it’s something else.

There’s music, faint but real. A beat-up old speaker rests on a ledge above the fountain, hooked up to what looks like a solar battery. People mill around, not many, maybe a dozen, sharing bread, passing cups of something that smells like fruit gone slightly off. 

There's no uniforms, no barked orders, just low conversation. A woman dances barefoot on the concrete, her eyes closed. Lucía smiles like she’s proud of it.

 “It’s just a gathering spot. It’s not much. But the music’s nice.”

You glance around. One man is playing cards with his boots off. Someone else is sketching in a notebook with careful strokes, tongue pressed to their lip. No one’s watching you and you love it. 

Lucía doesn’t pressure you. She takes a seat beside the dry fountain, adjusting her skirt, and gestures for you to join her. You sit cross-legged beside her, careful not to let your knees touch. She offers you a smile and for a while, neither of you speak.

Just music. Murmured voices. Wind in the buildings. You tilt your head back and feel the light on your face. It’s almost warm. It's like you can imagine yourself back home. 

“This place’s not all bad,” Lucía says eventually. “It’s hard, yeah and it been be cruel sometimes. But there are still little pieces, things they can’t ruin.”

You know who they are. 

She leans back on her elbows, watching the sky. “I used to sing. Before.”

You glance over, eyebrows lifted.

Lucía chuckles. “Don’t get too excited. But sometimes Alma falls asleep better when I hum something. I think she likes the vibrations in my chest.”

You smile, faint, but real. You blink away a sheen to your eyes. 

Lucía catches it and her eyes soften. "I knew you had emotions.”

You roll your eyes as a laugh escapes her. The two of you remain there as the sun dips and the music continues. Despite the hour fires are made in cans, cards played by firelight.  A couple dances nearby, eyes closed.

"I was really scared my first week here,” Lucía murmurs when she sees you gazing at them. “There was so much to learn, so much to avoid. Immigrants aren't exactly welcome here. But I promise it's gonna get better. We have our own sort of community. We look out for each other." 

You don’t answer. All you can think of is Maggie. Lucía watches your face for a beat too long. 

"Is there someone out there waiting for you?"

The moment is shattered. You stiffen and then stand abruptly. You don't like the questioning, the way she speaks like the two of you are friends. You’re only neighbours, people who are thrown together because of circumstance. That isn’t trust.

Lucía blinks up at you. 

 “Sorry,” she says quickly. “I didn’t mean to pry."

But it’s too late. You shake your head and turn on your heel. She calls your name once, but you don’t stop. You leave the merriment and the music at your back, hurrying away from the questions and the attention.

You think you hear her calling out after you, scrambling to put her shoes on. But you're already out of the square and down the street, your hands shoved deep in your pockets, your jaw locked tight.

You don’t hear anything but the pounding of your own heart because the sun is gone and you can’t see much. You aren’t sure where you are. At first you think you’re circling back toward the laundry hub, but none of the buildings look familiar.

 A barbed fence rises to your left, and a row of boarded-up apartments sits slumped and empty on your right. You glance behind you to see the street is deserted. Within moments you realize with a stone in your belly, that you're lost. The maze of back routes and connecting alleys that Lucía took you through are now twisted and confusing. 

You spot a sign you think you recognize and dart toward it but it’s rusted through, unreadable. And now you’re deeper into the maze of back alleys, where the street lamps don’t reach.You curse under your breath, panic beginning to flutter in your ribs. You've never been great with directions, that was always Maggie's thing. 

You pass a narrow opening between buildings and pause, trying to decide if you should backtrack when you hear a hiss.

“What the fuck are you doing out here?”

You freeze. You know that voice. 

Your eyes widen as you turn, chest heaving as you come face to face with Tess. She’s there in the dark, looming over you, face hard with disbelief. Moving beside her Joel is already checking over your shoulder, keeping watch.

The darkness of the alley swallows you whole as she grabs your shoulder, forcing you between the buildings. You’re caged by she and Joel, trapped between darkness and fear.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she snaps, her voice vicious. "The curfew was twenty minutes ago." 

You stare at them, breathing hard.  Curfew? 

The two exchange a look. The fear is still leaving your system, burning in your throat like bile.

"You didn't tell her?"

"Last time I checked she wasn't my problem," Joel mutters. "I was doin' you a favour gettin' her a job." 

He looks you up and down like he’s making sure you’re still in one piece. Your eyes connect briefly before you glance down the alley behind them. You hadn’t even seen them; they must’ve been cutting through after a job, something quiet and under the radar. And they must know every shortcut in this place.

Joel exhales sharply, muttering a curse. Then he jerks his chin. “Come on.”

They don’t speak much on the way back. Joel walks ahead with long, purposeful strides, keeping to the shadows, slipping behind dumpsters and burned-out husks of cars like he was born into this place. Tess moves at your side, glancing behind you every so often.

You know you’re slowing them down and you also know you’d never make it back without them. As the three of you move through the maze of alleys, it becomes clear that Tess is the one who calls the shots. She's quick, sharp, and confident in every step she takes. Joel follows without question, the silent muscle behind her, always watching the shadows. 

His shoulders are broad beneath his worn jacket, his stride heavy and deliberate, and his hands, large and rough, curl instinctively toward his weapon at every sound. You take it all in without emotion, cataloguing him the way you would any other threat or tool, something useful but not personal.

Joel throws an arm out suddenly, pressing you back against the brick wall with a firm hand to your shoulder, his body angled in front of yours as flashlight beams sweep past the alley mouth. You barely breathe, his palm steady and warm through your coat, holding you there until the danger passes.

It takes twenty minutes to circle around the closed sectors and past a checkpoint where two FEDRA soldiers are already lighting cigarettes, clearly done for the night. 

Tess signals ahead with two fingers and vanishes around the corner, silent as smoke. You and Joel hang back, tucked into a wedge of shadow between a dumpster and the alley wall. His hand tightens slightly on your arm just before a flashlight beam cuts across the far end of the alley. It's an officer, lingering too long, boots scraping the pavement in a slow patrol.

You don’t dare breathe. Joel shifts closer, his front pressed fully to yours now, every inch of him is solid and warm, the bulk of his coat enveloping you like a shield. The rough fabric of his flannel brushes your jaw and the side of his face nearly touches yours, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath through the cold.

His chest rises evenly against yours, and there’s something steadying about it, like anchoring yourself to a heartbeat. You keep your eyes forward, locked on the puddle-glinting pavement but you’re hyper-aware of the wide fingers curled just above your elbow, the faint exhale that stirs your hair when he lowers his head slightly, listening. 

The moment stretches on too quiet and too close, and then when you think you might scream from the stress, the officer moves on.

As soon as the beam of the flashlight disappears, Joel eases back like he’d only just remembered he was touching you. He doesn’t look at you right away, just gives a short jerk of his chin in a silent lets go, before stepping out into the alley, his strides purposeful.

You follow without a word and by the time you round the corner, Tess is waiting with her arms crossed and an annoyed tilt to her head. Joel says nothing as she starts walking again, and you fall into step behind them both, the tension from the alley still buzzing in your fingertips. 

No one speaks for the rest of the walk. The QZ is quieter now, the kind of quiet that feels like bait. At your door, Tess stops first and folds her arms.

"Curfew is every night at ten. To be safe be in the apartment at 9:30. Do not go wandering around like you were tonight." 

There's no point telling her you went with Lucía. You just nod. 

"We got you a place and we got you a job. You're set up with rations and so you're on your own from now on, got it?"

You nod again. You figured as much. But there's something that she hasn't brought up and it concerns you. The backpack under Tess' bed. The one left for safety. 

"My bag," you say quietly. 

Joel's eyes dart to your face, clearly curious by the sound of your voice. You feel his gaze but you're focused on Tess who licks her lip in a way that only be described as irritated. 

"I'll bring it by later this week." 

You nod and she takes off as if your request has personally offended her. You hear her boots crunch on the gravel. 

Joel hesitates and for a second it seems like he might say something. You eyes meet his now, your face impassive. But then he just blinks at you before he lumbers after Tess.

You stand there a moment longer, hand on the doorknob, heart still thudding from the near-miss. Then you slip inside, locking the bolt behind you, already dreading the grey dawn of another miserable day.

You let yourself into your apartment, your hands still shaking. The air inside is cold. You throw the bolt and lean back against the door, pressing your forehead to the peeling paint.

How is this preferable to life in the cabin with Maggie? How is this worth the stress and the fear? Surely Maggie won't prefer this. She needs to know what awaits her. 

You drag yourself to the cot, collapse into the blanket, and stare at the ceiling. Tomorrow morning you’ll wake up and scrub out shit-stained holding tanks and clogged drains. But tomorrow night? 

Tomorrow night you're going home

authors notes:

there is going to be more joel and reader interaction in the coming chapters but i am a firm believer that a good build up for a story makes a satisfying climax

i have a question should i mark this a joel miller au because there will be slight changes to the cannon story?

xx

💋💋💋

[gothicpaperback]

the art of the deal | eight

<<<PART SIX: INVESTOR BEHAVIOUR | MASTERLIST | PART NINE: COMING SOON >>>

wc: 3,4k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Harry Castillo x You | FALSE RELATIONSHIP

summary: you don’t believe in love. neither does he. that’s the only thing you agree on. after swearing off romance, you’ve built a quiet life in art preservation and avoiding anything resembling vulnerability. but when Harry Castillo, arrogant, infuriating, and stupidly rich, proposes you pretend to be his fiancée for the sake of getting his overbearing mother off his back, you’re thrown. but the money is good and with your detached views on romance and love, you make the perfect polished, commitment-free partner. It’s just a deal; cold, clean and temporary. but pretending to be in love with a man you can’t stand has a way of making you feel things you promised yourself you’d never feel again. especially when he starts looking at you like you're more than just a line item in a contract. And worst of all? You start looking back

the MC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely described physically aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab.

tags/warnings: romcom, fake relationship, mentions of materialists film spoilers, smut, enemies to lovers, money issues, fake engagement, pining. more tags when relevant.

taglist: @chasingthepoguelife | @tnsmara | @sarahhxx03 | @taehyungxjungkookistaekook | @bluenightmarepost | @kakiki3 | @pascal-mynightlyobsession | @immyowndefender | @dedicatedfangirl2001 | @dotyoureyez | @decadent-hag1 | @madmelz | @sarahhxx03 | @orcasoul | @papapappapapapa | @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 | @greenwitchfromthewoods | @insertclevernamehereplease | @titlee78 | @thedisagreeablegirl | @millersgirll | @brinapedroswife | @15christyxoxo | @brinapedroswife | @magicxmiller | @sesdeuxyeux | @@hannahlupinblack | @pedritotito |

part eight | mediation

It's been a week since you and Harry have been in contact. Ever since that awful text and humiliating photo mix up. 

George had laughed himself silly when you told him that weekend that you'd sent it to someone at work. But then he saw the lingerie in question when you opened your robe and all laughter died as he took you to the bedroom. 

George is home back in the UK now and you miss the pleasant distraction he provided. 

"You must miss him a lot," Gemma says over lunch at the gallery cafe. "You two suited each other."

"I miss the sex, yes. But George isn't a serious kind of guy. He's a fun for right now kind of guy." 

Plus I don't want serious. That's the whole point of hooking up with a stranger. 

Gemma wrinkled her delicate nose at that, thinking deeply before nodding in agreement. "That makes sense."

"Besides I don't want to talk about me. I want to hear all about you and Bradford."

Gemma laughs and sets down her chopsticks, her entire face lighting up like someone flipped a switch inside her.

“He texted me this morning,” she giggles. “He said he woke up thinking about me. I know that sounds ridiculous, but-”

“It doesn’t,” you interrupt, smiling despite yourself. It does, actually. But you like the way she says it, like it’s a magic connection between them.

You sip your iced tea, letting her talk. Gemma is in that early peach tinted, glowing stage of dating. She’s practically vibrating across the table as she looks off into the distance and talks about him.  

You remember what that felt like, before everything went sideways. Before the concept of “forever” started sounding more like a sentence than a promise.

“God, I probably sound insane,” she says, cheeks flushed when she catches herself going on and on. “I’ve only known him a month. But it’s just so easy. You know?”

You nod, even though you don’t know. 

“Is that the way it’s supposed to feel?” she presses.

“Supposed to,” you echo quietly, stabbing a cucumber. 

You remember how things felt easy with Jarrod very rarely. How it seemed you were always chasing after that glittery feeling others mentioned. How you always felt like you never quite measured up.

You glance out the café window, watching strangers hurry past and wonder how many of them are like Gemma; hopeful, reckless, falling face-first into a love that will only hurt in the long run.

Gemma’s still smiling when you meet her gaze again. It’s so pure it almost aches to look at.

“I like hearing you talk about him,” you say honestly.

“Really?” she grins. “Even though you’re all cynical about love?”

You smirk. “Especially because I’m all cynical about love.”

She reaches across the table and squeezes your hand, steadfast in her belief that love still exists. You let her because even though you don’t believe in love anymore, sometimes when you watch her excitement over her boyfriend, you wish you did.

“Partner call’s been moved to tomorrow,” Harry says, flipping the page of his meeting brief."The whole Munich innovation strategy.”

He doesn’t hide his irritation. The Munich office, technically a regional partner firm but operating like a rogue startup, had been lobbying for weeks now. They wanted more capital earmarked for their green energy initiative and, worse, wanted New York senior leadership to lend them credibility by joining their new climate innovation panel. 

It wasn’t just funding they wanted. It was optics. 

“Even after last year’s pass,” he adds flatly.

His assistant lingers in the doorway, tablet poised.

“Yes, sir. They’re requesting someone from the NYC office to lead the strategy panel this time.”

He rubs his jaw slowly. “Of course they are.”

They wanted him, the golden boy, a recognizable name too slap on their slide decks. Harry hated being used for show, especially when the numbers didn’t justify the enthusiasm.

“If this keeps up, I’ll have to go out there personally, won’t I?”

The assistant hesitates, pushing his glasses up. “It’s looking likely.”

Harry exhales through his nose, silent. He liked Munich well enough as a city, but travel meant wasted days, endless presentations, handshakes with partners who thought attending a climate conference counted as progress.

“Draft a note,” he says finally. “Tell them leadership’s reviewing portfolio priorities for the next quarter. We’ll reassess funding after.”

Translation: stall them. He wasn’t sinking more capital or his own time into a vanity project that Munich could barely operate.

When the assistant leaves, Harry leans back in his chair, staring out at the grey sprawl of New York through rain-fogged glass. Travelling used to feel like strategy and now it just felt like an escape running on a hamster wheel. Endlessly trying to escape, but from what? 

From you, perhaps? From the mess he'd made of everything that night with Chelsea?  He had no right to be so cold. The two of you were colleagues performing a job and he'd made it personal. 

 Exhaustion settles into his bones like dampness. It’s been a week since the night Chelsea walked out. A week since you sent the wrong photo to the wrong man. A week since his rude text and your silence. 

You’re not his and this isn’t real but for a moment when he opened that message and saw you in that barely-there lingerie his mind forgot that.  

He still has that photo saved in his phone. The one he's looked at more times than he can count. The one that's brought him to intense orgasms when he's thought about it in the shower. 

He leans forward again, the chair creaking. This is a professional workspace. No time for distractions. No need for thoughts that make his cock hard in bed late at night when he can't sleep. 

The knock on his door comes too quickly for him to brace himself. 

“Mr. Castillo?” his assistant pokes his head in, voice careful. “Your mother’s here.”

He barely has time to stand before Mona steps into the room like she owns it. In a way, she always does, she is one of the originators of the firm after all. She's impeccably dressed in a muted beige pantsuit, the scent of Chanel soft but unmistakable.

"Hello sweetheart,” she says, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You look tired.”

The two of them laugh. It's their traditional greeting at work. It started one day and it just carried on. 

“Always nice to hear, Mother,” Harry chuckles, gesturing for her to sit. 

Mona takes a seat in one of the plush chairs opposite his desk, crossing one leg over the other and smoothing her trousers.

“I was at a board meeting next door. Thought I’d pop in to see you and Mason. How’s the climate nonsense with Munich?”

“You’ve been reading the FT again.”

“Well, someone has to understand what you do and your father isn't around anymore to keep tabs and report back to me.”

Harry chuckles under his breath, pouring her a glass of sparkling water from the sideboard. “They’re posturing. They want NYC to give them legitimacy.”

“And you don’t want to fly to Germany.”

“Correct.”

He shoots her a look when she only smiles in response. 

“While I did come to spy, I also came to talk about something else. Or someone else.”

Harry stills slightly when she says your name. . 

"You haven’t mentioned anything about the engagement.”

He exhales slowly and returns to his desk. “It’s been... busy.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say.” She takes a sip from her water glass, staring at him over the rim.

Harry forces a tight smile. “We’ve both been slammed. But we'll both be at the gala this week.”

“That's good, Ada hasn't stopped talking about it. Or your fiancée." She leans forward slightly. “But I worry.”

His chest tightens just a little. “About what?”

She studies him. “I like her, Harrison, quite a bit."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"Not at all. It means I care. And I can see she isn't completely accustomed to our way of life. I mean, I found her actions at the baseball game utterly charming" she smiles widely, genuine. "But I worry for her." 

He doesn't answer, but he does look at his mother in concern. 

"You know how people can be. Your grandmother for instance."

"I'll protect her." 

It comes out of him without thought. He'll protect you, even though you're the last person in the world that needs protecting. Mona looks satisfied with that. 

“Good, because she’s warm and funny and there's something about her that feels .. comforting. I can’t remember the last time I wanted to take a girlfriend of yours out for lunch." 

Harry nods faintly, not trusting himself to speak. 

“And you look at her differently.”

Now his eyes lift to hers. “What do you mean?”

“There’s a softness I haven’t seen in you since... well. Since Melissa.”

The name lands between them like a dust-covered relic. The girl that broke his heart in college. The girl that reminded him that love came with price tags.  Its rare Mona brings up his ex-girlfriend and even rarer does she do it with such gentleness.

"Well she's my fiancée," he says through a clearing of his throat. "Of course I look at her that way." 

Mona watches him with a kind of maternal knowing that makes him feel twelve again. 

"I hope you're treating her well."

"I am."

"Not putting work before your relationship like you usually do?" 

Harry has too much on his plate to put up with this conversation any longer. He comes to her chair and gives her a brief embrace when she stands. "Thanks for the visit, Mother.”

She kisses his cheek again, softer this time. “I adore you, even when you’re stubborn.”

“Likewise.”

She lingers in the doorway. “I think she’s good for you. You seem more alive when she’s around.”

After she’s gone, Harry returns to his chair and stares at the rain-streaked window again. Alive. He doesn't know what to do with that word. Mona's words won't leave him.

She’s warm and funny and there's something about her that feels .. comforting

He was too harsh on you in the text, he decides as the moments go by. You didn't deserve it. You were being kind and accommodating and he was being a prick.

Tonight he'll work on making up for it.

The morning of the gala you sit in your pyjamas and stare at your phone like it personally insulted you. 

Harry’s last message counts as that surely? Short. Instructions, not conversation. 

You haven’t answered in the week since and now your silence feels less like a statement and more like a defeat.

You wish you could pretend that you haven't sold off a bit of your dignity. But every time your thumb hovers over the screen, poised to ignore him for good, a sick twist of logic slithers in.

It burns the quiet knowledge that you’re calculating how rude you’re allowed to be, not based on principle, but on finances. 

It’s not you. You’re the person who prides herself on not needing people like him. You’ve rolled your eyes at women who bend for wealth, and now here you are, fingers itching, mind spiralling, all because some rich man sent you a one-line message and you’re too aware of the zeros attached to your silence.

And now you have to hold his arm and pretend you don't hate him so he can parade you through a throng of the upper echelon. How are you going to manage that when you can barely think about him without scowling? This whole charade is pathetic. Pathetic. 

You mutter the word aloud before dropping the phone onto the couch beside you, glaring at it when the buzz of your doorbell goes off. You march to the intercom, pushing the button with a frown. It's the dress being delivered.

"C'mon up." 

When a knock sounds and you open it and there are two young women on the other side you're taken aback. 

Blondes, both of them. Too-perfect curls, glossy lips. Dressed in matching black tights and shirts that toe the line between professional and playful. Their perfume drifts inside before either of them speaks.

“Hi!” one beams, already halfway inside before you even step back. "I'm Anna." 

“And I'm Hannah. Mr. Castillo said you might need help getting ready tonight.” The second girl, softer-spoken but no less enthusiastic, holds up a small silver case. “Hair and makeup."

Anna holds up a large box tied with a bow. "We can help you with the dress too.”

You blink at them. You’re still standing there in pyjama shorts and a baggy t-shirt.

"Harry sent you?" Your throat tightens around his name, dry and disbelieving.

"Yes." 

"I don't need help getting ready. I've been doing it all my life." 

The bolder girl shrugs, smile unbothered. “He said it was your choice if you wanted our help. Totally up to you.”

Your choice.

After his shitty message last week you recognize this is a gesture. Not a grand one or even overt. It's an olive branch disguised as nonchalance. Maybe tonight won't be the nightmare you've imagined. 

You step aside. "Just let me grab a quick shower." 

Confirming the dress has been delivered. And the girls?  I’ve been informed she is accepting their assistance.  Thanks Raj

Harry looks at the text message and feels his breathing come out a little more even. There had been a large part of him that wondered if you would simply refuse to show up at all. 

He's thankful that even though the two of you have been living in a frosty silence for the week that you'll still stand by the agreement.  But the relief doesn’t last because then he remembers the dress.

Harry drags a hand down his face, standing in the middle of his apartment like he’s forgotten why he walked into the room. The dress. Not one of the pieces you chose with Stella that one morning. 

After Ada’s call confirming the event was black tie he’d gone back to Stella himself, not willing to suffer through your eye roll or complaint of being dragged back there. He requested something that would fit the formality and colour scheme of the gala, something that wouldn’t give his grandmother ammunition to tighten her mouth and call you provincial.

And of course Stella had delivered, coming back from the far end of the shop three days later with something she knew would be perfect. 

“No sequins. No beads. Not even one little slit in the skirt. But try not to stare too much when she walks in, eh? A woman, she likes a little mystery in her man, caro."

He trusts Stella, which is why despite her cheeky comment he didn't bother opening the box before having Anna take it with her to your apartment. 

But now he's suddenly worried that you'll think this is another act of control. That you'll open the box to see an unfamiliar dress and you'll be upset thinking that now he's going to dictate every part of your wardrobe. 

Too late now. Harry checks the time, and then pockets his phone, telling himself he’s not counting down the hours until he sees you. 

He’s not.

Hannah and Anna work like a well-rehearsed team. Before you realize what’s happening, they’ve set up at your small vanity, opened cases of brushes and palettes and curling irons. They’re quick, efficient, but never make you feel rushed. Somewhere between professionals and sorority sisters, they chatter like sparrows as they work.

“Where are you going this evening?"

"A fundraising gala." 

"For what?"

You pause, brain buffering. You don't actually know what it's for. Shit. You should know what you're fundraising for. 

"Anna," Hannah whispers with a frown, saving you. "We're not supposed to ask personal questions."

"Oh right. Sorry." 

You give them a gentle smile and a shrug. You wish you had your phone with you. You want to message Harry and find out more details. 

Things you could have done earlier in the week if you weren't icing each other out. 

“Is Mr. Castillo as nice as everyone says?” Anna asks a short while later, lining your lips carefully and ignoring Hannah's groan. 

You freeze slightly, lips parted, unsure what to say. Your last text conversation ended with you throwing your phone across the room. But you’re here to play a part and you attempt to put some adoration in your tone.

"He's as nice as you think." 

The girls giggle to themselves, clearly delighted. Then Anna's stomach growls and you insist on making them both a sandwich. They thank you profusely, eating as they take time to glance at your modest home. 

"You have a nice view," Hannah offers politely and you laugh, putting the extra bread away. 

"I really don't. But thank you." 

"I didn't know Mr. Castillo dated women that aren't-" Anna catches herself, eyes blowing wide. 

You glance over at her from the kitchenette, brows rising. "Aren't what?"

Hannah is looking out the window and pretending that she's not party to this awkward conversation. Anna looks like her face is on fire, twisting her fingers with one another and trying to avoid your gaze. 

"Nothing."

"No, go ahead," you insist, putting the lid back on the peanut butter after swiping a spoonful. "I won't be offended." 

She swallows, obviously debating if she should say what's on her mind. Eventually she takes a deep breath. 

"Well, that aren't rich."

You let out a laugh, shaking your head as you lick the spoon clean. “I guess I’m the charity case this season.”

Anna’s mouth opens like she wants to backpedal, but you just flash her a grin, not letting her.

“Don’t stress, Anna. I’m just as surprised as you are.”

Hannah finally snorts from the window, unable to keep pretending she’s not listening.

"Okay, let's get back to it," Anna says clearly relieved that you're not upset, but still a bit shaken.  

You set yourself back in the chair, much more relaxed now that the three of you are a little more at ease with one another. They spin you around so that you can't face the mirror citing that they want you to be surprised.

You grin and as they work you ask them about themselves. They talk over each other in their excitement. They tell you about their boyfriends, about their own shitty apartments, about how they want to create their own makeup line. 

You like the sound of their voices, bright and harmless. It’s strange, how much you missed having someone in your space. Hannah hums as she taps gloss onto your lips, delicate fingers light against your skin. 

"Okay. All done."

When they finally step back, satisfied and spin you around you’re almost reluctant to look. You don't know that your styles will align. But then you remind yourself that it's only one evening and you drag your eyes back to the mirror. 

For a moment you don’t recognize yourself because your reflection looks luminous. Your hair’s been formed into soft waves, your skin radiant, your lips a deeper shade than you’d dare on your own. 

“Do you like it?” Hannah asks tentatively.

You nod, unable to speak. They beam at each other, gripping hands.

“Mr. Castillo is going to lose his mind."

You swallow around your grimace. “Thank you.”

They move to the dress now, un-boxing it and showing it off, marvelling at the luxurious black fabric. You frown, confused as you approach it, squinting. 

"That's not the right one... I've never even seen that one." 

Hannah notes the small card attached to the inside and hands it over to you looking curious. Your name is on the front and when you open it, you recognize Harry's spidery handwriting.

I apologize for the last minute change of dress. Ada belatedly let me know about the black tie nature of the event and I had to improvise. Stella assured me that you would approve. - H

You read it twice, anger ebbing away into mild irritation. At least this isn't a control thing on his part. You leave the note on your vanity before telling the girls you can get dressed on your own. They look disappointed but they nod. 

"Have an amazing time tonight!"

You give them both tight hugs, telling them you loved meeting them and wish them well. They leave pink-cheeked and grinning. You glance back at the dress when they leave. 

The dark colour, the fabric, it looks daunting and sliding into it feels like stepping into a different skin. It's soft against your flesh, the zipper at the side, hidden by beautiful stitching. 

You force yourself to look at your reflection again and it's like that day with Stella when you saw yourself in the lingerie. Not that the stress is anything scandalous, but it holds your figure and emphasizes your curves in a way that makes you feel like a goddess. 

The gown is black as ink is made from a dangerous fabric that looks like liquid velvet. It clings without being obscene. The neckline is high, but the back is low. A sharp plunge down your spine, held up by the elegant weight of the fabric itself. No embellishments, just skin and shadow. 

The intercom buzzes. 

Harry is here. 

i had to break the other chapter up so you get this one quickly. i managed to edit between meetings. i want to know what you think is going to happen at the gala because i don't think you're going to see what is coming!!!!!!!

xx

💋💋💋💋

[gothicpaperback]

Do you know when the epilogue to the way he cares is coming out? I check daily I’m so excited lol

im really glad you like it but it may be a little bit that was the one part i hadn't written yet. but i promise its coming

[gothicpaperback]

the art of the deal | part seven

<<<PART SIX: MUTUALLY BENEFICIAL | MASTERLIST | PART EIGHT: MEDIATION>>>

wc: 4,5k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Harry Castillo x You | FALSE RELATIONSHIP

summary: you don’t believe in love. neither does he. that’s the only thing you agree on. after swearing off romance, you’ve built a quiet life in art preservation and avoiding anything resembling vulnerability. but when Harry Castillo, arrogant, infuriating, and stupidly rich, proposes you pretend to be his fiancée for the sake of getting his overbearing mother off his back, you’re thrown. but the money is good and with your detached views on romance and love, you make the perfect polished, commitment-free partner. It’s just a deal; cold, clean and temporary. but pretending to be in love with a man you can’t stand has a way of making you feel things you promised yourself you’d never feel again. especially when he starts looking at you like you're more than just a line item in a contract. And worst of all? You start looking back

the MC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely described physically aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab.

tags/warnings: romcom, fake relationship, mentions of materialists film spoilers, smut, enemies to lovers. more tags when relevant.

taglist: @chasingthepoguelife | @tnsmara | @sarahhxx03 | @taehyungxjungkookistaekook | @bluenightmarepost | @kakiki3 | @pascal-mynightlyobsession | @immyowndefender | @dedicatedfangirl2001 | @dotyoureyez | @decadent-hag1 | @madmelz | @sarahhxx03 | @orcasoul | @papapappapapapa | @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 | @greenwitchfromthewoods | @insertclevernamehereplease | @titlee78 | @thedisagreeablegirl | @millersgirll | @brinapedroswife | @15christyxoxo | @brinapedroswife | @magicxmiller | @sesdeuxyeux | @@hannahlupinblack | @pedritotito

PART SEVEN | Investor Behaviour

By mid-morning, Harry had read the same paragraph on leveraged capital inflow five times and still couldn't recall a single word of it.

The numbers were fine. He could’ve approved the analysis with one glance and a distracted nod. But his mind wasn’t on quarterly reports. It wasn’t on the rising yields in Portugal or the call with Singapore later that evening. It was still at the boutique. Or more precisely, in the back dressing room you had looked up, startled and wearing next to nothing.

Harry dropped the pen he hadn’t used and scrubbed a hand over his face. The image had burned into his brain. Your body was so supple and soft looking. Your bare shoulders, the sheer fabric clinging to the low curve of her back, the way your eyes had widened.  The way your curves were so hidden in your normal clothing that he'd never suspected what lay beneath.  You were stunning, like a goddess from a Botticelli painting just like Stella had promised. 

Did you like his eyes on you?  

No he was projecting his own lust like some pathetic horny idiot. He stood abruptly, pushing away from the desk, the leather chair groaning as it spun behind him. Outside, the city steamed in a bleached sort of haze, sunlight catching off steel and mirrored glass. 

He watched it distantly; jaw tight, as if squinting long enough might push the memory away.But it didn’t.

He reached for his phone, thumb hovering over the text. A part of him resisted, still trying to impose distance but the other part that remembered the slip of lace and the way your breathing hitched couldn't.

He sat back at his desk, clearing his throat and typed the message quickly before he could over think it.

Thank you for being so accommodating this morning. 

It was innocuous enough.  Still, he set the phone face down on his desk immediately after sending it, as if even proximity might make his self-control unravel further.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. After twenty he didn’t expect you to reply which was why, when the screen finally lit up beside his elbow, it startled him.

It was fine. Thanks for having your car drop me at work. I asked Raj to send you over the dresses. I have nowhere to put them at my apartment. 

That's completely fine. 

What else could be said? He couldn’t keep the conversation going. This was a stupid-

I liked Stella. She says I have “unexplored elegance,” whatever that means.

Harry let out a quiet laugh at this, more exhale than sound. Of course Stella had said that. The woman had called him “broad-shouldered and sweet-faced” the first time they met.

He thumbed open the message, reading it again. Unexplored elegance. The phrase shouldn’t have lodged itself in his chest the way it did. But there it was, irritatingly permanent and accurate.

It was how you'd looked this morning, like someone who hadn’t realized the full force of her effect on the room. Like someone who didn’t know how beautiful she was.

Another ping.

How's the world of private equity going?  

Before he can reply you're typing again. 

You know, I’m still not entirely convinced private equity is a real job. It sounds like something made up by a guy in a suit who doesn’t want to explain what he actually does all day.

Harry smiles to himself alone in his office, face illuminated by the glow of his phone. He types back. 

Trying to fix a mix up my co-worker made in Munich

 He couldn’t very well admit that he hadn’t been able to do any real work or to think clearly since seeing your body in that sheer lingerie. That he’d spent the afternoon in a haze of interrupted thoughts.

What a coincidence. I'm trying to fix this very annoying acquisition we got in and I'm very tired from someone waking me up at an ungodly hour to go shopping. 

Harry chuckles and considers doing something very stupid in that moment and offering to bring you a coffee. But then you send another text. 

Thankfully it was fun but don't tell him. Anyway I better get back to it. Have a good day, Castillo. 

You lower your  phone, smiling to yourself. It was a normal back and forth text, thankfully. You've been worried all day that it was going to go weird but it looks like things are totally fine on his end.

Thank goodness because  Harry's eyes on you haven't left your brain. 

Maybe it was shock but it felt like it could have been more. But maybe you've just been isolated down here for too long. The gallery is cool and quiet, lit with shafts of filtered morning sunlight and the faint scent of varnish.

The only sound is the buzz of a small fan somewhere in the distance and now the soft echo of footsteps on concrete. 

"Special delivery!"

You glance over to see Gemma heading your way looking polished and carrying a large bag. 

"Secret admirer?" She grins, waggling her eyebrows when she sets the bag onto your desk. Its from the breakfast place down the street. The one with divine pastries and delicious coffee.

Your brow pinches. Who would be sending you food? Your eyes dart to your phone.  Is it possible that Harry sent you something? Why is your heart tripping at the thought? 

You open the fragrant bag to see large fluffy pancakes covered in strawberries and whipped cream, a bowl of fruit, macrons and a host of other delicious food. Inside is a card. 

Since our breakfast was interrupted and dessert isn't enough to live on. Xo, George

That is so cute. You feel your face flush as Gemma rips the card from your hand, squealing.

"Oh, he likes you."

"Hardly," you say rolling your eyes. "This is a casual hookup thing only."

"I don't know any hookup who would send this to someone."

A concerned part of you wonders if she might be correct and it doesn’t bring joy to you. It brings anxiety. This was supposed to be casual.

You look at the card again before holding the fruit bowl out to Gemma. "Want any?"

"I would but I'm actually expecting someone," she says switching from playful to professional within a half a second. "They have something from a private collection they want restored. Big money. Nice thing is after they'll let us do an exhibition with it."

"Excellent." 

She goes back upstairs, waving at you and threatening that she wants more details at lunch. You smile before pulling out your phone And composing a text to George..

I really loved breakfast. Thank you. Just breakfast?  And maybe dessert last night Any chance you'll be hungry again Saturday night? 

Should you? 

George is lovely but you don't want to get caught up in work adjacent drama. But then you think of the lingerie in your wardrobe. Of how sexy you felt wearing it and you grin. 

I think I'll be starving. 

Harry stands at the window of his penthouse, one hand in the pocket of his slacks, the other holding his phone. Its nearly midnight, and he should have been asleep hours ago.

Munich awaits in the morning: yet another multi-tiered headache involving a portfolio acquisition and a politically fraught board. But no matter how many times he tries to run the scenario through his mind, his concentration won’t hold.

Because you keep slipping in.

He curses softly and turns from the window. His phone still shows the last message you sent.

Thankfully it was fun but don't tell him. Anyway I better get back to it. Have a good day, Castillo.

No one calls him Castillo. It’s disrespectful in his circles, but something about you saying it makes him smirk. Your lips forming his name.Your plush lips...

He tries again to redirect himself: Munich. But even that conference can’t compete with the mental image of your bare legs and teasing grin.

Harry exhales sharply, the sound closer to a groan. This is getting ridiculous. He’s not a teenager, he knows exactly what this is. The attraction is just proximity, timing and a long dry spell. You’re just another woman in lingerie.

Another woman is precisely what he needs right now.

Chelsea.

Her name drifts into his mind like an exit strategy. Blonde, leggy and perfect for his needs.

She gave him her number at the bar two weeks ago. She had no idea who he was, brows not even rising when he introduced himself.

He could usually tell when a woman was trying to land him. There was a desperation in their eyes that made him flinch. Chelsea just seemed like a woman who wanted a good time.

No games, no complications. He’d been too busy at the time, but now… now that sounds just perfect. He unlocks his phone, scrolls through contacts and finds her. He hesitates for one beat, then taps call.

She picks up on the second ring.

“Harry,” she purrs, like she’s been waiting. “I was hoping you’d call.”

“You busy tonight?”

It’s after midnight and his voice is sultry. There’s no mistaking what this call is.

A laugh. “Send me the address.”

You stand in front of the mirror at home, looking at yourself from all angles. You grin at the sight. This lingerie really does look good. More than good, it makes you look sexy. 

You've never thought of yourself as sexy before. Cute or attractive, sure. But sexy? Never. 

Now you understand why women buy these things, why they take their time and money to buy the perfect set. It's not for the men in their life, you realize, it's for them. Sure, you know that George would like it. But you like how it makes you feel. Like you're powerful. 

You think about earlier today, of Harry's reaction. It sends a little thrill up your centre. It compels you to bring out your phone and glance at the last message he sent you. 

Trying to fix a mix up my co-worker made in Munich

His life is so exciting. Not the finance part, but you bet he gets to travel everywhere and anywhere he wants. With the money he has he could probably vacation year round. 

You toss your phone onto your bed and walk into your kitchen. With a little hum you begin to make popcorn. It's amusing you think, if someone were to see you dressed all sexy like this, hunched over your new popcorn maker.

Much of the other items were sent back, but the popcorn maker? Never. You've wanted a nice one for years. 

You pause when you hear a dripping noise over the popping. It's subtle and if you weren't standing right by the sink maybe you would have missed it. 

You frown, ducking under the sink and shining the flashlight of your phone underneath to see a faint leak coming from a fitting. 

"Shit." 

You kneel down and twist the loose fittings with your fingers, thankful when the drip stops. You had no desire to have a plumber come over. You laugh as you imagine yourself in your lingerie complaining about a leak as some guy with a wrench stood at the door. 

Like a bad porno. 

You stand, washing your hands as a prickle of arousal starts up your back. Not the idea of a porno, but the idea of being seen in this lingerie. 

Maybe it's because you haven't been able to get Harry's expression out of your mind. Or maybe it's because George has been sending you flirty texts all day and you won’t see him until Saturday. 

Whatever the reason it has you laying suggestively on the bed, snapping photos of you in your sexy set. 

You prop yourself up slightly on one hip, letting one leg stretch out while the other bends just enough to accentuate the curve of your thigh.In another you tilt your chin down, eyes up, lips parted suggestively. The lingerie’s delicate straps and lace are the focus the shot, your nipples faint through the fabric. 

You settle on the one with just a hint of your pursed lips, knowing that you don't want to go too far on an image that will be in the digital universe forever. 

Can't wait for my next taste of dessert xx

It's not exactly the cleverest line, but hopefully it's not your text he'll be staring at. 

You send it off and giggle at the rush, holding your phone to your chest as you imagine him opening it. A few moments pass and you feel the phone vibrate. 

Your smile dies as you raise the screen to your face, a name and text staring back at you. 

HARRY C has SEEN the message 

Harry can't stop staring at the picture you've sent, the one in that lingerie. The fabric that's been haunting him since he saw your smooth body in it. And here you are delectable and spread for him, a hint of your sweet mouth in the corner.

"Jesus." 

He winces at how hard he is. His cock is pushing against his zipper at this point, throbbing. 

Can't wait for my next taste of dessert xx

It's a weird message, cryptic. Are you referencing something the two of you spoke about previously? He can't remember any talk about it. 

But who cares. This is a clear sign that you want to fuck him, right? Fuck-me eyes and that pose? It's not a casual text you send a friend. This is an invitation. 

Sure, it might complicate the deal a bit but....

Thoughts of you in his bed have another wave of arousal flowing over him. You riding him in that outfit, head back. You on your knees looking up at him.

Fuck the deal, he needs to bury himself in you. He doesn't care. The two of you can maintain professionalism. It’ll be a fringe benefit.

He thinks about cancelling on Chelsea when he notices the little text dots jumping as you compose a reply. 

I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry that was meant for someone else.  I'm so sorry I don't know what else to say.  Can we pretend like this never happened?

Disappointment floods him so hard that his shoulders drop. 

A mistake. You meant to send this to someone else. Likely that idiot he met this morning. George.  His fingers tighten around his phone, mouth in a line of displeasure. 

I swear I would never send you something like that. I am so sorry. 

Rejection stings hot in his belly and chest.

I would never send you something like that.

Harry grits his teeth before tossing the phone onto the coffee table. He doesn't bother replying. 

He's going to focus on his own carnal pleasure. He has a gorgeous woman coming over and when Chelsea arrives half an hour later, the penthouse is lit in soft, golden light. 

Chelsea steps into the entryway in a black wrap dress and gold heels. Her powdery perfume drifts ahead of her.

“God,” she says, scanning the space. “This is gorgeous.”

He gives her a small smile. “I’ll pass that along to my decorator.”

She giggles, taking the wine glass he holds out to her.

He doesn’t need silly photos of you when he has a leggy blonde who stares at him like he hangs the moon.

She glides in on those towering heels and takes her drink with a practised smile. She’s beautiful, no doubt. A magazine cover kind of beautiful. Bright hair, long lashes, lips that look expensive.

Harry has dimmed the overheads, poured two glasses of Oban and opened the balcony doors to let in the summer air. The city shimmers beyond the glass, and his penthouse looks precisely like what it is: the home of a man who’s made all the right moves.

She perches on the end of the leather couch one long leg crossed over the other. Her dress hugs her curves just right, and every now and then her manicured fingers graze the glass in her hand.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Harry says, coming to sit next to her on the couch. “I hope I didn’t tear you away from any of your many suitors.”

“You’re so funny, Harry,” she teases, batting her lashes in a way that feels practised. “As if any man could compare to you.”

It rings hollow. The kind of compliment scrubbed shiny, stored away, and used for the next person.

“When I saw you at the bar you looked like a man who ran the world,” she continues airily. “I feel like this place confirms that theory.”

She tosses back a swig of her whisky, the liquid glinting gold in the low light like she’s perfected it in front of a mirror a hundred times

“So that’s what you find impressive,” Harry grins. “The skyline?”

Chelsea giggles before brushing her hair behind her ear. “Oh, the view’s nice, but I’m way more interested in the company.”

Harry watches her with a quiet smile, amused by the effort she puts into seeming carefree. She’s beautiful and the kind of woman who thinks flirting is a game, a performance, a quick way to get what she wants.

Which is fine, because he wants the same.

But her smile is too perfect and for some reason, all he can think about is your crooked smirk at the baseball game. And then it's that photo still in his phone. The way you looked in that photo...

Stop it.

As if sensing his lapse in focus, Chelsea reaches out and touches the sleeve of his shirt. “You always dress like this at home?”

“No,” he says truthfully. “Usually I lose the tie and drink something less civilized.”

She laughs again, smoothing the hem of her dress. “Well. I approve of the civility. But I wouldn’t mind seeing the less buttoned-up version.”

He sets his glass down and moves to sit beside her on the sofa, letting the space between them shrink. Chelsea doesn’t hesitate; she leans in and her lips find his in a kiss that’s eager and warm, though not particularly deep. More teasing than claiming.

Harry kisses her back, hand brushing her hair away from her face. The heat builds quickly, and soon their bodies are pressed together, the weight of all his distractions momentarily forgotten.

Except for little snippets of you that sneak in. But Chelsea is good at distracting him. Her hand slips under his shirt, nails grazing skin. When he leans into her touch, she pulls him closer, murmuring something against his throat.

“You know, you’re a lot more charming than I expected.”

“Is that so?” Harry murmurs, kissing her jaw. Her head falls back as he sponges kisses along her slender neck.

“Totally. I mean, a guy with money like you could get away with being boring as hell.”

Harry freezes. Her words hang in the air like a cold splash of water. He stares at her, realization dawning.

“So you do know me.”

Chelsea gives a little trilling laugh, trying to play things off. But he sees the flush start at her collar and work its way to her cheeks. Caught.

“Well, I mean, who doesn’t? You’re in all the papers. But don’t worry; I’m not here to write a biography. Just to have a little fun.”

Harry’s expression hardens slightly, his earlier amusement vanishing. He knows women like this. The ones that hunt him for sport. The kind that poke holes in condoms in hopes of trapping him. The kind that follow his life through the local tabloids.

He’s about to pull away, about to shut down whatever this is before it complicates things further, when his phone rings.

ADA CALLING

Thankful for the excuse to stop, he answers.

“Harrison,” Ada’s voice is clipped and insistent. “I need you to confirm you’ve reviewed the gala information with your fiancée. You must be punctual.”

Chelsea’s eyes flick toward the phone, sharp now, watching him. He stands and steps away from the sofa. “Now’s not a great time.”

“Well, you’re not at office, and you aren’t travelling. I assume you’re home.”

“I am.”

“And it’s well past midnight.”

He doesn’t reply.

“This won’t take long,” she sniffs. “Simply confirm that you and she have reviewed the invitation. I don’t want surprises on my end.”

“I’ll be sure to do that.”

“And please don’t let her dress like she did the other day. Honestly, Harrison, it was embarrassing.”

"Already taken care of."

When he hangs up, any lingering arousal is gone. Chelsea sits there with a calculating expression, the playful mask slipping.

“Fiancée, huh?”

Harry says nothing.

She drains her glass and stands abruptly. “Well. That explains a lot.”

Before he can respond, she turns on her heel, grabs her purse, and walks out of his penthouse.

Harry sits back down on the couch, irritable and horny. And he knows it’s not fair, but he blames his family. And the newspapers that won’t stop hounding him.

And yes, even though it’s petulant, he blames you too.

You're halfway through a Simpsons marathon when you get the text. 

The gala is next Friday night from 7-10pm. Confirm you've received this message.

The tone is so cold and so brusque that you blink. 

No mention of the picture. No mention of the text. No indication he ever even saw it.

Maybe he's giving me an out.. Keeping it professional so we can pretend the whole thing never happened. 

In that case you should be thankful. You check your calendar, entering in the information in a hurry. 

Confirming. What's the address? The car will pick you up at 6pm. 

Jesus, always Harry and that fucking car. Does he not know how to drive himself? You roll your eyes. 

I can just uber there. What's the address?  You cannot show up to a gala in an uber. My fiance would never ride a fucking uber.  Do you really need to challenge me on everything?

Whoa. The text is vitriolic.

And honestly he has never seemed the type to send one like this. He gives a laid back demeanour, the kind of man that doesn’t get wound up.

But this message is shitty and aggressive and you have every instinct to send back an equally fiery text in reply. But a reminder notification pops up just as you begin.

THURSDAY DAD VISIT 6:00PM - 8:00PM

You're getting paid a lot for this extra event with Harry and this is money that you need. 

So instead of writing something ugly back you just turn off your phone, ignoring him for the evening, furious that he's ruined any goodwill the two of you were starting to build. 

sorry this took so long to update. my other story was just near finished earlier. my attention is on this one now and i really love writing it. i love knowing your thoughts about it too and i hope you keep reblogging and commenting

xx

💋💋💋💋

[gothicpaperback]

Are you no longer doing 'MARKED FOR THE ROLE'? I see that it's no longer on your page. I really like that story.

im sorry i had other stories i wanted to write and that one wasnt that fun for me after the first few chapters

[gothicpaperback]

the quiet | five

wc: 3,7k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Boston QZ to Jackson Joel Miller x reader

summary: you don’t speak. not since outbreak day stole your voice and everything that mattered. when a smuggling job gone sideways leaves you in the care of Joel Miller and Tess, you don’t ask for help, you don’t want it from the powerful woman and intimidating man. but Tess sees something in you, pulling you close, showing you warmth. her partner Joel keeps his distance and you prefer it that way, you’ve learned not to trust men. Joel doesn’t want to get involved with you, not when his loyalty already belongs to Tess. but feelings don’t listen to reason and as tension builds between the three of you, so does the quiet pull between you and Joel; dangerous, unwanted, impossible to ignore.

the OC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely physically described aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab. she has a back story.

tags/warnings: family trauma/abuse, alcoholism, slow burn, sexual tension, descriptions of violence, enemies to lovers-ish, love triangle, boston to jackson joel, mentions of violence. i will add more tags as they become relevant.

taglist: @druwstark | @hermionelove | @enchantedreader | @76bookworm76 | @harriedandharassed | @thunderdownunder | @glitterspark | @haileycopter17 | @druwstark | @googlingsexyvampires | @fishingforpike | @@aliensfeltmyjoy | @secretlettersfromyourlove

the quiet | five

Then

When you and Maggie arrive at the cabin that first day you're exhausted. You haven't bathed in a week, your hair is greasy, and you have cat fur all over you. 

But you're alive. 

The cabin is a patchwork of old timber and reclaimed metal, solar panels barely clinging to the roof under a mat of pine needles. A rusted Volkswagen van sits half-sunken near the tree line, now a greenhouse.

Maggie tells you to wait in the car. You watch her take out the gun from the glovebox, holding it at her side as she exits the vehicle, closing the door quickly behind her. Raven mewls for her, tiny nose pressed against the window.  

You've never seen Maggie with a gun and it seems incongruous with what you know of her. After your sandwich you’d listened to her speaking, trying to make sense of what was happening around you.

 She came from a commune, she loved nature and animals. She couldn’t have children of her own. She always thought of herself as a hippie.

She made you feel calm and safe. She shared her food and she didn’t mind when you sometimes cried in the backseat. Raven would rub her head against your shoulder when you did. Like she knew you needed the extra love.

You watch Maggie knock on the front door, her eyes scanning the surrounding area. The door opens a creak and you see a tall, scrawny man.  Like Maggie he wears his long, flowy hair back with a bandana and his beard is streaked white and tied in several spots with elastic.

He looks at the gun, speaking lowly to Maggie. She points at the car and the man nods emphatically, following her to the car. You shrink from him when he taps on the window and waves.

He doesn’t push it. He and Maggie unload the car quickly, sure to tell you to stay put until its emptied. Then you’re ushered inside, Maggie’s gun drawn. You hold Bitsy in one arm, Raven in the other. She squirms a bit in your hold but allows it.

Inside the cabin is dark and smells of cedar. The floorboards creak, cracked records, faded maps, a stack of worn-out National Geographics, and bundles of dried herbs hanging from ceiling. You gaze around, hiding behind Maggie’s legs when the tall man looks down at you.

“I’m Bruce.”

You listen while he and Maggie talk. He lives out of the city on large acreage, isolated but not immune to what was happening. No neighbours for miles, no noise to draw ‘the creatures’ as they call them.

Bruce shows you around, pointing at a large room to the side. “That’s for you two.”

You glanced inside to see two narrow beds and sleeping bags.

“Water for cooking comes from the rain just like back on the farm,” He says with a smile at Maggie when she laughs.

“The sand and charcoal system?”

“The very same.”

You’ll come to learn in time that The Farm is the commune they lived on with a group of other similarly minded folks. That they used to travel after bands together when they were teens before finding The Farm. The Grateful Dead you think the band was called.

His pantry is a chaotic stash of canned beans, rice, lentils, and old mason jars filled with dried mushrooms and questionable preserves.

“Help yourself,” he tells you both. “Same as always.”

You follow with Bitsy in your arm. Raven is off scouting the house on her own. You hold Maggie’s hand, terrified of being left behind.

“I’ve started building some traps around,” Bruce says. “Working on a moat of sorts if you want to help tomorrow.”

“We can start now,” Maggie insists.

“No Mags, tonight you eat, bathe and sleep because you both need it,” he said with the authority of a father and the teasing edge of a brother. “Now go scrub up while I fix dinner.”

The bathroom is rustic, a large barrel to one side. There’s no plumbing, just a gravity-fed system from a nearby spring that fills a steel drum perched above the barrel. Thankfully the sun’s been out all day and the water’s lukewarm.

There’s a bottle you assume is shampoo and Maggie uses it, bathing you like your mother used to do. She tells you to close your eyes when she rinses it from your hair, sure not to get it in your eyes. Back home you have your Care Bears shampoo and it smells so good like strawberries. This one smells like baking soda and maybe lavender. It makes you cringe.

You change into clothes Maggie has brought for you. Taken from the bag in the crashed car. You’re thankful for it. You feel better being clean, your hair braided with gentle fingers by Maggie.

You wait on the bed as Maggie bathes and the both of you dressed and exhausted arrive at the circular wood table just in time for Bruce to set down an old pot, bubbling and smelling delicious.

“Dig in.”

Maggie serves you first, pausing only to see if you have allergies. You shrug. You don’t know.

“I don’t know what the hell those creatures are,” Maggie says as she places a biscuit onto your plate. “But I have a feeling they aren’t going away anytime soon.”

You eat the meal, thankful for the food but wishing it was McDonalds. You like the toys that come with a happy meal. So does Bitsy. You squeeze her extra tight.

"I'm sorry to come knocking out of the blue," Maggie adds. "It's just you told me to come visit one day and you're just the first place i thought of."

"You stay here as long as you need to," Bruce says through a spoonful, his voice full of sincerity. "Stay forever as far as I'm concerned." 

Now

Joel wakes early the next morning, jaw cracking as he yawns. He considers pouring some whiskey into the shitty coffee they ration out here but decides against it. He needs to be level headed for the day ahead. 

He's tired these days, more tired than he expected. Yeah, he's getting older but it's something more than that. A weight on his chest that won't let up. He's also angrier than usual. The kind of quiet fury that lives just under his skin, red, hot and pulsing. 

He attributes it to Tommy's disappearance. Knowing his little brother is out there against the elements makes Joel anxious. And when he's anxious he's more than a little irritable. 

As he pulls on clean clothes and readies himself for the day he finds himself thinking about your first night in zone five.He thinks of the lost look you wore as he and Tess left. He can imagine you curled into yourself as the door closed. 

Would you insist on being taken home today? He'd almost prefer that to having to watch over you this first little bit. He doesn't like to have someone else dependent on him. 

Besides you're dangerous. You vacillate between quiet subservience to all out fury at the drop of a hat. 

As he walks to Tess' he thinks about how he'd had real trouble pulling you off that guy yesterday.  

"Hey Miller. Saw you with a new girl yesterday." 

Joel's eyes glance left towards the reedy voice. Ghoul, also known as Sam. He's tall and slender with a nose that takes up half his face. He's got gaunt features and a scar over his lower lip. Someone called him Ghoul and it just stuck. 

Joel ignores the man, continuing with his long strides and grimace. But Ghoul continues at his side, chatting away like a useless parrot. 

"She your new girl then? You gettin' tired of Tess?" 

Joel's gaze is piercing, shot over his shoulder and Ghoul falters slightly though he keeps strides with Joel. 

"You don't have many friends so people are talkin'. You expanding the gang? I'd like to throw my hat in the ring." 

Ghoul is the last person Joel would ever have join his group. "Fuck off, Ghoul." 

"Hey, I'm just tryin’ to offer my services." Ghoul hold up his hands like he's trying to ward of Joel's ire. "Your loss." 

Joel gives a scoff before heading down a narrowed ally. He was worried about something like this - drawing attention to him with your presence. Joel and Tess prefer subtlety, to live in the shadows. You're a beacon- new, attractive, shiny.

Joel arrives at Tess' shortly after, attitude cool as she invites him inside, digging into her cupboard for another mug.  "Ran into Ghoul on my way over." 

"What did that fucker want?"

"Thinks there's an opening in the gang as he put it." Joel sighed wearily. "You're little visitor is stirring up trouble for us already." 

"Speaking of which, you're gonna need to take her today," Tess says over her shoulder. "I got pulled for sanitation."

Joel is immediately on edge, body puffing in irritation. "We'll do it tomorrow then."

Joel watches Tess move around her kitchen, body sluggish. She's tired, more tired than he is. He sees it in her face when she frowns at him. 

"She needs to get food and a job, Joel." 

"I'm not a babysitter."

"Last time I checked she wasn't a baby."

Joel sighs when she pushes a cup of coffee his way. Hers is always better but he can't explain why. He sits wearily in the wooden chair, ignoring the creak as Tess sits across from him. 

"Why not just pay FEDRA off and get out of sanitation for today? You've done it before." 

"I tried to buy my way out of it but no luck. Apparently they need all hands today and I was just unlucky enough to be passing through." She rubs at her left temple. "So now I'm out a bag of weed for nothing."

Joel's eyes narrow, dark brow raised. They do practically everything together, they smuggle side by side. He doesn't remember any weed coming through lately. 

"Weed?" 

Tess motions to her bed after a beat. "Under there." 

Joel moves from the table to crouch next to the bed, hand dimpling where it rests on the mattress. His back twinges as he glances under the bed, pulling out your backpack. "What's this?"

Tess says your name. "The one she brought with her."

Joel peers inside, noticing the tobacco, the weed, the pills, the alcohol all snuggled into the space tightly. 

A smugglers wet dream. 

He pauses, a bit confused. "Isn't this what she needs to barter in here, Tess?"

Tess rolls her eyes, long legs unfolding as she brings herself to a stand. She walks over to him, eyes stuck on the bag. 

"She has so much she won't even miss it. Plus we'll just tell Maggie she ran out."

Joel isn't one for doing the right thing. Not now, after decades of fighting for survival. But at this he hesitates, looking at her from under thick brows. 

When she sees Joel's disapproval she continues, "Just don't take too much." 

It doesn’t seem right to take from you. But he isn't a good man, so why should he start now? And so despite his previous judgment, Joel doesn't stop himself from reaching inside and pocketing a baggie of painkillers. 

When the door rumbles with a knock you answer it immediately. You've been awake for hours, waiting for today's guidance.  

The door is opened a crack, just in case the loud noises you heard all night were from asshole neighbours that have come to introduce themselves. You half expect Tess to be standing there so you're surprised when it's Joel that greets you. You don't move, the door still open just a crack. 

You look tired with circles under your eyes and hair frizzed at you temples. You glance around Joel's broad frame, looking for Tess. 

"She got put on sanitation," he says, answering a question you didn't bother asking. 

You look him up and down, confused as to why he agreed to help. He doesn't like you, that much is clear and the feeling is mutual. At least Tess is vocal in her frustrations, Joel just stares. 

Still you open the door to him and step back, allowing him into your home, if you can call this matchbox a home. 

He exhales slowly, as if just being near you is a strong exercise in patience. He takes a step in, glancing, around your apartment, confused to see it changed. 

Your floors and walls are scrubbed free of grime, the sink no longer dripping. It smells strongly of bleach, as if you disinfected every single inch. Your bed is still threadbare but you brought a blanket in your bag. 

The table has been propped up in the centre of the room. You found an old paint bucket in the large trash bin last night. 

You fished it out, disinfected it the best you could, and then set it up next to the makeshift table. 

You've taken a piece of shit hovel and made it livable. He's curious if you slept at all. You're hair falls into your eyes; face always slightly tilted away from him so he can't tell. 

"Tess sent this along," Joel mutters, laying his backpack down on the floor. He opens it, pulling a few of your contraband items. You shove them into your own bag, watching the way his broad frame eats up the room. 

"S'go," Joel murmurs as you hoist your bag onto your shoulders. "I got shit to do today."

Joel doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to. You’re too afraid of losing him in the maze of the zone. This part of the city looks worse than the last. Burned-out shells of buildings lean against each other like drunks. Razor wire fences and posted warnings cut the streets into jagged blocks. 

Joel feels your eyes on him as he weaves through the crowded line of figures in zone Three. 

"You get your rations on Thursdays," Joel murmurs pointing at your vouchers. "Every Thursday you're gonna line up here, hand em a voucher and get your meals for the week."

Eventually, when the crowd thickens near the checkpoint, he speaks over his shoulder. “Stay close.”

His tone isn’t kind, but it’s not cruel either. Just clipped.

The line crawls forward. People shift and cough and avoid each other’s eyes. Ahead, you glimpse the tall, grey walls of Zone Three’s ration station. Armed FEDRA soldiers stand like statues at the gate, rifles slung casually across their chests. Your heart kicks up. You clutch the crumpled voucher tighter in your fist.

“You’ll hand that to the officer at the desk,” Joel mutters. “They’ll mark it. You get a weekly issue. Not much, but it's enough.”

You glance sideways, but Joel’s eyes are locked forward, jaw tense.

"But you need to pay Perry once a week with tobacco or a ration card." He sees your confusion. "If you have the energy for extra shifts you can earn extra ration cards." 

 His arm brushes yours when the line shifts, and you feel how solid he is beneath his flannel and jacket. It makes you nervous. 

When you finally reach the front, the guard at the gate waves Joel through without question. You trail him, eyes on your shoes, feeling their stares rake over you. Inside the station, the air is worse. Hot, thick with body odor and old water. Rows of rusted folding tables snake through the old building, people waiting their turn like cattle. Joel stops near the front.

“Wait here,” he says, jerking his chin at a cracked section of wall.

You slide into the spot, hugging yourself. Joel moves off to speak with a man behind the counter. You can’t hear what he’s saying, but his body language is tight.

You feel the stare before you see it.

To your right, near the checkpoint table, a FEDRA officer stands watching you. He’s younger than Joel, clean-shaven, handsome in a sharp, hard way. His uniform is crisp. His rifle slung idle but close.

You feel like his eyes are on you and at first, you think you’re imagining it out of paranoia. But when you risk a glance, his gaze holds steady. 

It's not hostile, just curious. It takes you a moment before you recognize his rakish smile. He's the officer from yesterday.Your stomach twists and you look away quickly. You stare at the floor, hoping me didn't recognize you. A beat later, boots approach, caught in your gaze.

“You must be a recent transfer."

The voice is low and smooth, but far too close. You flinch before you can help it. When you glance up, the officer’s smile is measured.

“I'm good with faces and I haven't seen you around." 

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

His brow arches. “Cat got your tongue?”

You shake your head. That’s all you can manage and then like a dark angel, Joel is there. He steps between you and the officer like he belongs there, solid as a wall, broad shoulders blocking the man’s view of you entirely. 

"Everything okay here?" 

The officer’s easy manner shifts. He clearly recognizes Joel and all warmth is gone from his features. "Miller." 

Around you, the station hums with the shuffling of lines and murmurs of people trying not to watch. But you feel it: tension threading the air like wire.

"She's my cousin," Joel says as he leans in a fraction. “I'm showing her the ropes.”

The officer nods and his smile tightens as the officer’s gaze flicks to you again, over Joel’s shoulder, something colder in it now. Then he steps back.

“I see,” he says a little too light. “Keep moving, then.”

The officer turns and walks away and it’s only then that Joel lets out a slow, deliberate breath. You stand frozen, all muscles tense. Joel turns toward you, and for once, his face isn’t closed off. He’s angry. 

“Goddamn it,” he mutters, scanning you, scanning the room, as if gauging risk.

You grip your voucher so tightly your knuckles ache.

“He’s gonna remember you now,” Joel snaps quietly. Not yelling, but close. His jaw flexes. You can’t tell if it’s regret or something heavier.

He stares at you and thinks about how much stress this day has already been thanks do you.

He swears under his breath and shakes his head. “Goddamn it, Tess.”

Joel sweeps you away, his wide hand on your tailbone, pushing you towards the exit. 

“Get your shit and let's go,” he says. Quiet now. "Still gotta find you work detail."

He guides you forward, keeping himself between you and anyone else. His hand never touches you, but you can feel the weight of him, the heat of him and his presence like a shield.

At the front table you stand silent, useless, as the rations are slid across the metal counter: two sacks marked with faded stencils. Flour, dried lentils and a packet of vitamins.You grab the bags and follow him back through the checkpoint. Out past the FEDRA guards who barely glance up and onto the cracked street where the air feels cooler. 

Joel doesn’t speak until the station is blocks behind you.“Don’t look at anyone next time.”

His voice isn’t angry now. Just tired. You're frustrated, wishing you could tell him you hadn't meant to talk to him. That you hadn’t even been looking for attention. But what would be the point? Joel doesn’t seem like someone who cares about any point of view but his own.

"When you come home you go right to your place. Don't stop to look at anyone, don't talk to anyone. They're gonna a see your bag and they're gonna ask for your shit. They may try to bully you into it. Just ignore em."

Joel keeps walking past the streets you recognize. Past the burned-out church where you first arrived. You trail behind him, legs aching, throat dry, but he doesn’t slow or speak. 

Eventually, he turns sharply into a smaller building marked by a hand-painted sign: Zone Employment Office. You catch the faintest whiff of bleach, paper and heavy sweat. Inside, it’s even worse. The air is hot and stale and makes you wince.

A long counter divides the room, manned by two FEDRA clerks behind wire mesh. Lines of people shuffle forward, papers in hand, eyes down. The scratch of pens, the mutter of orders, the clatter of a typewriter.

Joel strides past them all, straight to the front. Someone protests but Joel cuts him off without a word, just a dark stare. The man looks away.

Joel plants a hand on the scarred wooden counter, voice low but firm. “My cousin needs a detail starting tomorrow.”

One of the clerks, a woman with a pinched face and nicotine-yellow fingers, doesn’t even glance up. “She can get in line like everyone else.”

“She doesn't speak.” Joel’s tone darkens. “You want to waste your time trying to pull it outta her?”

That gets her attention. The woman lifts her gaze, squints past Joel at you. “That true?”

Not really. You just choose not to talk. But she won't understand that so you tilt your eyes down and nod once. Her sigh is long and bordering on theatrical. Then she flips through a thick folder, fingers smudged with ink.

“We'll put her on sanitation."

You stand there while the papers are filled. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. From the corner of your eyes you watch Joel staring stonily ahead of him. 

Finally, the woman pushes a card across the counter. “Zone Three sanitation on the West end. You'll start at dawn and report to Officer Lang. He signs your hours and gives you your ration cards.”

Joel snatches the card up without thanks, turning and starting to leave without waiting for you. 

“Let’s go.”

He doesn’t speak for a while. The card disappears into his jacket pocket. You watch the tightness in his shoulders. You can tell he’s angry, but you’re not sure why. 

When he finally slows, it’s outside a crumbling warehouse near the border wall. You recognize it now; it's the building where he and Tess brought you after that first night. The place you’re supposed to think of as home.

He took you a different way and you make a mental note of the varied route. You want to familiarize yourself the best you can for when Maggie gets here.

Joel stops at the door of the building but doesn’t go in. He just looks over at you with your rations. 

“You do the work and you keep your head down.” His voice is quiet now. “You miss a shift, you lose your ration card and you won't get any from us. Understand?”

You nod. Yes.

"After this you're Tess' problem and she ain't patient either. I suggest you get used to figuring life out here on your own and quick." 

Joel doesn’t wait for a reply. He just disappears down the street and you watch him until you’re alone again.