This is the House that Self-Indulgence Built @indulgence-be-thy-name - Tumblr Blog

honey, don't feed me, i will come back.

chapter five

rating: Eventual M/E

word count: 6.5k

Summary: June - new beginnings and temporary favorites

Warnings/Tags: Slow burn. Friends-to-lovers. Seriously, cannot emphasize the slowness of this burn, talk of infidelity, alcohol use, Southern US use of the word 'daddy', yes grown men still refer to their fathers as such I don't want to hear it.)

A/N: I cannot believe how long it's been since I updated this. Dear god. If you're still out there, thank you for sticking with me.

---

You didn’t have to worry about waiting for Beau to get back from New Orleans and tell his mother about your impending divorce. Someone had filmed your little outburst at the coffee shop and put it on TikTok.

Normally, you hated TikTok and everything that came with it—and you especially hated the idea of being recorded without your permission or knowledge. But in this case, you couldn’t deny that living in a perpetual surveillance state helped move things along.

It took about a week for the viral nature of the internet to deliver the clip to Rhonda Ellis and just about everyone else who knew either you or Beau. And as May stretched into June, the list of people who didn’t know about your breakup dwindled to single digits.

You’d never heard your soon-to-be former mother-in-law so distraught as she was when you finally answered her call.

“I hope you know she is not welcome in my home,” she said after the first wave of apologies. As if she’d been the one who had broken your heart and not her son. “And he might not be either. Not for a long time.”

You smiled at that. “Well, I can’t tell you who you should or shouldn’t invite into your house, Rhonda. But I appreciate the support. And,” you coughed and glanced down at the box you were packing. “I appreciate everything that you and Sawyer did for me…all these years. Y’all were…” You stopped and swallowed hard. “Y’all were really good to me. I won’t ever forget that.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I wish you wouldn’t sound like you’re sayin’ goodbye,” Rhonda said with a dip of sadness in her voice that almost made your eyes well up. “All this—all this that happened with Beau—it doesn’t change anything for the rest of us. We still love you just as much as we did the day he brought you home.”

You swallowed again and pretended you didn’t feel the sting behind your nose. “As much as I believe that,” you said gently. “And as much as I still love all of you, too, I…I think it has to be goodbye. For a while at least.”

There was a long pause from New Orleans before you heard her sniffle. “Well, alright,” she said after another moment. You could almost hear the way she forced a fake smile back into her voice, could imagine her perfectly standing in her gorgeous kitchen, waving her hand back and forth, trying to dry her eyes like she dries her nails. “But not forever, do you hear me? I don’t care what happened, I told you that you were family and that never goes away, alright?”

You smiled sadly. “Alright,” you promised her quietly. “Not forever.”

“And I mean it,” she insisted. “Don’t you just say yes to get me off the phone. I will come out there, missy, and I’ll track you down and hug your neck whether you want me to or not.”

That brought a bigger, truer smile to your face. “Yes, ma’am,” you said.

“Good. Now, when I talked to him, my horrible, ungrateful, disinherited son said you were sellin’ the condo?”

“Yes,” you nodded, trying not to snort at Beau’s new title. If you knew his mother—and you did—it would be a very long time before he clawed his way back to Golden Boy status. There was a deliciously sick satisfaction in knowing that. “I have a few offers already, and I’m doing a second viewing of a place this afternoon—it might be the one.”

You were pretty sure it would be. This two-bedroom flat in South Clapham had everything you needed: a decent-sized kitchen, big windows, and a private balcony where you could kill your plants with relative privacy. And you were tired of looking. Tired of living in this museum of what your life used to be.

“Will you give me that address, once you get it?” she asked. “I want to make sure my Christmas cards end up in the right mailbox.”

You promised you would, and offered your opinion on whether she should try singing show tunes or gospel songs to her tomato plants this year before you bid her a very fond farewell and got off the phone.

“So, when is moving day?” Joe asked on Thursday after you’d closed on your new condo. For the third time that morning, you watched him reach for a packet of sugar and then pull his hand away.

“The sixteenth,” you answered after you’d swallowed your bite of strawberry scone. “Which reminds me, can I—”

“Bring the noodles to my place for the weekend so you don’t have to worry about them?” Joe smiled. “No problem.”

“Thank you,” you said before you studied his plain Americano and lack of anything from the bakery case. “What is this?” you asked, motioning to where he’d almost grabbed the sugar a moment ago. “Why is your breakfast so sad?”

He let out a quiet sigh. “I’ve gotta lose weight for a job coming up.”

You lifted your eyebrows. “I didn’t know you had a job coming up,” you said, wondering why it sounded like you felt like he owed you this information. He didn’t. You knew he didn’t.

“Yeah, it’s supposed to be a quick shoot,” he shrugged. “And local, which is nice.”

You waited for a beat. “Not allowed to tell me what it is?”

He gave you a rueful grin. “Not unless you’d like me to kill you straight after.”

“Well, now, that would make all this house-hunting a real waste of my time, wouldn’t it?” you joked dryly before you circled back to what he’d said before. “And I cannot believe anyone told you, Mr. Long and Lean, that you have to lose weight.” You shook your head. “Man, Hollywood’s the worst.”

Joe snorted. “What did you just call me? Mr. Long and Lean?”

“Yeah,” you reached for your scone again. “Look at you; you’re like a Pilates instructor. Where on your body do you even have weight to lose? Your earlobes?”

He frowned and brought a hand up to his ear. “Are you saying you think I’ve got fat earlobes?”

“Oh my God…”

He grinned at your rolling eyes. “I’m not in charge. They want me to drop about a stone before we start shooting, so—” he looked down at his black coffee with a sad look of resignation.

You bit your lip. You’d never wanted to feed someone so badly in your life. “If it helps, we can cancel these little coffee hangs,” you suggested. Even though you didn’t want to do that. Even though Thursday mornings were rapidly becoming your favorite part of the week.

“No,” he shook his head. “I don’t want to do that. I like…these,” he said, pausing a little between the words. After a second, he cleared his throat. “So, what’s the moving plan? What company did you hire?”

“Hire?” you repeated with a laugh. “I didn’t hire anyone. It’s not that much.”

He blinked. “You’re going to move your whole life by yourself?”

“My whole life,” you echoed and shook your head. “My whole life is not that much,” you promised him. “I’m not taking any of the furniture—”

“None of it?”

“Nope.” You’d considered it, but everything felt tainted and like a bad omen you’d be bringing with you into what was trying to be a new chapter of your life. “Well, except the cat tree.”

“What are you going to sleep on?”

“The new mattress that’s being delivered on the sixteenth, Mama,” you chided. “I’ll be fine. I’ll just get things piece-meal, you know? Go to the thrift shops and second-hand places and put it together a little at a time.”

“That sounds…difficult,” he said with a frown.

“Don’t worry about me,” you instructed him. “I’ve survived worse. And it’s been a long time since I had anything that was just mine,” you added. “I’m almost looking forward to it.”

He considered this with a thoughtful tilt of his head. “Must be nice to be done house-hunting though, isn’t it?”

“It is,” you agreed. “But there is one thing I’m going to miss.”

“What’s that?”

“Collecting street names,” you said with a smile. “Y’all got some of the cutest street names I’ve ever heard in my life. Swear to God, I almost bought a place just so I could tell people I lived on Cottage Mews in Squirrels Heath. Squirrels Heath!” you exclaimed, still unable to contain your delight. “Sounds like the kinda place that should have its mail delivered by a badger in a little coat.”

Joe laughed and then beckoned with his hand. “But show me the listing for your new place, again? I think I know where it is, but I might be thinking of the wrong street.”

You reached for your phone and swiped it open to the real estate listing that still read Sale Pending and handed it over. Joe swiped through all the photos with a small smile before he got to one of the exterior shots and squinted. Then he tapped back to the main details page and read the address.

“Know it?”

“I do,” he handed you back your device. “You’re only about six blocks from my dad’s place.”

“Get outta here,” you said mildly. “Really?”

“Really,” he nodded with another grin. “Awfully convenient for me, that.”

“Only if you’re a good son who actually visits his parents,” you countered before you sipped your coffee.

“I am,” Joe said firmly. “I’m a very good son. I might just be in the neighborhood so much you’ll get sick of me.”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

He smiled again and finished his plain, unsweetened Americano in a final sip. He didn’t ask if you meant you doubted he’d be in the neighborhood often, or if you doubted you’d get sick of him.

That was good.

You spent the next week and a half acquiring cardboard and packing up your entire life, which, despite not including any furniture, was about forty boxes worth. Everything in the kitchen was coming with you—it had all been given to you as gifts twelve years ago, you had rationalized while packing it up. Beau must have been finding a way to prepare and eat his meals for the last four months without any of the expensive cookware or dishes his mother had gifted you, so managing without them for the rest of his life should be no problem. He’d hardly ever used it anyway.

And if he was mad about it… Well.

You were mad about a lot of things and that didn’t seem to matter to him.

The little pang in your heart when you had to drop off your kittens at Joe’s house was unexpected. You’d picked them up one at a time, first Tortellini, then Ziti, and kissed each on the nose. “Okay, bye, babies,” you said quietly, not caring that Joe was standing there listening to you sound like a new mother dropping her child off at pre-school. “You guys are safe here. Hang out with your brothers—no fighting—and be good for Joe.” You’d kissed them each one more time for good measure. “I’ll come get you as soon as everything’s settled.”

Unsurprisingly, they didn’t seem too concerned. As soon as Joe’s kittens trundled over to greet them, all fears and anxieties were forgotten in the immediate four-cat wrestling match that broke out. You stood and set their carrier down by the door. “Thanks again,” you said, turning back to look at Joe.

“What are co-parents for?” he asked easily. “And you don’t have to worry about coming back for them,” he said. “Just tell me when you’re settled, and I can bring them over.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” you insisted. “The place is going to be a wreck for a while. I don’t want you to see it like that.”

“Tru.” He gave you a look. “You carried me out of a pub while I was crying like, the second time I ever met you. Have we not moved past the cleaning-up-for-company phase of friendship yet?”

You snorted an unattractive laugh. “You hadn’t started crying yet,” you assured him. “You were close, but you managed to keep it together until Wes picked you up.”

“Ah, that rewrites the whole memory,” he said dryly before he rolled his eyes. “Just let me be nice and provide a cat delivery service, would you? It’s the least I can do.”

“Alright,” you held up your hands. “If you’re so set on it. I should be done by Saturday night—if you want to plan for dropping them off on Sunday?”

“I can do that.”

Sunday, you had said.

Sunday, he had agreed upon.

So, it didn’t make any sense for him to be standing outside your door on Saturday morning. But he was.

He was standing in your hallway with three of his friends behind him, all of them dressed like they were going to the gym.

Only they weren’t going to the gym. They were standing in your hallway. Where they absolutely did not belong.

You blinked. “Um. Hi. What are you doing here?”

“Providing assistance that you’d be too proud to take if it had been offered,” Joe said, stepping around you into the apartment. “Is this everything?” he asked of the skyline of boxes you’d assembled in the living room.

“Uh, there’s some stuff in the bedroom…” You said as the other three traipsed in past you. “You can’t be seriously doing what I think you’re doing.”

“Do you think we’re helping you move?” One of the men you recognized from previous outings, James, asked as he stepped over the threshold.

“Shockingly, inconceivably, yes,” you nodded.

“Then yes,” he smiled. “We’re doing exactly what you think we’re doing.”

“Though some of us were brought here under false pretenses,” a man you didn’t recognize with a buzzed head put in. But he said it without any objection in his voice.

“No, Colin,” Joe stopped counting boxes and looked back over his shoulder. “Technically, I said we were going to work out. You just assumed I meant we were going to the gym.” He looked back at you. “Is all your stuff packed?”

“Yeah,” you answered, head still chugging through its processing of what was going on.

“So everything still out is Beau’s?” He looked from you to the books still on the bookshelves and the art on the walls.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Just wondering. Stuff in the bedroom, you said?” he pointed toward the hallway. “Back there?”

“These the keys to the moving van?” Andrew called after you as you followed Joe down the hall. You heard him rattle the key on its heavy plastic keychain.

“Uh—yeah,” you called back distractedly. “Seriously, what are you doing?” you asked when you found him in your bedroom, doing a quick count of the boxes there too. “Why are you here?”

“I’m helping you move.”

“I can see that,” you rolled your eyes. “I didn’t ask you to help me move.”

“As if you would,” he laughed.

“It’s just boxes and garbage bags,” you insisted. “I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.”

“Have you ever moved house completely on your own?” he asked as he turned around.

“No,” you admitted.

“Well, I have, and it’s the absolute, dictionary-definition of ‘the fucking worst’.” He gave you a look. “Be honest, if I’d offered to come over and help you move, what would you have said?”

“I would have said ‘no,’ of course!” you exclaimed and followed him back to the living room.

But it was already too late for that, because the first round of boxes had been scooped up and taken downstairs to be loaded into your rented van. And there was no more arguing.

“I don’t think this is going to fit in the back of that van,” Andrew said an hour later as he eyed up the cat tree.

“No, no,” James shook his head. “We’ll make it fit.”

“Guys,” you sighed as Joe returned with Colin close behind. “You do not have to try and get everything in one load, that’s insane.”

“D’you know what’s insane?” Joe asked as he crossed the room to the bookcase where Beau’s things still decorated each shelf. “Is the amount of self-help books I’m seeing here. Did he actually read all these? Or did he just go to some interior decorating seminar for insufferable cunts, and they told him to—” His finger trailed over the spines before he stopped in the middle. “Really?”

“What?”

He slid it from the shelf and held it up. “The Secret? You let a man who read The Secret put his penis inside of you?”

You actually spit out the laugh you’d been trying to hold in. “Put that back—” you tried to warn, but around a mouthful of giggles, it had no effect.

“Do you want to know The Secret?” he asked, clearly delighted you’d laughed at this bit. “Your ex-husband’s an absolute bellend—”

“Complete wanker,” Colin added.

“Fuckin’ twat!” James called cheerfully on his way out the door.

“Don’t tell anyone!” Joe rounded them out and put a finger to his lips. “Shh. Secret.”

“You’ve gotta admit,” Andrew said with a grin as he passed you with a stack of smaller boxes from the bedroom. “You’re having at least a bit more fun than you would have if you’d done this alone.”

It ended up being two trips to the new condo with all your things, but you were still all moved in by the end of the day. The boys peeled off one at a time after you’d thanked them with offers of cash—which they refused—and offers of buying them all dinner—which they accepted.

“Not now though,” Colin specified when you reached for your phone to figure out what kind of takeout would be close enough to deliver.

You looked up, eyebrows raised. “No?”

“No,” he waved the words away. “Get settled first.”

“Yeah,” Andrew agreed. “Have us over once you’re all set up.”

“So…dishes, furniture?” you asked with a smile. “Whole dinner party?”

“That sounds lovely,” Colin grinned. “Tell me what I can bring.”

“Okay, sure,” you agreed with a shrug as you looked around the living room now full of the boxes containing your entire life. “Least I can do since y’all are too proud to take my money.”

“Proud!” Joe scoffed loudly from the kitchen. “Comin’ from this one!”

“Yeah, yeah,” you brushed your hand in his direction.

Silence descended on the condo once the door closed behind Andrew, and it was just you and Joe left alone. You looked at one another across the minefield of cardboard boxes for what felt like a long, heavy moment before you finally cleared your throat. “Can I at least talk you into letting me thank you with dinner today?”

You could have just let him leave the rest of his mates. You probably should have let him leave with the rest of his mates. But if you were being honest, you didn’t want him to leave. Not just yet. You weren’t quite ready to be completely alone in your new place.

And anyway, you reminded yourself before you could wonder if you were sounding needy, if he’d wanted to leave with his mates, he’d had three chances, and he hadn’t even seemed to consider it.

He smiled, dimples deepening, and assuaging your concerns. “I’d never turn down dinner.”

“Even while you’re trying to drop…what was it? A stone?”

“A stone, yeah,” he echoed, sounding amused.

“How much is that? And before you answer,” you held up a finger. “I don’t want to hear shit about the US still using the Imperial System when y’all are still out here measuring things in ‘stones’.”

Joe snorted. “A stone,” he said patiently. “Is fourteen pounds.”

You felt your eyes widen. “Fourteen pounds?! What the hell kinda stone are they using for comparison? The one Arthur yanked the sword out of? That was a boulder! Also,” you continued while he laughed. “You do not have fourteen pounds to lose from anywhere on your entire body. I will die on that hill.”

“I’ve only got about five left to cut,” he shrugged and gave his left ear a tug. “Turns out the earlobes were the right area to target, so thanks for that. Point being, I can splurge for a night if I don’t overdo it.”

You rolled your eyes and reached for your phone again. “You’re the one who's familiar with this area,” you reminded him. “Where’s the best pizza that will deliver to this neighborhood?”

Joe’s suggestion was not the best pizza you’ve ever had, as he so vehemently insisted that it would be. But it was pretty good. And after three slices and the chance to sit down for more than a few minutes, you started to feel like the better, not so hangry version of yourself.

“So, what’s next?”

You blinked and looked across the makeshift table of two boxes of books and records. “Next?”

“After you unpack,” Joe prompted. “You’ve tossed your shitbag ex, got yourself a shiny new flat…” he lifted his brow. “What’s next?”

You let out a heavy breath between pursed lips. “I’ve gotta get a job.”

“A job?”

“Yeah, it’s this thing that normal people do?” you joked. “Where they go to the same place every day and do an agreed-upon set of tasks for money?”

“Y’know, I think I’ve heard of them?”

You snickered and plucked a stray pepperoni from the box. It was still warm and pleasantly greasy on your tongue. “Honestly, I don’t…even know where to start with all that.”

When you looked up again, Joe looked confused. “Have you not thought about the hospitals?”

It was your turn to frown. “The hospitals?”

“Sure,” he moved a shoulder. “NHS is constantly looking for doctors.”

The two of you stared at one another for a long moment before you asked, “What?”

He stared back. “Sorry…aren’t you...Dr. Ellis?”

Your confusion melted into a smile. “Um. Not that kinda doctor.”

“What kind then?”

“I’ve got a PhD in Classical Studies,” you admitted with a quiet laugh.

Joe’s expression dropped. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Not exactly useful in an emergency then, are you?”

“Not unless you’ve got a Latin translation that needs resuscitating.”

“Fresh out of those, I’m afraid,” he said with a quiet cluck of his tongue. “Got an epic Greek poem that’s lost her appetite, though.”

“Oh,” you faked a grimace. “Bring her in. That’s not to be taken lightly.”

Another moment of thoughtful silence expanded to fill the space between you. “What does one do with a PhD in Classical Studies?”

“Well,” you took a breath and took a small bite from your remaining band of pizza crust. “I was a professor at the University of Miami before we moved here. And before that, I taught at a high school and a community college.”

“That makes sense.”

“What makes sense?”

“That you’re a teacher,” Joe clarified. “You’ve got the right sort of warmth for it.”

“Warmth?” you repeated, unsure if you’d heard him correctly.

“Yeah” he nodded. “You sort of just radiate kindness and decency,” he said with another casual shrug. As if he wasn’t in the middle of giving you one of the best compliments you’d received in what felt like years. “They’re very good traits to have in a teacher.”

“Um,” you coughed and set your crust down again after a moment. “Thank you.”

He smiled. “You’re welcome.”

“My ILR all came through about a month ago,” you went on, casting a glance around the boxes while you wondered which one contained the paperwork related to your British citizenship journey. “So, it’s not like I can’t get a job. I just have to…”

“Go to the job store and pick one out?” Joe suggested. “Is that how that works?”

You smiled wryly. “Something like that.”

You didn’t want to think about what the job market might look like in London—how receptive people might be to hiring someone with an accent like yours. Because if you thought about that, you’d start thinking about how you had left the University of Miami to follow Beau to Europe to further his career without a second thought to your own.

How, if you’d stayed in Miami, you probably would have been on track for tenure by now.

How overwhelming it was to think about starting all over in a field that was already crowded and difficult to break into.

Instead of saying any of this out loud, you take a swig of your fizzy water and lift your eyebrows. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What’s next for you?”

His mouth opened and then closed again before he exhaled and said, “Well, I’ve got my film to shoot—”

“Aside from that.”

You knew Joe didn’t have an apartment from which he needed to purge the memories of his ex-girlfriend. Or tend to any sort of lingering admin regarding their breakup. You were pretty sure he hadn’t stupidly tangled too much of his life with Gwen’s so that freeing himself entirely was a full-time job.

But there had to be something. So much of the time you’d spent with Joe had been about him helping you—introducing you to a new group of friends, offering his real estate contacts, co-parenting kittens… There had to be something he was working through that could benefit from your outside perspective.

“I’ve gotta get a new favorite song.” Joe waited until your head had tilted to the right like a puppy’s before he continued. “I did the stupid thing…played it for Gwen when things were good. Now it’s—”

“Tainted,” you finished for him. “I get that.” You were pretty sure you would not be able to be held accountable for your reaction to anything by the Dixie Chicks playing unexpectedly.

“Yeah,” he nodded with a noticeable pout. “Came on the other day…” he shook his head. “Thought about putting my fist through a wall.”

“What was it?”

“Hmm?”

“Your favorite song,” you clarified when he looked your way again. “What was it?”

“Oh, uh,” Joe looked down and back up again. “You probably wouldn’t know it.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. “Okay, hipster. That’s not what I asked.”

“No, I just—” he shrugged. “I know you’re not into techno, so it’s not like you would have heard it.”

“Well, I’m not asking so it can be my favorite song, dummy,” you reminded him with a quiet laugh. “I’m mostly just curious.”

“It’s a song called Driving Mad by…uh… Carbon & Lampé.”

“Oh my God, seriously?”

Joe’s expression lifted in surprise. “What—you know it?”

“Carbon & Lampé?” you repeated. “The Carbon & Lampé?”

“You’ve heard of Carbon & Lampé?” he asked dubiously.

You grinned, dropping the brief façade. “No,” you shook your head. “Never in my life. I’m just messin’ with you.”

To your relief, he grinned. “Should’ve guessed.”

“Let’s hear it,” you nodded to the phone resting face down next to his hip on the ground.

“What?”

“I wanna hear it,” you insisted.

“Why?”

“Because we’re gonna retire it as your favorite and get you a new one,” you said, already having made up your mind. “It deserves one last on-purpose play.” Joe’s hand reached for his phone, but hesitated a few inches above the ground. “Go on,” you prompted with an encouraging nod. “Give it one more spin, thank it for its service, and put it away for a while.”

Reluctantly, and looking as though he deeply regretted bringing it up, Joe picked up his phone and tapped his thumbs over the screen. You stayed quiet, letting the music fill the apartment.

It…sure was techno. A driving bass line and occasional electronic instrumental melodies. The kind of music they played in clubs you hated going to. You waited until the only lyrical line repeated twice before you allowed your face to wrinkle enough that Joe noticed. He turned the volume down but didn’t turn it off.

“What? You don’t like it?”

“I—” you opened your mouth once and shook your head. “Who cares what I think?” You let another few seconds pass. “This is really your favorite song?”

“You absolutely hate it, don’t you?”

“Just…um…” The corners of your lips turned downward. “How long is it?”

“Six minutes.” Your eyes must have bugged because he rolled his and reached for his phone again. “Fine, I’ll shut it off.”

“No, no,” you held up a hand. “You loved this song; you go on and listen to the whole thing. One last hurrah. Don’t worry about what I think of it.”

He still looked wary, but he didn’t shut it off. He turned the volume back up—only slightly, not where it had been before—and you did your best to survive the remaining four and a half excruciating minutes until it was finally over.

“Alright,” you let out a breath. “That’s that. Now hit those three little dots and hide it until you can think about it without all the misery that’s now associated with it.” You waited until it appeared he did as you asked before you motioned with your hand for him to continue. “And now delete it from every playlist…”

Joe sighed and nodded. “Yeah,” he grumbled. “Alright…”

It was another few minutes—really, how many playlists did this man put this song on?—before Joe set his phone back down with a heavy sigh. “Okay,” he said. “Done.”

“You feel any better?”

“Not really,” he admitted. “But at least it won’t accidentally come on when I’m at the gym or something.” He offered a small smile. “Thanks, Tru.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you said with another grin. “We’re only halfway through with this little exercise.”

He was already shaking his head. “I don’t think I’m going to miraculously find a new favorite song just because I’ve blocked my old one.”

“No, probably not,” you considered with a thoughtful tilt of your head. “But we can at least find you a stand-in until the real thing comes along. Come on,” you pleaded lightly, pulling your own phone from your pocket again. “Humor me. Let me pretend I’m helping you.”

Joe laughed quietly and shook his head a second time. “You are helping me,” he said quietly, almost under his breath, before he cleared his throat. “How do you suggest we go about this?”

“I’m going to randomize a playlist of ten songs,” you said, narrating what your fingers were doing. “And you pick the first one that sounds good to you.”

You had done this many times in your life. It was how you helped your fellow class officers choose a senior song for graduation, how you’d helped your friend and her husband choose a song for their first dance, and even helped your niece choose the audition song that got her into Carnegie Mellon.

No, you reminded yourself quickly and with a pang at the reminder of yet another person you’d probably never see again. Not your niece. Beau’s niece.

You pushed the thought aside and refocused your attention on the list of songs on your screen. You glanced up to find Joe’s dark eyes studying you curiously before you took a deep breath and pressed ‘play.’

He vetoed the first three songs so fast it was almost comical — one because it was “too sleepy,” one because it was “too chaotic,” and one because he claimed it sounded like “the soundtrack to a dentist’s office nightmare.” You were about to accuse him of being impossible when the next track began, unmistakable from the very first shimmering notes.

Joe didn’t even let the opening guitar swell finish before he shook his head violently.

“Nope. Absolutely not. Can’t pick that one.”

You blinked. “Why? It’s Purple Rain. That’s like—peak taste.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can’t pick it.”

“Why not?”

He hesitated, eyes darting away like he was embarrassed. “Because it’s Pedro’s favorite.”

You stared. “Pedro…Pascal?”

Joe groaned. “Yes, Pedro Pascal. And before you say anything—yes, I know it’s ridiculous.”

You set your phone down slowly. “Joe. You’re telling me you can’t choose Purple Rain as an arbitrary, temporary, placeholder favorite song because your friend—your co‑worker—already claimed it?”

“Yes!” he said, throwing his hands up. “It’s his thing. Everyone knows it’s his thing. It’s like a personality trait at this point. I can’t just swoop in and go, ‘Oh yeah, me too.’ I’d look like a fraud.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “You think he’s going to accuse you of stealing his favorite song?”

“He wouldn’t say it,” Joe admitted. “He’d just…look at me. With that face.”

You nodded solemnly. “Ah, yes. The Disappointed Dad Face.”

“Exactly!” Joe pointed at you like you’d solved a murder. “He’d do that slow blink. The one that says, ‘I expected better from you, son.’ And then he’d pat my shoulder like he’s forgiving me for something I didn’t even do.”

You snorted. “You’re terrified of disappointing Pedro Pascal.”

“I’m not terrified,” he said, deeply unconvincing. “I just—look, he’s got this whole aura. And it works really well with Purple Rain. You don’t step on a man’s aura.”

You were still laughing about this hypothetical paternal disappointment when the realization hit you like a brick.

“Oh God,” you blurted. “It’s weird that you know him.”

Joe blinked. “Why?”

You opened your mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “He’s my—never mind.”

“What?” Joe leaned forward, eyes narrowing with interest.

“It’s nothing.”

“What?” he repeated, more insistent now. “He’s your celebrity crush?”

“No,” you said quickly. “Not exactly.”

Although you wouldn’t say no…and you didn’t know any woman in the world who would.

“Oh, come on,” he groaned. “You can’t just leave me wondering like this.”

You rubbed your forehead, wishing you could rewind the last ten seconds of your life. “He’s my…um…” You winced. “I mean, he’s not—it’s just his name.”

Joe stared. “What about his name?”

“It’s my—” You swallowed. “I mean—it was my…uh. My safe word.”

There was a beat of silence before Joe’s eyes went wide. “Oh, my God.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, covering your face with both hands. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

Joe was delighted. Absolutely delighted. “Pedro Pascal is your safe word?”

“It’s a good safe word!” you protested, pointing at him accusingly. “I did a lot of research before I decided on it. A good safe word is clear, distinctive, something you wouldn’t accidentally say in the heat of the moment—”

“You researched safe words,” Joe said slowly, “before settling on...”

“Shut up!” you groaned. “I’m an academic. I approach everything through research.”

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head with a grin that was far too fond for your dignity. “That’s just rather adorable, honestly.”

“Shut up!” you said again. “He seems like a very safe person! I was thinking…y’know, holistically. I feel like I would feel very…safe around Pedro Pascal.”

“You would!” Joe exclaimed. “I’m not arguing! He’s a very safe person—I’d trust him with my life.”

“I can’t believe I told you that.” You dropped your hands entirely, cheeks burning. “So embarrassing.”

He watched you for a moment, something thoughtful flickering behind his eyes. “Is it still your safe word?” he asked.

“What? I don’t—” You sputtered. “I don’t anticipate needing a safe word anytime soon.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You exhaled, defeated. “Well, I mean…it’s not like I chose it thinking I’d ever be even one degree removed from him,” you clarified. “So…no. That’d be…no.”

“What?”

“Well, just. Like. It’s not like I’d keep it if I was with—” Joe lifted his eyebrows with interest and the two of you looked at one another as a wholly unwelcome image played out in your brain. You coughed. “No.” You decided firmly. “Not now that I know someone who knows him. That’s…that just feels like asking for trouble, doesn’t it?”

“Well,” Joe said, lips twitching. “It would certainly bring things to a halt, that’s for sure.”

A long, mortifying pause stretched between you. You cleared your throat and jabbed at your phone.

“Okay,” you said briskly. “So, no Purple Rain. Next option.”

Joe laughed as the next song started — something with a jangly guitar and a singer who sounded like he was trying too hard to be profound. He lasted maybe eight seconds before grimacing.

“Nope,” he said, shaking his head. “Absolutely not. Sounds like a man who owns too many scarves.”

You snorted. “You’re unbelievable.”

He pointed at the phone. “Skip it. I refuse to have a temporary favorite that sounds like it’s trying to sell me artisanal soap.”

You rolled your eyes and hit next.

The following track opened with a dramatic swell of strings, the kind that promised a sweeping emotional journey. Joe’s face immediately tightened.

“No,” he said flatly.

“You didn’t even let it get to the chorus.”

“I don’t need to,” he insisted. “I can feel the emotional manipulation from here. That’s breakup‑montage music. I’m not choosing breakup‑montage music.”

You couldn’t argue with that. You skipped again.

And then the opening chords of If I Had a Million Dollars by Barenaked Ladies bounced into the room — bright, goofy, unmistakably earnest.

Joe froze.

You watched his mouth twitch. Once. Twice. A tiny, traitorous smile threatening to break free.

You gasped quietly. “Oh my God,” you whispered. “He likes it.”

“I don’t,” he said immediately, too quickly. “It’s silly.”

“It’s perfect,” you countered.

“It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s cheerful,” you said. “And hopeful. And stupid in the best way. And you’re fighting a smile so hard right now you’re going to sprain something.”

“I am not,” he protested, but his face betrayed him despite his best efforts.

You leaned back on your hands, triumphant. “Joe. This is absolutely your temporary favorite song.”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “It cannot be my temporary favorite song.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s—” He gestured helplessly. “It’s about…buying emus and fancy ketchup.”

“Exactly,” you said. “It’s harmless. It’s fun. It’s the opposite of your ex ruining your actual favorite song. It’s a palate cleanser.”

He stared at the floor, jaw working, the corners of his mouth still betraying him.

“You’re smiling,” you said in a sing-song. “Look at those dimples just beggin’ to come out!”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

He sighed, defeated. “Fine. Maybe. It’s…not terrible.”

You grinned. “High praise.”

He shook his head, but the smile finally broke through, warm and reluctant and real. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Temporary favorite.”

You tapped your phone to save it to a playlist. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Joe looked at you then — really looked — eyes soft, expression open in a way that made your chest feel just a little too small.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Not hard at all.”

The song played on, bright and silly and perfect, filling the barely‑unpacked apartment with something that felt suspiciously like hope.

----

A/N: I don't actually have anything against The Secret. It was just a moment from The Venture Brothers that has always cracked me up, and it felt like the perfect opportunity to adapt it for a fic. Remember: Likes and comments may be quite continental, but reblogs are a girl's best friend.

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