master list đď¸đ
hi! i am a new writer; you can find more info here. here is my master list so far. this will be updated as i go. - amethyst đ
18+ blog!!! | requests open
master lists
marvel đŤ§
arcane đŚ
the last of us đż
đŞź

Janaina Medeiros
hello vonnie
Misplaced Lens Cap
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Game of Thrones Daily

Kaledo Art

romaâ
YOU ARE THE REASON

#extradirty
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
Not today Justin
Show & Tell
Three Goblin Art

Discoholic đŞŠ
Monterey Bay Aquarium
One Nice Bug Per Day
I'd rather be in outer space đ¸

blake kathryn

@theartofmadeline

seen from Germany

seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States

seen from Singapore

seen from Malaysia

seen from Malaysia

seen from China

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Argentina

seen from TĂźrkiye
seen from TĂźrkiye
seen from United States
@jaggedamethyst
master list đď¸đ
hi! i am a new writer; you can find more info here. here is my master list so far. this will be updated as i go. - amethyst đ
18+ blog!!! | requests open
master lists
marvel đŤ§
arcane đŚ
the last of us đż
blog details
i currently write both gender-neutral and f!reader and each post will be clearly labeled. if it simply says reader (ex. fwb!reader) it is neutral. i try my best to make things inclusive...so if anything isn't right just let me know and i will make the edits!
i accept requests! however, please use discretion for things that are really dark. while i may depict mental health (and include warnings for that) i have a preference to not detail sa, non-con, etc.
this blog is 18+ so while it may be hard to enforce this rule, i am requesting no minors and absolutely will never write anything about minor characters that includes smut.
i will not age up characters. any characters i write for will canonically be an adult. (ex. ekko in arcane who canonically is 20 by the end of the series, and the one-shot i wrote takes place after the finale)
this list is not exhaustive, and i reserve the right to delete/ignore any requests/comments that go too far for my liking.
tag lists đˇď¸
the master post to all of my current tag lists is linked above, i will update as i make them and they may include series as well as characters. commenting on these posts is the only way to be added to the list.
i often make a tag list post or master list that hosts the tags for a certain work. check the links on a post before spamming! if i haven't made one yet, just let me know and i will start one!
character tag lists will be for every post about that character. if you do not want to be tagged at any time...even if its every week or months later, do not comment
unless i say otherwise, i do not take requests for tags in reblogs, comments on an installment, or through private message.
you can delete your name if you'd like to be removed from the tag list, but i may not realize its gone. keep this in mind if you ever sign up to be tagged.
my muse
(muse x gn!reader)
content: muse painting you while you finish (oh my gosh)
tags: 18+ smut, minors dni, porn w/no plot really, slight dom!muse, fingering (reader receiving), mentions of blood, a scalpel, and an accidental cut if that makes you uncomfy (the cut is not with a blade), reader doesnât show bastian is muse (assume its prior to him being on the news and his little hideout is kept tidy so reader doesnât know)Â
notes: meant to post this so damn long ago but im swamped with everything. also at one point I realized this was a bit self-indulgent...bc I might be into an artist right now lol
ă¡:*:¡ďžâ ,ă¡:*:¡ďžâ
The gravelly path along the train tracks was one you knew intrinsically, as if it were a required part of your anatomy. It was one youâd traveled often, mostly in search of the man you were entranced by. You couldnât explain why, and neither could he.Â
Bastian was someone who would linger, always in the background. Heâd watch you often, blissfully unaware that you knew of his stares. Where the attention would usually make you uncomfortable, this made you tingle in excitement. Where this would unsettle you with other men, you found yourself craving this manâs gaze.Â
He frequented this specific bookstoreâŚso you became a repeat customer.Â
Admittedly, not an avid reader, you wandered around aimlessly often. Heâd watch your hands trailing over books and smirk at your indecision. Occasionally, your eyes would light up at a work you recognized, recollection creasing your face in delight. Each change allowed him to see you more intentlyâŚreally embed your features in his mind.Â
The intricacies of you flooded his brain, nestled, until finallyâŚthe dam broke.Â
He approached you one day, not meaning to startle, but rather to make himself known. He had one goal, a single most motivation.Â
His throat cleared, bobbing against the skin of his neck. âIâd like to paint you.âÂ
It dumbfounded you. He was so abrupt. A sound escaped him that you could only imagine until now, a voice so reserved yet anxious that it made you weak. The nerves made his vocal cords shake, a sound you could only imagine would echo in your ears for several minutes if you let it...the both of you wrapped in each other.
âYouâwanna paint me?âÂ
âI can make you beautifulâŚif youâd let me.âÂ
So you found yourself in what youâd best call a workshop, one tucked underneath a railroad. The ambient sound would resound and bounce off the walls, creating a continuous hum that soothed you.
This was all against your better judgment, too, letting someone paint you. Meeting him in an area so desolate and arriving alone felt idiotic. Yet you couldnât help the drawâthe feeling of magnetism that felt like needles on your skin. The sensation became a comfort to you, so you returned whenever Bastian called.Â
You let him paint you often and it showed. Despite this being the epicenter for all his creations, almost all of it had signs of you. He was able to capture you in a light youâd never seen yourself, a mirror never quite doing you justice. Heâd call you beautiful, his inspiration, his museâŚall of which you grew to believe with unwavering certainty.Â
You observed him, back turned to you, as he worked on another piece. It was red, they always were. No matter the opacity, the maroon lines were present in every work of his. You didnât question it, attributing to artistic vision that you mustâve lacked.
âSo,â you clasped your hands together, sitting down in one of his chairs. âWhatâs on the agenda today?âÂ
He turned at the sound of your voice, acknowledging it but already well aware you were here. The man held a blade and pointed it, âYouâre always on the agenda.â He discarded the tools he was using, placing them in an order he preferred. âI wanna try something different today, though.âÂ
You watched him cross the room, a canvas and a stand in hand now. He got closer, nestling his materials just next to you. Even more aware of the sound of your own breathing, you realized it was quick and short, anticipating the way heâd undoubtedly be tearing you apart soon.Â
âHi.â He spoke softly, a slight waver in his voice that you always loved.Â
You watched him kneel in front of you. âHi.â You smiled at that, the way he was always so willing to tend to you before anything else. Â
âDid you,â you motioned to your pants, âDid you want these off?â
âPlease.âÂ
He answered quickly, not a hint of hesitation in his voice. There was an uptick in tone, though, one that only occurred when he found himself slipping into comfort with you. Heâd let you do anything to him, without a doubt. But Bastian sometimes liked to show his dedication to you by making you come and do so with him nestled in front of youâŚno other place heâd rather be.Â
You observed him as you stood up to undo and slide your pants off, a look of adoration in his eyes as he peered through his lashes. You sat back down slowly, gliding your legs open for him to fully look at you. He was like that often, looking at every detail and imagining just how amazing youâd look on yet another canvas of his.Â
Heâd fulfill that wish todayâto make a portrait of you at your most vulnerable.Â
Without thinking, he let a single finger swipe over your wetness, already building at the thought of his hands on you. Bastian was calculated, deliberately sliding a single finger into you simply to watch the way your chin tilted. He reached his free hand over to the side, then grasped a pint of paint from just beside both of you.Â
As your breath became more ragged, he dragged his finger in and out of you. He remained so slow, curling the single finger and tilting his head at your reaction. He went to work on his painting, creating a rough sketch of the outline of your face. He used his hand, no brush, wanting to encapsulate the rawness of your reactions to him.
You reached down to grip his wrist, shocked at how good it felt with only a single finger. He could tell you wanted more and obliged without a second thought. He let you writhe into him and slid in two more of his fingers at the moment your skin met his, ignoring the tightness he met with. He knew you liked it this way, the tension. The resistance inside your walls made it that much sweeter; you were able to feel each crease of his hand on you.Â
He kept going, speeding up slightly as he continued to paint. He didnât miss the furrow of your brows, how one of them raised slightly higher than the other. It was as if you were questioning the sensation, that it could be this good. He made note of the way your cheeks puffed out, releasing the slightest bit of air every few seconds. Heâd dip a finger into the paint and continue on you, digging into you just sharply enough to get a new reaction. The dedication to his craft is one you noticed, especially when you realized how good he was with both of his hands.
The thought of him painting with such ease as he unraveled you with a similar skill had you dripping even more. You thought of the parallel, that he could do both things so well simultaneously. He knew you like he knew the art heâd been at for years. Bastian knew that sweet spot in you like he knew each of these canvases, and it turned you on so much.Â
The wetness from you seeped onto his fingers and back into you, a squelching sound now playing in his ears that Bastian could fall asleep to. He was meticulous, eyes falling closed to let the sound guide his movement. Art often relied on pressure, on how hard or soft the strokes of a hand could be. He noticed his push into you was lighter now, fingers guiding themselves in and out with little resistance compared to before. He let his free hand swipe over the canvas, rogue lines of red hitting and dragging over the edges.Â
Your hand still rested on him, now pushing him into you faster. The speed was torturous now, so much quicker than before, and driving you toward the sort of climax that would have your eyes completely unfocused. Your eyes met his, his examining gaze going between the details of your face.Â
His eyes glazed over, his entire being enveloped by the sounds and reactions he was getting from you. He watched you swirl on his hand, circling yourself for a new sensation. He obliged, now pressing his thumb onto you and letting it drive his fingers into you harder. Bastianâs movements sped up in your peripheral as your jaw dropped, slackened at the way he was at your walls.Â
Bastian admired the way you looked, a slight sheen on your forehead, mouth agape. He let his hand move on its own, eyes still on you.Â
âYouâre beautiful like this.â Your breath hitched. âYou always are, but this-â he continued, pumping into you. âYou're picturesque.âÂ
You gasped then, stilling your writhing on him as you came. You gripped his wrist tighter now, body shaking at the way he continued into you. He didnât care about the aftershocks, only that your face continued to twist in a way that would make for amazing additions to his art. He sped up, fingers moving impossibly faster. The screeching in your voice resounded in the room, now heard over the ambient sounds of his workshop.Â
Your fingers dug into his skin, eventually breaking the flesh there. He gasped slightly, looking up at you as a small trickle of blood started to form. His movements slowed, watching his arm in intrigue.Â
âFuck,â your voice faltered, âIâm sorry.âÂ
âItâs fine, Iâm okay.âÂ
He slipped out of you slowly, quickly turning to wash his arm and hands. The ambient sound returned, this time no longer drowned out by your cracking voice, moans, and whines.
Bastian was delicate with you, kneeling again and letting a hand glide over the drops of sweat on your forehead. He offered a small towel, then, letting you clean yourself up. He looked between you and the canvas, lips slightly twisted in anticipation of your reaction.
"It's nice...different." You nodded as you spoke, never having seen yourself this way. "It's raw. I like it, I think."
"Really?"
You nodded again, this time reassuring him with a smile. "I might have to take this one home."
forgot i wrote thisâŚholy hell
as someone who has now engaged in phone sexâŚbut like texting primarilyâŚi understand the appeal. omg its like crack.
anyways im back in school which is why i havenât written anythingâŚbut i had an idea to write a shy bucky having like written phone sex and wow i kinda need to fulfill my fantasy immediately.
MDNI
Ex boyfriend!Dick who you break it off on good terms with, the reason doesn't matter, just the wrong time for you both.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who still stops by your work every once in a while, to catch up, he says. He takes the time to memorize your laugh, your smile, the way your eyes shine when you mention a cute cat you saw on social media last week.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who gets details when he can't stop by your work from Kori, casually bringing you up in conversation and asking how you're doing, if you've baked anything new, if you're seeing anyone.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who drops flowers off on your birthday or Valentine's day, out of habit, he doesn't even think about it when he picks up a bouquet of your favorite flowers and drops them off at your work or on your windowsill.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who stops by your place on a crisp October night, 5 or 6 months after your breakup. His eyes are duller, lacking that usual shine you find yourself looking for. He says he just needed to see you, just had a bad night and that he'd leave if you wanted him to.
You invite him inside instead.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who feels a tiny spark of hope when he sees that you still have that picture of your first date up, you kissing his cheek and him grinning widely at the camera, both of your hair windswept from a night at the beach.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who watches you flush and laugh when he brings up the picture, your eyes darting to the frame and he sees your eyes soften just so, he sees all the micro expressions you thought you were good at smoothing out.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who sits with you on your couch, talking for hours about mundane things. The weather in BlĂźdhaven recently, what recipes you've tested lately, his patrols. It feels so right, so natural that Dick wonders why you two split up at all.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who finds himself getting tangled up in you again, his lips crushing against yours and he groans, you taste like his own sanctuary.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who helps you lean back against the couch, kissing down your body reverently and slowly, giving you the time to pull away, he slides your shorts and underwear down your legs and leans over your pussy, kissing the joint of your thigh and breathing you in before diving in to taste you.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who eats you out like a man possessed, one arm closed over your stomach to hold you down and he sucks your clit like he's got a vendetta against her, being forced away from her for so long, you taste like his own personal temple that he gladly worships, his altar, his home.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who's tongue traces letters into your clit that for the life of you, you can't focus enough to understand. Until you do, until you realize he's tracing the word 'mine' into your cunt over, and over again.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who watches and listens to you the entire time, his piercing blue eyes locked in on every part of your bruised lips, every furrow of your eyebrows and every flare of your nose. He hears every little hitch in your breathing, every gasp and choked moan and he revels in it.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who's eyes flutter shut when you come, listening to the beautiful sounds you make and holding you firmly to the couch as your back arches and he doesn't stop eating you out until you're begging, pushing desperately at his head to get him to let up, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the overstimulation.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who grins lazily as he crawls over your spent form, his eyes shining that sparkly shade of blue again that makes your own lips turn up in response and he dips down to kiss your throat, then your jaw, then your chin and finally his lips catch yours in a slow, mind numbing kiss.
Ex boyfriend! Dick who takes you out on a date the next day, claiming that it was the least he could do after the night before, his hand held firmly in yours as you stroll the beach and still holding yours over the table when you both spot at a ma and pa pizza shop for a bite to eat.
Ex boyfriend! Dick who drops you off at home that evening, smiling boyishly as you kiss him goodnight, he finds that now is as good a time as any to get you back, and he knocks on your door.
âĽď¸ a.n - first time writing smut but the thought came to me and the world deserves more Ex bf Dick, damnit.
: ĚĚâ More from me!
Divider by - @.cursed-carmine
i fantasize about jayce talis being real at least once a dayâŚand every second he isnât cracking me is a crime against humanity.
i want to write again as an outlet but genuinely have no idea where to start. i miss this account dearly. đ
also updates: main guy i was talking to ghosted me after weâd met up once and that hurt my feelings really bad. he apologized a lot, itâs not the same lol.
started talking to another guy to fill the void previous guy left and i quickly realized i actually started to like him. unfortunately when i actually showed some reciprocity he genuinely just shut down and suddenly is super busy and has no time for me. but he also doesnât let me leave when i ask him if he needs space. itâs always that he wants to talk to meâŚ.but he doesnt. idk.
happy 2026. new year, same stupid men.
k02. creampie /cumplay | third time lucky
frank castle x f!reader
rated e - 3.5k
tags: baker!reader, past hurt/comfort & wound tending, frank pov, nightmares, flashbacks of canon-typical violence/death, consensual sneaking in, Yearning, outercourse, PiV, creampie, cumplay
a/n: since this started as a kinktober fic, it felt right to end it as one - I wanted to do one last little chapter, part 3 of just once but works as a one-shot as well!
He wants to leave a piece of him with you. Cock already twitching at the thought of himself dripping out of you all day. The slick cling of cotton and tender ache between your thighs a constant reminder as you go about your day.
Make you think of him as much as he does you.
Frank shouldnât be here.
Shouldâve just rolled over, went back to sleep.
It was all just a fucking dream. The storm outside brought in - rain dripping into his eyes. All that red, dampening his palm where he pressed down to stop the staunch. Pooling on the concrete below.
None of it was real. Old wounds ripped open, winding their way into his subconscious.
Heâd left behind an eyeless corpse. Put two bullets into Russo himself. The final nail in the coffin, even if the night will haunt him until the end of his days. Even as heâs tried to move on - the dark stubble on his jaw growing long.
But it had been enough that heâd tugged on his jeans. The cord of his boots biting into fingers as they were laced tight, a dark hood pulled up as he had woven through the streets. The autumn air cool in the late-night hour, the metal of the fire escape like ice as he had scaled his way up.
Fingers catching on the worn wooden window frame. A beat, as he had stood, stock-still.
Letting all the reasons why he shouldnât run through his mind again, all the while his hands still move.
Lifting, pushing.
For a moment, he hopes it wonât budge.
That maybe youâd free him. That youâd moved on, and that with time - he could learn to do the same.
Even the thought has something winding around his ribs, green and burning like acid. But he tells himself heâd try.
The window gives, though. A smooth slide of rope as the wood moves up. More easily than nights he remembers before.
Maybe youâve cleaned it up, recently - and that thought has something else inside him flaring to life.
Itâs familiar, the way his back bends. The curl as he fits through the frame. Boots touching down on the hardwood floor.
A quick step to the patterned floral rug, oneâs heâs helped you clean with baking soda and vinegar - the evidence of another night scrubbed away.
And youâre there.
Features soft, freed of the worry you carry for him. Because of him. Sleeping so sweetly, and it slips from him without thinking.
âShouldnât leave this unlocked, sweetheart.â
The residual panic from the dream tinges his words. A whetstone with the way they sharpen - the city lights cutting across your face as you try to blink awake at the sound of his voice.
It echoes in his head, again.
Bad fucking idea.
His hand still lingers on the windowsill. Can still slip back through - let you think this is just a dream-
âTake the spare,â You yawn, as if itâs that simple. âAnd maybe Iâll stop.â
It comes out sleepy, the heel of your hand pressing into your eyes. A jolt in his stomach that steals his breath for a moment - thinking about the extra key that lives in the coffee cup by your front door, collecting dust.
You donât mean it. You canât.
Thatâs meant for someone else. Not for someone like him.
âYou hurt?â The bedside lamp clicks on, bare legs swinging out from the thick nest of blankets.
Thatâs what gets him moving. Three long steps taking him to the side of the bed. A hand catching at your thigh, urging you back into the warmth before you can wake fully.
ââm fine, sweetheart.â Frank rasps, âGo back to bed.â
âOnly if you come with me.â Your fingers reach out, curling around his hand with a tug, âNo-â
âBoots, though.â He canât help the slight tug of his lips, already reaching down to loosen the laces with the other, âI know.â
His boots are left, lined up beneath your bed. An old habit, your eyes catching on the roll of broad shoulder. Jacket slung over a chair. T-shirt tugged off with it.
A soft sound when his hands drop to loosen his belt. A silent assurance heâs here to stay, and he doesnât miss the way your eyes soften with your smile, as you shift back to make room for him.
The hours he snatched were scant compared to the ones spent awake. A bone-deep weariness already easing as he switches the light back off, slipping beneath the covers with you.
But not the itch inside - his fingers curled into fists, as if that would be enough. Trying to sink into the stillness, and shed the weight heâs been carrying.
It only lasts a moment before your thigh is hitched over his waist. One more, before heâs had enough - rolling you beneath him.
Slowly easing down, until heâs pressed against you, and you unfurl so sweetly around him.
Thighs inching wide to make room, a muffled hum as the heel of your foot hooks around his shin - skin still chilled from the long walk over.
Frank defrosts in your arms. Contrary to the dream where you bled out in his - yours instead wrap around, drag him close.
Youâre more open, in the late hours like this. Still toeing the line of sleep, languid in the way you sigh - arching to meet him.
He knows from experience that it wonât last long. The soft hum that turns needy when his mouth presses to your throat.
Teeth skimming your skin, testing against the edge of your jaw. How your breath turns shorter, his name something certain as it passes through your lips.
As you moan beneath him, a hand dragging down his chest. Across old scars and ones youâve tended, tracing over muscle and the scattering of dark hair. Toying with the elastic band of his boxers, and heâs too happy to let you explore.
âThought I was still dreaming,â Your voice drips like honey, sweet and smooth.
Thereâs a jolt in his belly. His own nightmare flickering at the corner of his mind, all while his hips hitch into your touch.
âYou dreaminâ about me?â It comes out rough. A hint of something almost like hope.
Desperate to find out what waits on the other side of sleep, for someone whoâs not trapped between the echoes of their past or an alcohol-soaked oblivion.
âMhm,â You squirm, as his hands mimic your path - slowly bunching up the over-sized fabric of the shirt youâre sleeping in.
âWhat were we doinâ?â
Tugging it off, a rough exhale of breath as he finds you bare beneath, fingertips tracing over your hip.
Thereâs a little, embarrassed huff. Your face tucking into his neck, and fuck - now he needs to know.
His fingers trace circles - the curve of your thigh, dipping down to the crease. Coaxing it from you.
âTell me, baby.â
You moan, as your hand finally dips beneath. Finding him hard for you already, his hips bucking into the cup of your hand.
âI was out. A party or something. I was looking for you, I think. Needed to find you.â
His heart still lingers in the pit of his stomach, but your fingers are still skimming along his length. Oblivious to the flashes of images in his mind, replaying his own.
âYou found me first. I knew it was a dream then, because you didnât have this,â You tease, your other hand shifting to tug at the edge of his beard, âBacked me into a corner and kissed me. A-And-â
So different than his own. That tight knot easing, as his curiosity piques. As you finally wrap around him and squeeze.
âAnd?â He prompts, fingers part on either side of your clit. Feather-like strokes as you hips jerk into his touch, breath hitching.
âA-and that was it. I woke up.â Your answer comes a little too quickly.
âYou sure?â Frank canât help the way his lips tug up, âNothing else happened?â
You squirm, as your head shakes - and he canât help picturing what the rest might have been. Were you dreaming about him eating your pretty little cunt again?
He canât pretend he hasnât thought about that, himself. Half-temped to slip down the mattress and hoist your thighs on either side of his head, tonguing at your clit until you soaked his beard.
Instead, he canât help but give in.
Always bending, when it comes to you. So fucking greedy, and itâs all he can do to stay away when it gets to be too much.
When he wants too much.
Letting himself sink into it tonight. Heâs already here, after all.
Letting his mouth drop to yours just as his thick fingers part you. Proof that you hadnât been entirely truthful, as they slide up your slit. Fucking drenched, and he canât help the groan that rattles in his chest. One that you echo, as they slip against your clit.
Drawing circles as your lips part. The sweep of tongue and scrape of teeth as he licks into your mouth, deepening the kiss as he teases at your entrance.
Something low slipping from him, when you finally suck in a breath.
âMaybe youâre still dreaming.â
âYeah,â Itâs dazed, and thereâs the curve of a smile against his mouth, âThink I am.â
Something twists, deep in his chest.
His hand has to shift to make way for the way you arch against him. Fisting in the sheets as your tits crush against his chest, hand curving against his neck to tug him closer.
Legs inching wider as one hooks around his hip, and heâs all too happy to keep you beneath him. Let your lips press along his jaw, as you rock against him.
Heâs hard. Blood rushing south, trading the stroking tease of your fingers for the warm heat between your thighs.
Letting his cock slip down, sending him against you each time you move. Acting out your dream, or a fantasy - he doesnât give a fuck which, as long as you keep moving.
As long as you let him meet you, match you. A rough âfuckâ rumbled out as you his shaft grows slick with your need.
The way his name comes out hushed as the head of his cock catches on your opening. Slipping past in a slick slide against the curve of your ass, as you clench around nothing.
Thereâs something he needs, but he canât voice it. Not fully.
Itâs in the harsh pant of his breath, at the way your hips hitch, roll. Rubbing yourself against him, the little whine again when his cock slips between you again.
Bumping up against your clit, nails biting into his shoulders.
It comes out a different way. Filtered and roundabout, low and rasping.
âYou still takinâ those pills?â
Heâs watched you take them a dozen times. The pack sits on the little ledge in your bathroom - default jingle on your phone familiar, enough that the sound of it on the street stops him in his tracks.
âYes.â Itâs sighed out.
Frank still gives you a moment.
So sure youâll stop him. You should, after all.
Shouldnât even be letting a man like him put his hands on you.
Much less let him bury himself inside you, with nothing between them.
Should just yank that drawer of your side table open. Embrace that thin layer of space between them, even if the thought has never been more unwelcome.
You must sense his hesitance. Or youâre too wound up in your own need - these few seconds your own form of torture. Knowing what heâs asking - because of course, you do.
âFuck, I want to feel you,â The hands at the back his neck slip forward. Thumbs pressed against his jaw, forcing him to watch the way your lips form the words.
âPlease.â
He doesnât expect you to beg for it.
Itâs happened in his dreams - ones that fill the empty stretches of daytime - but thatâs all they were. Moments of greed that slip into his consciousness. Teeth gritted as the phantom echo of your cunt squeezes around him, eyes sliding shut as he paints the shower tile with his spend.
Aching to feel you bare. The tight slick heat, all his.
His teeth grit. A hand pinching at your hip as the other fists his cock. Still just a hairsbreadth away, as he fits himself against you. Slowly pushing in, as your warmth surrounds him.
This time, each expression is cataloged by moonlight.
Always too dark, before. Too far away - bent over the kitchen island. A palm flattened against your shoulder blades, as your back arched on the mattress. Pressed up against the bathroom door in the dead of night.
The pinch of your brow and how your eyes widen as you take him. That shaky, inhale of breath as something soft slips from him without thought.
âYou can take it.â Another shift of his hips, as you give around him, âAlways so fuckinâ good at takinâ it. Arenât you, sweetheart?â
Your answering hum pitches high.
So damn snug, even with how wet you are for him. Clutching around each inch he gives you, until the curl of his fingers are pressed against your folds. Until youâre making room for the rest of him, his thigh nudging against yours as he finally pushes flush.
And the bliss of holding himself there, fully hilted in you, is short-lived. As good at it feels, he has to move.
He can go slower, later.
Another night, when his blood isnât pounding. When this urge doesnât crackle through him, needing to make the most of what heâs given.
You move with him - the roll that starts at his hips, curving up to his shoulders. Fucking you into the mattress. Pink scrapes along his back with the way you cling to him, your nails making their own marks among his scars.
He growls at how wet you are for him, the slick slide into warmth and the slap of his skin against yours as you take him, again and again. How your breath goes ragged when he shifts. Palms flattening against the mattress, pushing himself up. Hands skimming along your sides to grasp at your hips, bringing them with him.
Tilting, sending his cock against a spot his fingers know well.
âOh god.â You moan, and Frank swears he can feel his cock twitch inside you, âThere.â
âYeah?â Itâs gritted out, as he strokes against it again.
His palm dragging against your abdomen, thumb pressed snug against your clit. Giving you something to grind against, as he looks down.
Youâre splayed out below him. Pale light tracing your curves - the sway of your tits, one of your hands cupping and pinching as the other latches onto his wrist.
Thighs hooked around his hips, knees biting into tender ribs. A flicker of pain flares to life each time he ruts into you washes over him, melding with the pleasure.
âPlease-â Itâs slips out on an exhale. Your fingers flexing and tugging, urging his fingers to press harder.
Your breathing growing short, with each brutal thrust. Stealing your breath and he swears he feels a tremor in your thighs, a stiffness in the way your back arches.
âYou gonna come, sweetheart?â Itâs low and rough, his fingers swirling against slick skin, âGonna come on this cock with nothing between us?â
âYes,â The words come quickly now. âOh my god, yes. I need it-â
And fuck - he loves hearing what you need, as long as itâs him.
Giving it to you, until youâre moaning beneath him, pitching high and loud and he hopes that fucker next door can hear what heâs doing to you, as you fall apart beneath him.
A flutter in his stomach as the way you grip him as you come, making a mess of his cock. Slick and hot and fluttering around him, far better than he had imagined.
And itâs only after the bite of your knees ebb, that he realizes how close heâs been to the edge as well. Holding himself there, teeth gritted so you could seek your end first.
He wonât - canât - last long, now.
Another stroke, and heâs almost there.
âWhere do you want it?â It builds and builds. That sharp twinge, as his muscles tighten.
Desperation in the way he hilts himself each time. Sinking into your wet warmth as you wrap around every inch of him, gripping him as if to keep him there.
Youâd look pretty with his come on your tits. Painted across your stomach. Christ - smeared against your pussy.
âIn me.â You whimper, and he doesnât miss the way your thighs tighten around his hips.
The way your words make him stutter. Rhythm going sloppy as he growls - hips snapping harder. Bringing him closer, lower until heâs just arched over you again.
âYeah? You gonna take that, too?â
Heâs already let himself fall this far tonight. Too late to turn back now and play the man he should be. Not that he could, not with the low tightening in his belly, a plucked string of pleasure from your pleas.
You moan tell him everything. That you want this as well, have been thinking about him filling you. That just his cock hasnât been enough - that you need more.
His head dips, pressing into the curve of your neck as he comes. Thrusts shallow and sloppy, and goosebumps raise against your skin, at the way he groans in your ear.
Rough and filthy, as your legs tighten - driving him deeper as his spend spills into you.
Hips flexing with each jerk of his cock. Shallow thrusts so he can stay deep. Make sure every fuckinâ drop ends up where it should be.
Going still, while all the sharp edges of his mind finally goes soft, bones turning leaden. Finally shedding the nightmare thatâs followed like him a shadow.
You whine when he leaves you empty, and it almost does him in.
Itâs enough that heâs moving without thinking. The mattress dipping as he settling on his side - a hand tracing down your sternum, stomach.
Ghost-light when they meet the juncture of your thighs. Swirling through the slick that dampens your skin, the shine of where he leaks from you. Gathering it up on two fingers, before heâs pushing it back back in.
And fuck, heâs never had you like this.
A second round isnât unusual, but heâs always spent himself against skin or silicone. The noise filthy as he finger-fucks his come deeper inside you, feeling the tight warmth of your needy little cunt around his fingers.
He wants to leave a piece of him with you. Cock already twitching at the thought of himself dripping out of you all day. The slick cling of cotton and tender ache between your thighs a constant reminder as you go about your day.
Make you think of him as much as he does you.
âGreedy thing, isnât she?â Frankâs voice is a purr in your ear, âHelp me out, baby.â
Your fingers are quick to join him. Snaking down your torso, timing the circling press of your fingers with the crook of his.
Gasping when his mouth presses against your throat. Shoulder. Closing around the tight peaks of your tits - bearing down around fingers stroke inside you, again and again.
âFrank,â You gasp, âGonna make me come, I-â
Another whine, as your eyes slip closed. Sharp breaths hissed through your teeth, as the tension inside you winds tighter and tighter.
He needs it. Needs one more, after the night heâs had.
âGood fucking girl,â Frank croons, âKnow youâre almost there.â
Accustomed to your tells, even when your words fail you. The tightening of muscles and the slope of your brows. How you tilt toward him, fingers pressing harder. Senseless babble rushing together - gasps melding with pleas, as his come-soaked fingers crook.
Wrenching another from you, as you shatter again. Working you through it, even as your own coordination fails - fingers leaving your clit to bite into his wrist. His own voice low and rough, the words lost in the night.
There you go. Thatâs it, sweetheart.
Give me another.
So fuckinâ gorgeous when you come. You know that?
Better than a dream, heâs certain.
The room is dark, as you drift back down. A burst of stars slipping back to the painted pattern on your ceiling.
Achingly aware of the way you feel against him. Curved into his side, a damn near perfect fit. Enough to make him content to stay where he is.
Senses dulled to world outside.
But with it, the slow realization is like a knife to the jut. Shoved deep and twisting, until itâs lethal.
Something heâs known deep down, but hadnât wanted to admit. Slashes the pieces and tucked them all away before they could make something recognizable, but right now theyâre fitting together again too quickly to ignore.
Itâs been there, ever since the beginning.
The first peek of your wide, determined eyes as he bled out on your fire escape. Your smile. The laugh that slips out, and the flicker of pride when heâs the one that pulls it from you. The hours spent in the low light of your kitchen, feeling like the only two people awake.
That first kiss, tucked away in the bathroom, and every moment thatâs followed.
It makes him certain.
That this wonât ever be enough.
After part ii, I honestly just wanted to write a fic where itâs clear just how much heâs been thinking about her, too (in the form of a scene where heâs too desperate to wrap it) - Iâm personally imagining this as an au where maybe Frank finds a way to stick aroundđ thank you so much for reading!!
im begging for itâŚfuck
how do we feel about robert robertson x reader (established but secret work relationship)
???? LMK i wanna get out of my writing slump
what if i wrote about dispatchâŚâŚ. like i need robert robertson III in ways inexplicable
how do you move on from lossâŚespecially when theyâre not even dead. iâve dealt with grief and itâs specific. itâs grueling and hurts and comes up at inopportune timesâŚbut losing someone thatâs just existing and you donât even know what you did wrong is the worst feeling and idk what to do. idk who to tell about it. idk who i am anymore.
âenglish isnât my first language-â
stfu and let me read the art youâve written
iâm back to writing againâŚcrazy that it took me losing the best thing to ever happen to me but weâre so fucking backkkk. angst here i come âźď¸
Baby, Come Back to Me
a03 | masterlist
blurb - Separated by miles, years, and the undead, you and your husband have been ghosts in each otherâs lives for two decades. The thought of Joel being alive hurt just as much as thinking he was dead. But when a stand-off forces you face-to-face with a familiar manâolder, harder, and still devastatingly himâall the pain resurfaces.
warnings - nsfw, mdni 18+, attempted murder, violence, yearning, loss of a child, parent!Reader, grief, fear of intimacy, slight suicidal wishes, female masturbation, mutual masturbation, 69, cuddle fucking, creampie (don't try this at home), emotional sex, scent kink???
author's note: I did listen to "Back to Me" by the Marias the entire time I wrote this...
One shot requested by: anyomous
wc: 18.3 k
Mwah!
âJoelâŚâ
Mwah!
You giggled this time, voice caught somewhere between exasperation and a smile. âJoel.â
Mwah! Mwah!
âOh my God! Youâre gonna ruin my hair!â
He didnât stop. He kissed you once moreâloudly, obnoxiouslyâright on the top of your head, arms wrapped around you so tight you could barely reach for your keys.
âYou ainât leavinâ yet,â he said against your hair.
You tried to twist out of his hold, but he just shifted with you, his body like a weighted blanket. âJoelââ
âMy birthday is tonight,â he murmured, cheek pressed to the side of your head. âKeyword: Tonight.â
âYouâre not six.â
âDonât need to be,â he muttered, âTo wanna spend it with my wife.â
Somewhere down the hall, Sarahâs laughter drifted from her room, soft and muffled. You exhaled, melting into his chest despite yourself. He smelled like sawdust and soap, and you hated how safe it made you feel, because you did need to go.
âJoel,â you whispered again, gentler this time. âItâs an ER shift. You know I canât justââ
âI know, I know.â
He finally leaned back enough to look at you. His face was that ache that always peeked out when you had to leave for your night shifts.
âI packed you dinner,â he said finally, nodding toward the counter.
Your gaze followed. A brown paper bag sat neatly by your keys, the folded top pressed flat with ridiculous precision. You could see his handwriting scrawled across it: Eat every bite.
You looked back at him, and his expression was stubbornly casual, like you hadnât watched him make sure your thermos didnât leak and your sandwich didnât get squished while you changed into your scrubs.
âYou didnât have toââ
âYeah, I did,â he cut in, quiet but sure. âYou forget to eat when it gets busy.â
âI do not forget.â
âMm,â he said, unconvinced. âThatâs why last week you came home and inhaled pizza like you ainât seen food in a week.â
You shoved at his chest, and he caught your wrist with a smirk, pressing one more kiss to your knuckles.
And thatâs when the sound of socked feet sliding down the hallway interrupted you.
âEw,â Sarah groaned, appearing in the doorway, half-eaten apple in hand. âNot this again.â
Joel didnât even look her way. âWhatâs this âgain?â
âYou being a total sap,â she said, hopping up on one of the stools. âSheâs just going to work.â
Joelâs head turned slowly to his kid. âYou donât get it.â
âOh, I get it. Youâre dramatic.â
You covered your mouth to hide a smile, pretending to check your bag again.
Joel lifted a brow at her. âYou done?â
âNot even close,â she said sweetly. âStop hogging her.â
He glanced back to you, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. âWhyâd wanna talk to her so bad, huh?â
âMaybe I wanna talk to someone other than you for the next twelve hours.â
Joel let out a low noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and grabbed his mug. âUh-huh. Iâll remember that next time you need a ride to the mall.â
You and Sarah watched him disappear around the corner. There was a beat of silence, and then the sound of him shutting the bedroom door echoed faintly.
âDid it get fixed?â
Her grin was instant, mischievous, like sheâd been waiting for that cue all night.
âYou bet it did.â
She glanced over her shoulder once more, then ducked into her backpack and pulled out a small box. When she cracked it open, the soft ticking filled the quiet kitchen.
Joelâs watch. Working.
You hadnât seen it tick sinceâwell, since ever. Not once in all the years youâd known him. She smiled so wide it almost broke your heart. âHe deserves it,â she said softly.
You wrapped your arms around her before she could hide her blush. âYou did good, baby.â
Her hair smelled faintly of coconut shampoo and laundry detergent. You pressed a kiss into her curls, and she squeezed you tight.
âWhen Iâm back in the morning,â you murmured against her hair, âYour dad gets me, then itâs all you and me, okay?â
She pulled back, grinning. âDeal. I need a dress. Homecomings, like, next week and everyone already has theirs.â
You smoothed her hair from her face. âThen weâll find you the perfect one. Promise.â
Her eyes sparkled. âItâs gonna be the best.â
You smiled, meaning it. âIt will.â
For a moment, it was just the two of you, the low hum of the fridge filling the silence, the clock ticking in time with the watch.
Then you glanced upâand froze.
âShoot,â you muttered. âIâm late.â
You moved fastâbadge, phone, keysâbut she was still standing there, smiling at you.
âI love you, Sarah!â you called as you backed toward the door.
âLove you too!â
The night air was cooler than you expected, the kind of fall chill that hinted at rain but hadnât quite decided to commit. The street was quiet, just the whisper of trees and the hum of a streetlight flickering at the corner.
The porch light cast a pale gold over the hood of your car, and you were halfway to opening the door when you heard it.
âHey!â
You turned.
Joel was coming down the porch steps, hair mussed.
âWhatâ?â
Before you could finish, he reached you. His hands found your face, warm and calloused, and his mouth was on yours before another word could form.
Steady. Familiar.
You smiled against his lips, your fingers curling in his shirt. âHappy birthday,â you murmured.
His eyes softened, lines crinkling at the corners. âThank you, baby.â
He kissed you againâslower this timeâand then rested his forehead against yours.
âYou sure you canât call in sick?â he whispered, the corner of his mouth twitching.
âYâknow I canât.â
âDoesnât hurt to try.â
For a few seconds, neither of you moved. You brushed your thumb along Joelâs jaw, tracing the familiar edge of stubble.
âTomorrow morning,â you promised quietly. âIâm all yours.â
He nodded once, like he was filing it away. âAll mine,â he repeated, voice low, half-rasp, half-prayer.
You stepped back, his hand still holding yours until the distance forced it to fall away.
âGo on,â he said, smiling now. ââFore I think of another excuse to keep you.â
You opened the car door, sliding in. The engine coughed to life, headlights washing the driveway in white.
Joel leaned down to your window as it rolled open, bracing one hand on the roof. âText me when you get there.â
âI always do.â
âYeah,â he said softly. âStill.â
You looked up at him for a momentâjust a man standing under the porch light, watching the woman he loves drive away to work.
Then you smiled one last time, lifted your fingers in a small wave, and pulled out of the driveway.
The taillights disappeared down the street.
And behind you, Joel stood there for a long while, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes on the road that led toward the hospital, until the light finally went out.
That was the last quiet night.
ââăťââ
The gas station sits at the edge of the highway like a fossilâhalf-buried in snowdrift, windows caked in frost, the faded sign creaking against the wind.
You pull your scarf higher over your nose and push through the door. The bell above it gives a tired little jingle, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the emptiness inside.
The place smells of dust and fuel. Rows of cracked candy wrappers and long-dead flies line the counter. A can of peaches sits upright on a shelf like itâs been waiting for you all these years.
You pause, listening. Wind sighs through a shattered window. Nothing else.
Good.
Your boots crunch on the tile as you move down the aisle. You check under the counterâsome old batteries, half a lighter, a few shotgun shells. You pocket the shells, roll the lighter between your fingers, flick it. Spark. No flame. You toss it back.
You find the storage room behind a warped door, push it open with your shoulder. The metal hinges wail.
Inside: shelves toppled over, a spill of canned goods frozen to the concrete. A single cot in the cornerâtorn, mold creeping up the side. But itâs shelter.
You run a hand through your hair, exhale through your scarf.
You start sorting through the wreckage. Your bag was already heavy, but thereâs always room for something that might keep you alive another week. A can of beans, a box of ammo if youâre lucky, maybe even a flask with something that burns on the way down.
Outside, the wind changes pitchâsharper now, colder. Snow was coming quick.
You glance through the window. Clouds roll over the mountains, dark and low, swallowing the last streaks of light.
Wyoming. Youâd always wanted to see it. The peaks in the distance look soft under the gray sky, like something out of a dream you half-remember. You lean against the window frame, watch the world blur behind the snow.
The beans taste like dust. You chew anyway, slow and mechanical. You swallow, stare at the dented can in your hand, and wonderânot for the first timeâwhy food never tastes like anything anymore.
The silence stretches long and thin.
Outside, the wind howls low through the busted doorframe, slipping under your coat. The stormâs closer. You pull your scarf tighter and sit cross-legged on the moldy cot.
The flickering fluorescent light above you buzzes. Once. Twice. Then dies completely. You sit in the dark for a long moment.
You fish out a flashlight from your pack and click it on. The beam slices through the dark in a narrow cone. Dust motes float like ghosts.
You set the can aside, grab your knife, and start sharpening it against a stone. The rhythmic scrape fills the space. Shk. Shk. Shk.
You stop only when you catch your reflection in the blade. Eyes sunken. Hair streaked with gray. Skin roughened by twenty-four winters too many.
You huff a breath through your nose, letting the knife fall beside you and lean your head back against the wall.
For a momentâjust a flickerâyou see it again.
The hospital. The gurneys. The screaming.
You still smelled antiseptic and blood, heard the alarms, and felt the heat of panic flooding every hallway.
Your hands had been shaking so badly back then that you couldnât even hold the scalpel right. And when they shoved the rifle at youâyouâd dropped it. You remember that clearly. Youâd dropped it, and the nurse beside you had died two minutes later.
You open your eyes fast, drag in air until your ribs ache. You stare at your hands. Calloused. Scarred.
The storm outside is getting heavier now, snow slamming against the roof in thick, rhythmic waves.
You sit for a while, just breathing.
Then you reach pass your collar. Metal is cold against your fingers, smooth from years of handling. You pull out the necklaceâits chain tangled from travel, the ring catching faint light from the window.
Your wedding ring.
It still fits around your finger, though you havenât worn it in years. The gold has dulled, edges rough from weather and time. You turn it between your fingers, feeling the tiny engraving on the insideâJ.M. The letters are faint now, nearly worn away.
Since rings were a ripping hazard through gloves, you always ended up leaving your ring in Joelâs hands. Meaning you left it when you escaped.
Years later, you went for it. Maybe to see if someone took it, or if it was possible that time had stopped in that house, just waiting for you to come home.
Half the roof gone, windows shattered. Youâd stepped over the debris, heart thudding in your chest, and found the ring sitting in your dresser. Dust-coated. Waiting.
The rest of the house had been silent, save for the groan of wood and wind slipping through the cracks. Thereâd been blood by the entrywayâdark, old. But no bodies. The truck was gone.
That had meant something. Youâd clung to that, smiling through the tears back then.
âThey made it out,â youâd whispered into your old bedroom. âHe got her out. He always does.â
Now, years later, you still hold the ring like itâs proof that somewhere, somehow, theyâre still alive.
That Sarahâs grownâthirty-eight now, if youâve done the math rightâmaybe with her fatherâs strength, that same stubborn tilt of her chin.
You smile, just a little. And for that small, fragile moment between exhaustion and faith, you let yourself believe it.
That if you keep walking, keep breathing, fate might finally let your paths cross again.
The wind howls against the window. And thenâa noise. Not the wind. Not the shifting of snow. You freeze.
Itâs faint, beneath the storm. A crunch of a can, the muted thud of boots.
You snap out of it fast, tucking your necklace back underneath your layers, and you grab your rifle. You move silently, muscle memory taking over. The scarf wanted up, covering your mouth. You sling the rifle over your shoulder, knife in your other hand.
Another sound. Closer this time.
You forced your breathing to be small. Listened. The sound is humanânot the ragged rasp of infected but even, purposeful steps. You creep to the door, ease it open a crack. Cold air hits you.
You donât take chances. You move through the gas station like a ghost.
Shelves cast long black teeth. You navigate by sound: the snap of a plastic wrapper, a muted clink of metal. You pass an aisle and thereâunder a hanging sign that reads âSNACKSâ in flaking red paintâis a person.
Sheâs young-ish, brown hair dusted with snow. Pale. Focused on canned goods. You watch her for a beat, then youâre beside her; blade at her throat, gloved hand clamping her jaw before she can scream air into the room.
âDonât make noise,â you whisper, teeth pressed to the syllables. Cold breath fogs between you.
She makes a soundâa sharp intakeâbut you clamp harder until itâs a single pulse under your fingers. Her green eyes are wide and furious.
You press the tip of the knife, close enough the metal kisses her skin. She doesnât flinch. âWho are you with?â
Her eyes flick left, then right, then back up to your face. She groans something obscene. You tilt your head.
âNod if youâre alone.â
Slow, stiff nod. Her gaze keeps sliding. You donât believe her.
âWalk.â
She huffs and starts shuffling. You edge behind her, blade at the hollow of her throat in case she bolts.
Outside, horses stand tethered to a dented pickup. Two adult-size steeds, their breaths steaming into the night. Packs sewn onto their flanks look newâcanvas stitched and mended, not the scavenged mess you usually see.
âCommunity,â you mutter.
The girl mumbles behind your gloveâgarbled words, half-swallowed by the wool. You pause, glancing down at her. Her eyes flicker with something sharper than fear. You canât tell if itâs anger or a plan.
You loosen your hand just enough for her to speak. âYouâre making a mistake,â she says, voice low, shaky but not scared. Not really. Thereâs defiance there. âYou donât wanna do this.â
âThat right?â
âYeah,â she breathes, chin tilting toward the dark. âBecauseââ
She stops. Eyes dart past you. Just a flicker. Barely a second. But itâs enough. Your instincts snap tight.
You spin, knife still at her throat, snow exploding under your boots. The world narrows to metal and breath and the small, frantic drum in your ribs. A man stands a few yards off. Broad shoulders, an old bandana pulled up over his mouth, thick winter jacket bulking up his frame more that it is; only his eyes are free.
Theyâre cold. Wild. Protective.
Heâs holding a blade too. The wind howls between you.
âIâll slit her throat before you take a step.â you snarl.
He doesnât blink.
You circle, keeping the girl as a shield. He mirrors you both of you counting the breaths, looking for the twitch that means fight. Wind keens between the pillars, the horses stamp and throw up more steam.
âBack off, I swear Iâllââ
âIâll kill you âfore you can.â he interrupts, stepping closer. Thereâs a cadence to the sentence that slips under your skin, some pattern you know but canât name. Texan accent. Worn by the years, but Texas nonetheless.
Your hands tighten around the girl. Then she jerksâtwists. You shove her back against your chest and press the knife harder; she hisses.
âStop movinâ, Ellie!â The man yells.
âGoddammit!â
She spits, and the world completely invertsâjust by one word in her next sentence detonating in your chest.
âKill her already, Joel!â
Joel.
The name stops you cold.
Joel.
It hits like a gunshot under your ribs. Your grip faltersâbarely, but enough.
Joel.
â...What did you just say?â you whisper.
The girl feels it, the hesitation. She wrenches free. In the same motion, she grabs your scarf and yanks it down. Cold air hits your face.
Thenâpain. A hot, sharp slide near your ribs. You stumble back with a strangled noise, clutching your side.
For a second, you donât feel it. Not really. Your bodyâs in survival mode, your mind already screaming move, move, move.
Two against one. Youâve been in worse. Youâve survived worse. But stillâyour pulse hammers so loud it drowns out the rest of the world.
The wind whooshes past your ear. White noise. You can barely hear anything else.
Except the softest call youâve heard in years. Your name. Spoken like a memory dragged out of the grave.
You havenât heard it in years. Youâd forgotten the shape of it, the way it used to sound. Youâd forgotten what it felt like to belong to it.
You look up.
The manâs eyes are on youâwide, unsteady. His chest rises and falls like heâs staring at a ghost. His knife is forgotten, dropped to the snow. You stumble back a step, confused, dizzy. He mirrors it, stepping forward, matching your retreat. One for one.
âStay back,â you rasp, though your voice cracks halfway through.
He doesnât. The girl says his name again, a sharp exhale of confusion. âJoel! What are youâ?â
No.
No, no, no.
The world tilts. The light from the moon flickers across his face, and in that fractured second, you know. He rips the bandana from his faceâ
Itâs him. Your life. Your love. Your other half. Your soul. Your husband.
Your Joel Miller.
Lines carved deep into his face, gray hair decorated his beautiful brown. His face is more wrinkled than before, his body more wider. But those eyesâsame as the day you lost saw him.
Your breath catches in your throat. âJoelâŚâ
The word breaks, splintering halfway out. It sounds nothing like how you used to say it. He takes another step. His voice shakes.
âDarlinâ...â
You want to run. To reach for him. To scream in fear. To laugh. You canât do any of it. You just stand there, the world narrowing until itâs just the two of you and the ghost of everything you lost.
Your knees go weak. You can feel pain nowâthe slow, spreading warmth of something sticky seeping through your coat. You press your hand harder to your side, but it doesnât stop the tremor.
Joel takes another step.
âDonâtâŚâ you manage, breathless. âDonâtâcome any closer.â
You stumble back again, your boots slipping in the snow. The light-headedness hits harder now. The sky spins. You reach out, steadying yourself against the cold metal of the building behind you.
The girlâs hand tightens around her knife. Her voice is shaking now, too. âWhat are you waiting for?! SheâsâŚsheâsâwhy are you hesitatingââ
You sway, vision blurring. Ellie takes another step, as if sheâs going to finish the job for Joel, and thatâs when you see itâthe blade in her hand. Red. Glinting as it drips. Your blood.
âChristâŚâ you whisper.
You can barely keep your eyes open now. The snow feels softer under your boots than it should. You blink, slow and heavy, your breath coming out in short, white bursts.
Then, you fall.
Joel moves fast. A shadow through the storm. The next thing you feel is his arms wrapping around you, pulling you in. The warmth of him hits like a blow, his chest against yours, his breath shaking against your temple.
You forgot this.
The sound of him breathing, the rough rasp in his throat. The weight of his hand and how they shake when they press against your side, trying to stop the bleeding. His voice breaks through the wind, hoarse, terrifiedâwords you canât quite catch, just the vibration of them.
Your fingers find his coat, clutching it. It feels real. Too real. You lift your headâbarelyâand see his face. That face.
The man from your dreams, the one you used to stare at when you couldnât sleep. The one you buried with your past. The one you thought youâd never touch again.
You try to speak, but it comes out as a shiver.
He presses his hand harder, cursing under his breath. His mouth opens over and over, forming words but you canât really hear him. The wind eats at his words. You can only see his eyes frantic.
You forgot how soft his eyes could be when he was afraid. Your vision blurs around the edges. His face flickers in and out, the snow dimming into a wash of gray and white.
He yells something over his shoulderâmaybe to the girl, maybe to no one. You canât tell. The worldâs shrinking too fast.
Thenâhis voice, raw, breaking:
âNot âgain. Not âgain.â
You blink slowly, trying to focus on his mouth, the way his voice trembles like heâs said this before.
Again?
The thought cuts through the haze for a second. Did he mean you? Did he dream of you, too? See your face in strangers? Hear your voice in the dark like you did his?
The thought makes you smile. You look up at himâjust once moreâand the sight fills you whole.
Then the light fades. You go limp in his arms.
He calls your name again, but you donât hear it. The world folds inwardâblack and quiet.
ââăťââ
The church wasnât much.
A narrow, sunlit room with peeling paint and crooked pews. The air smelled faintly of wood polish. There was no musicâjust the soft hum of cicadas outside and the creak of the floorboards under your heels.
It was perfect.
Your mother sat front row, tissues clutched in both hands, whispering something to your father that made him chuckle under his breath. Tommy was beside them, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, trying and failing to keep a squirming little girl in her seat.
âCâmon now, darlinâ,â he muttered as Sarah kicked her legs and reached toward the front of the hall. âYour daddyâs a little busy right now, alright? Youâll see him in a minute.â
Sarah let out a squeal that echoed through the church, a bright little sound that made Joelâs shoulders stiffen and then sag.
You laughed under your breath, watching him. His hands were clasped nervously in front of him, the tie around his neck slightly crooked. His hair was damp from sweat, combed back but already falling out of place. There was a flush high on his cheeks.
âI swear I listened when you told me to feed her. She jusâââ He sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching. âShe donât like sittinâ still. Guess thatâs my fault.â
âShe just wants her daddy,â you said softly.
Joelâs eyes flicked to you, warm and nervous all at once. âWell, canât say I blame her for that.â
âYou always this confident at the altar?â
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. âConfidence or stupidityâhard to tell.â
There was a pause. Sarah let out another squeal and Tommy groaned, muttering something about âshouldâve brought snacks.â Joel grinned, shaking his head, then looked back at you with that same teasing glint.
âStill time to back out, yâknow,â he said. âAinât too late to change your mind.â
You gasped, hand flying to your chest. âExcuse me?â
âI meanânot like that, darlinâ. Jusâ... yâknow Iâm not exactly prime real estate.â
âJoel MillerâŚâ you said, voice full of mock outrage.
âWhat?â he said, laughing now. âIâm jusâ beinâ honest!â
You took a step closer, your dress brushing the floor. The minister cleared his throat softly, but neither of you looked away. You reached up, caught his tie in your hand, and tugged him just enough that his eyes widened a little.
âNever,â you whispered.
He blinked, his breath catching. And then you kissed him.
The world went still for a moment. It was just the two of youâyour hand fisted in his tie, his palm finding your waist, the rough scrape of his stubble brushing your cheek. He kissed you back, slow at first, then deeper when you smiled against his mouth.
Behind you, your mother and dad sniffled audibly. Tommy muttered something, but there was laughter in his voice.
When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.
And when Joel finally whispered, âFor as long as I got breathâŚâ, you knewâthis was how it was always meant to be.
ââăťââ
You wake to the sound of wind and the slow, steady rhythm of breathing that isnât your own.
Your lashes flutter open. Wooden beams. No patched roof. The air smells faintly of pine and smoke, warm from⌠a heater? For a moment, you think youâre dreaming. Then a deep ache blooms along your side.
You jolt uprightâtoo fast. The pain punches through you. A strangled noise escapes your throat as you clutch your ribs. Bandages. Tight, clean, freshly changed.
Thatâs when you hear it again.
You whip your head toward the soundâinstinct first, reason laterâand shove back against the headboard, teeth bared, ready to fight through the pain if you have to.
âHeyâhey, easy, easy.â
That voice.
Joelâs sitting in the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, that same rugged face youâve seen a hundred times in dreams, weathered now by years and loss. The gray in his beard catches the light. His flannelâs frayed at the cuffs. Sleep wears on his face. He mustâve just woken up.
Itâs all impossible. It has to be.
âJoel?â
His mouth parts just slightly, like heâs afraid to breathe wrong. âYeah, darlinâ. Itâs me.â
You shake your head, trying to make sense of it, but the world feels warped. His eyes are the sameâwarm brown, flecked with goldâand that hurts worse than anything else. Because they look real.
For a long, unbearable moment, neither of you move. The room hums around youâwind through the cracked window, the faint thud of boots outsideâbut all you can hear is your heartbeat and the sound of Joelâs shaky breath.
You shift again, the pain in your side flaring white-hot. A groan slips out before you can stop it. Joelâs expression crumples.
âStop movinâ,â he mutters, half rising, hands twitching uselessly like he wants to reach for you but doesnât dare. âYouâll rip the stitches.â
You swing your legs over the bed, ignoring the protest in your ribs. He flinches like it physically hurts him to see you do it. He stands with you, crossing around the bed to get in front of you.
His jaw works, like heâs trying to find something to say.
But all that comes out is your name.
It roots you to the floor.
You blink hard, throat burning, and when you look up again, his eyes are wet. He tries to blink it away, to look like the same man who used to fix things, who used to steady you.
He says it again. Softer this time.
Your breath stumbles. Thereâs a tremor in his hand when he finally reaches out.
When his fingers brush your cheek, you flinchâ from a strange mix of fear and disbelief. His handâs rough, warm. He drags his thumb slow across your skin, tracing your jaw, your cheekbone, your nose.
Like a blind man who had just earned his sight back.
For a second, thereâs nothing but the sound of both of you breathingâfast, uneven, disbelieving.
And thenâ
You take a step back. Another. Another.
Distance.
You hit the metal tray behind you, the clatter piercing through the air, and Joelâs brow furrows. âItâs alright,â he says, voice low, coaxing, like youâre some frightened animal.
You shake your head, breath catching. âNoâno, itâs not.â
âDarlinâ, itâs meââ
âDonât.â The word rips out of you, sharp and trembling. âDonât call me that.â
His mouth parts, but nothing comes out. His hand drops uselessly to his side.
You canât breathe. The air feels too thick, the walls too close. Your body wonât stay stillâyour fingers twitch, your shoulders jerk. You can hear your pulse in your ears.
He was here. You wanted this. You wished for it, but now that it was here⌠it was all too much, him standing here, alive.
âI knew you died,â you whisper, voice cracking. âI knew and I still believedâ"
âI didnât,â he interrupts, desperate. âI didnât die, darlinâ. Iââ
âStop!â You press your hands to your temples, nails digging in. âStop calling me that!â
âYouâre shakinâ. Lemme meââ
âNo!â You stumble back, hand slamming into the cabinet. âYou canâtânoâyou canât justââ
Your chest caves. Breath stutters. You canât fill your lungs, canât find air. The room tilts, the fluorescent light overhead flickering like a heartbeat gone wrong.
Heâs reaching again, trying to catch your shoulders, but the touch only makes it worse. You jerk away, a strangled sound tearing out of you.
And thenâ
Bang.
The door slams open.
âJoel!â Tommyâs voice, rougher now, deeper, but still that same drawl that once filled your old house with laughter.
You stare at him. Heâs got a mustache now. Older, broader. Wrinkles that line the corners of his eyes.
You make a small, broken sound in your throat. Itâs too muchâthe sound of his voice, the sight of Joel, your world cracking open and mending together all at once.
Tommyâs eyes soften when he sees you, but his tone is firm. âStep outside, brother.â
âHell no,â Joel snaps, stepping in front of you. âMy wifeâs panickinâ, Tommyââ
You twitch at that wordâwifeâand your breath catches, shuddering.
Tommy lifts a hand. âOut. Now.â
âTommyââ
âJoel.â His tone hardens. âGet out.â
The two stare each other down, that familiar stubborn silence passing between them. Joelâs chest heaves. His jaw flexes.
Then his eyes flick to you. Just once. And that lookâraw, guttedâundoes something in your chest. He goes. But not without a fight in his stance, not without looking like every step toward the door costs him blood.
Tommy stays behind long enough to look at you. His smileâs thin, a shade of what it used to be. âWhy donât you sit down, huh? Mariaâs cominâ over real soon. Sheâll take care of you.â
You donât even nod, just stare like those abandoned mannequins in the windows of clothing stores. He hesitates, looks like he wants to say something else, but doesnât.
Then he leaves. The door shuts behind them with a soft click.
You stand there for a long time, trembling, until the sound of your breathing evens out. The air still smells like alcohol and metal. You press your back to the wall, sliding down until youâre sitting on the cold wooden floorboards.
You donât cry. You just listen.
Through the crack of the door, their voices filter inâmuted, low, but heated.
âYouâre overwhelminâ her, Joel. Canât you see that?â
Joelâs voice, rough and unsteady, comes right after. âShe knows me, Tommy. Sheâshe looked at me. You saw it too. She knows me.â
âYeah,â Tommy says, dry. âDonât mean she can handle you right now.â
âI ainât some stranger, dammit! Iâm her husband. Thatâs my wife. You understand? My wife. I thought she was gone. I thoughtââ
âYou thought a lotta things, but that donât change whatâs in front of you. I get it.â
A pause. You imagine Joelâs faceâthe way he presses his lips together when heâs holding back something too big to say.
Then his voice again, lower. âYou didnât see her eyes, Tommy. I did. She remembered me. She didnât forget.â
âThatâs not how it works.â
âShe belongs with me. She should live with meâget used to things âgain, get used to me.â
âThe hell she should,â Tommy snaps. âThatâs the worst idea Iâve heard come outta your mouth, and thatâs sayinâ somethinâ.â
âWhy? Why the hell not? Yâthink I can jusââwhatâleave her sittinâ in some damn corner, pretendinâ like she didnât spend almost half her life with me?â
Tommy doesnât answer right away. The silence stretches, filled with the sound of boots shifting on wood, wind against the windows.
When he does speak, his voice is steady. ââCause sheâs scared of you, Joel.â
The words land heavy. You can feel the air change on the other side of the door.
âShe flinched when you touched her.â
Joel says nothing.
âShe damn near stopped breathinâ when you got closer,â Tommy goes on, quieter now. âAnd not âcause she donât care. Itâs âcause sheâs been out there, alone. Yâknow what that does to a person.â
Joel finally mutters something, too low to catch.
Tommy sighs. âYâthink she had folks lookinâ after her all this time? Hell, for all we know, sheâs been walkinâ âlone for years. One, two, five, tenâChrist, maybe since the whole damn thing started.â
A pause. Then Tommy again, voice soft but heavy.
âShe ainât the same person you lost. And neither are you.â
The words twist deep, where you donât want them to reach.
Eventually, you hear the floor creak againâTommyâs boots moving away, Joelâs slower behind him. The sound fades down the hallway, swallowed by the hum of your own thoughts.
You tilt your head back against the wall and stare at the ceiling light until your eyes blur.
Heâs alive.
Heâs here.
And you donât know whether to thank God or curse Him.
ââăťââ
To say youâre skittish is an understatement.
Tommy and Mariaâs house feels too clean. Too normal. Every soundâevery creak, every low murmur from the kitchenâputs your nerves on edge. You keep expecting someone to barge in and tell you to pack your things, that you donât belong here.
The curtains remain half-shut, and you sleep on top of the blanket instead of under it, because the bed is too soft. The first night, you woke up gasping, the fabric bunched around your throat, the scent of cleanliness sharp enough to make your eyes sting.
Now you avoid it altogether. You sit on the edge, knees drawn up, staring at the wooden nightstand. You run your fingers over the lamp switch. The clock. The drawer handle.
Twenty years ago, these things were nothing. Background. White noise. Now they feel like relics from a life that belonged to someone else.
Beds. Nightstands. Floors that donât creak from rot.
Hot water. Toothpaste. A door that locks from the inside.
You leave the room only the bathroom, since they bring you your food. Once, Maria knocked to tell you that there had been snow on the Christmas tree they just set up, and it was gorgeous with the lights, and you almost said yes to following her out there.
Almost.
But the second your hand touched the doorknob, something inside you froze. You mumbled an apology and stayed put.
They never complained. Not once.
Mariaâshe tries. She smiles at you when she offers you fresh bread, tea, small comforts. She has that kind of strength like sheâs seen her share of ruin and decided not to let it show. You can see why Tommy married her.
He checks your wound every couple of days, his hands steady, his voice low. âHealinâ good,â he says. âMariaâs been keepinâ the bandages clean. Youâre lucky sheâs the one runninâ the place.â
You nod. You never know what to say back.
He talks a lot, though. Tries to fill the silence with something easy. âJacksonâs different,â he tells you. âWe got systems. Rules that keep folks fed, safe. We all pitch in.â
You hum under your breath, skeptical. âSounds like a QZ,â you croak out before you can stop yourself.
Tommy chuckles, but his eyes narrow just slightly, like he knows what you mean. âAinât no QZ. No FEDRA. No soldiers. Nobody hoardinâ food. We look out for each other here.â
You study him a long time, trying to decide if you believe it. He must see the hesitation in your face, because he adds, quietly,
âI wouldnât have stayed if it wasnât what I said.â
He means it. You can tell.
Days pass. A week and a half. You fall into a rhythm, if you can call it that. You wake up, sit on the edge of the bed, watch the light crawl across the floorboards. You listen to the faint laughter that sometimes drifts from the street outside. You eat when someone leaves a plate at your door. You wait until night to move around.
Then one morning, Maria breaks it by knocking softly.
Youâre sitting on the bed, fingers picking at the loose threads of the sheets, half-lost in thought.
When she opens the door, her face is lit by that calm, unshakable smile. âGot someone who wants to see you,â she says.
Your stomach tightens. Your hands flex, unflex. âWho?â
Her smile widens, but her eyes study you carefully, gauging every twitch of your face. âA visitor.â
You nod, pushing yourself up. The floor feels uneven under your bare feet. Your heart thuds in your throat. âAlright.â
She waits in the doorway until you follow her. The house smells faintly of coffee and wood polish. You pass the family photos hanging on the wallâTommy with Maria, and beside them, a small boy with his fatherâs grin. You pause for half a second, staring.
A son. You hadnât known.
Your pulse stutters.
Mariaâs voice pulls you back. âYou doinâ okay?â
âYeah,â you lie.
Every step down the hallway feels heavier than the last. The closer you get to the living room, the louder your thoughts get. What if itâs Joel? What if he came here, decided heâd had enough of waiting? You can almost hear his voice alreadyâlow, stubborn, that Texas gravel tone saying your name.
No. You canât do that. Not yet.
Maria stops at the doorway, her hand on the frame. She glances back at you, softens her voice. âDonât worry. Sheâs kind. Sometimes.â
She.
The breath you were holding spills out, shaky and uneven.
Then you see her.
Sitting on the couch, her elbows on her knees, head down, fiddling with something in her handsâa knife, no, a pocket tool. Her hairâs brown and tamed now, no longer wild from the wind. The anger that once burned in those green eyes is gone.
It takes you a second to place her. That girl from the gas station.
Mariaâs voice is light. âEllie. I brought her.â
Right. Ellie.
She looks up then, blinking at you, and for a moment you both just stare.
Her mouth opens first. âUh⌠hey.â
You nod once, your throat too tight for words.
She clears her throat, awkwardly rubbing her palms on her jeans. âYou, uh⌠you probably donât remember me. I mean, I guess you might. Back at the station, you were kindaâŚâ She makes a vague gesture with her hands, grimacing. âYâknow. Your knife to my throat, my knife in your side, whole thing.â
âI remember.â
âOh.â She blinks too, like she wasnât expecting that. âCool.â
Maria hides a smile, stepping back toward the kitchen. âIâll let yâall talk.â
You and Ellie both look after her as she leaves, then at each other again.
The silence is prickly. Ellie shifts in her seat, taps her knee a few times, then blows out a slow breath. âI wanna⌠apologize.â
She says that last word like itâs a grater dragged across her throat.
You raise an eyebrow.
âForâuhâstickinâ you like a pig.â
Your frown comes without effort. âYou stabbed me.â
âYeah. Guess thatâs another word for it. My bad.â
You just stare at her.
She scratches at her eyebrow, mutters, âYou were sneakinâ around, and I was freaking the hell out, and I justâlook, I didnât know who you were, okay?â
Thereâs a beat of silence. Then, maybe because her discomfort is so naked, maybe because sheâs just a kid trying too hard to sound grown, you huff out something that almost sounds like a laugh.
âIâll live,â you say quietly.
She sighs, quick and relieved. âYeah, looks like it.â
Ellie seems to notice the change in your posture, how you loosen slightly, and leans back a little, studying you in that curious, unfiltered way teenagers do.
âSo,â she says, drawing out the word. âYou were⌠married to Joel?â
You stiffen. That one hits bone.
âOkay, too soon.â
You shake your head. âNo, itâsââ You pause, gathering your voice back into something flat, neutral. âYes. We were married.â
âWow.â She whistles softly. âI mean, huh. You and Joel. Thatâsââ She stops, shakes her head, smirking. âNever mind.â
âWhat?â
âNothinâ. Just. Hard to imagine him married. He kinda strikes me as the lone-wolf-and-whiskey type, yâknow?â
âHe wasnât always.â
âYeah?â
âHe liked to dance.â
That makes her laughâloud, surprised. âBullshit.â
âHe did. Badly.â
She snorts. âOkay, now I gotta see that someday.â
You donât answer. You just look down at your hands, tracing the small scar near your knuckle. A moment passes. Then she shifts again, like sheâs working up the nerve to keep going.
âSo⌠you guys got, uhâŚâ She squints. âWhatâs the wordâdivorced? Before the outbreak? You said âwere marriedâ.â
The question hits you like cold water.
âNo,â you say softly. âNo, we didnât.â
âOh.â She looks at you for a second too long, then nods slowly. âJust been a long time, huh?â
You exhale through your nose. âYeah. Long time.â
Ellie is easy in a way youâve forgotten how to be. She swears under her breath, uses her hands when she talks, doesnât know how to sit still. She reminds you of⌠you, before the world before it burned down.
You find yourself leaning forward, asking her small things. How long sheâs been with Joel. Where she came from. Whether she likes Jackson.
She answers, haltingly at first, then quicker, sharper. You learn sheâs got a sense of humor that you enjoy. You understand it.
And thenâ
Ellie hesitates. Her gaze flicks toward the window, then back to you. âYou⌠you mustâve known Sarah, then.â
The name slices through you like wire.
Sarah.
You blink, too slow, too hard.
âSarah,â you echo, the syllables thick on your tongue. âOf course I do.â You canât stop the small laugh that breaks out of youâshaky, a little too high. âGod, how did I not ask? I didnât evenâsheâs grown now, right? Almost forty. Jesus. Does sheâdoes she still paint? Or play soccer? She always had that little pink ball sheâd kick around the kitchenâdrove Joel crazy, used to leave scuff marks all over the floorââ
You stop. Because Ellie isnât smiling.
Sheâs staring at you.
And her whole face has gone still.
âOh.â
Just that.
And you know.
Instantly.
Your mouth opens, but no words come. The world seems to narrow, sound folding in on itself. You canât feel your hands. You canât feel anything.
âNo,â you whisper, but itâs barely a sound. âNo. Not Sarah.â
Ellie doesnât move. Doesnât breathe. Just watches you, stricken.
You shake your head, your body already rejecting it, like maybe if you move fast enough, you can outpace the truth. âNo, sheâsheâs just a kid. She isâsheââ
You donât finish. The words choke, collapse.
Something inside you caves in slow motion. The air leaves the room, the floor vanishes. You sink to your knees before you even realize youâve moved.
You see Sarahâs hair, the way it stuck to her forehead when she ran. Her laugh. The way she used to look at Joel. The way she looked at you. The smell of pancakes on Sunday mornings. Her tiny hand tugging at yours when she wanted to show you something sheâd drawn.
Gone. Forever fourteen.
Gone twenty years ago, while you were out there convincing yourself it wasnât true.
You cover your mouth with both hands. The sound that breaks out of you isnât humanâitâs raw, keening, dragged from the deepest part of you that never healed.
Ellieâs eyes are wide. She moves before she thinks, kneeling beside you, uncertain, awkward. âHey, hey, Iâmâshit, Iâm sorry, I didnâtââ
You stumble backward, your legs barely obeying you. The room is too bright, too close. Ellieâs voice is muffled, like itâs coming from underwater. You donât even hear what sheâs saying anymore. You can only hear Sarah. Sarah laughing. Sarah crying. Sarahâs voice calling for you in the dark.
Your throat closes. You canât breathe. You canât see.
âSheâs gone,â you whisper to no one. âSheâs gone. Sarahâs gone.â
Maria appears in front of you, gentle hands hovering but not touching. âHeyâhey, slow down. Itâs okay. Youâre safe, you hear me?â
You shake your head. âNo. No, Iâsheââ You choke, your chest collapsing under invisible weight. âSheâs just a kid. Sheâshe calls meâshe calls me mamaââ
Mariaâs eyes soften, and thatâs worse. You canât bear it. Her pity feels like fire.
You hear Tommyâs boots pounding against the floor, his voice low but urgent. âWhat happened?â
Ellieâs voice, trembling. âIâI told her about Sarah.â
Maria glances over her shoulder, and Tommy growls. âChrist almighty.â He doesnât look at you for longâmaybe he canât.
You hear Tommy leave with a string of curses, his boots thumping until he disappeared into the snow.
You press your palms over your face, rocking slightly. The room feels like itâs tilting. Every breath comes in sharp bursts, tearing your lungs.
âSheâs gone,â you whisper, voice trembling. âSheâs gone, and I didnâtââ
Your breath shudders out of you, and you clutch at the wall like it might hold you up.
Maria glances toward Ellie, and something passes silently between themâunderstanding, guilt, something like fear. Tommy curses quietly under his breath. âIâll get him,â he says, and heâs gone before Maria can stop him.
Your voice breaks. You press your hands over your face, curling inward. âI wasnât there,â you whisper. âI wasnât there.â
Mariaâs hand hovers near your shoulder, then pulls back. She looks helpless.
A soundâheavy boots, the door opening. You donât have to look up. You know that sound. You could find it in a storm.
Joelâs frozen in the doorway, chest heaving. His eyes land on you. You see the recognition hit him like a hammer.
âDarlinâ,â he breathes, his voice hoarse, wrecked.
You shake your head, stepping back.
He doesnât listen. He never did. In three long strides heâs kneeling in front of you, hands hovering before settling on your shoulders. His touch is rough, too warm.
âDonâtâdonât touch meââ You push at him weakly. âSheâs gone, Joel. Sheâs gone.â
He pulls you into his chest anyway, his arms tight around you as you struggle. âI know,â he says, his voice low, shaking. âI know, baby, I know.â
You pound your fists against him, but the strengthâs gone from your body. âYou donâtââ
âI do,â he cuts in, desperate. âI do.â
You stop fighting. His arms hold steady, the kind of hold that used to calm you down. You can feel the tremor in his hands, the way he keeps his face buried in your hair.
âSheâs gone,â you whisper, smaller now. âOur girl. Sheââ
He doesnât let you finish. He shifts, lifting you the best he can, one arm under your knees, the other at your back. You cling to his shirt on instinct, your body shaking as he carries you down the hallway. You can barely see through the blur of tears.
Joel shoulders the door to your room open and nudges it shut behind him with his boot.
He sets you down gently on the bed, but you push yourself away the moment your feet touch the floor. You back up, hands shaking, your breath sharp and uneven. âDonâtâdonât do that,â you rasp.
He goes quiet. The silence stretches. You can hear the whoosh of snow starting against the window.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low. âYou wanna know what happened?â
You donât answer, but he tells you anyway.
He talks like a man digging up a grave. His words come in fragmentsâhim and Sarah on the couch, the sirens, the Alders, Tommyâs truck, the soldiers, the gun. His voice falters only once, when he says her name.
â\We were tryinâ to get out. Got stopped by a soldier. They told himâtold him to take us down. I was holdinâ her when he fired.â He swallows hard, eyes shining wet. âShe was scared. Cryinâ. I told her I had her. That I wasnât gonna let go.â
You stare at him, unmoving. Every breath feels like swallowing glass. âYou held her,â you say, the words barely forming. âYouââ
âI didnât know what else to do,â he murmurs. âI couldnât stop it. Couldnâtââ His voice breaks, and he turns his head, like looking at you hurts.
You sit on the edge of the bed, shaking. The words echo in your skull, each one heavier than the last. The room feels too small, the air too thick.
You look at him. His hands hang useless at his sides, his face drawn, hollow. You think of all the years he carried that weight alone. How you carried your own.
You reach out.
He hesitates, then closes the distance, kneeling in front of you again. You rest your head against his chest, the fabric of his shirt damp from your tears. His arms come around you, slow and sure.
You cry until you canât anymoreâquietly, your hands fisted in his shirt. He doesnât tell you to stop. He doesnât move to fix it.
Now itâs just the two of you again. Broken. Breathing. Holding on because thereâs nothing else left to do.
ââăť âŁăťââ
Joel didnât give Tommy a choice to get you to move in with him.
He showed up the next day, the expression on his face enough to silence any argument before it began. Tommy stood there on the porch trying to say something that wouldnât get his head bitten off. But when he looked at youâeyes blank, body barely holding itself uprightâhe just sighed, nodded once, and stepped aside.
The guest bedroom smelled faintly of cedar and dust, and cleaner than it shouldâve beenâlike heâd gone through it himself and made it ready before he even brought you here. You didnât thank him. You just sat down on the bed and stared at the wall until it blurred.
The first night, you cried so hard you made yourself sick. Joel stayed outside the door the whole time, boots heavy on the wood floor. He didnât come in.
By the third night, heâd moved a chair into your room and sat there while you sleptâif you could call it that.
Every memory twisted just enough to hurt. Youâd wake up gasping, and Joel would already be there, and sometimes just murmur, âYouâre alright,â though neither of you believed it.
By the end of the first week, heâd stopped pretending to sleep in his own bed. He just curled up at the foot of yours with a blanket and pillow, a quiet shadow. When you woke up sobbing, he was there. When you refused to eat, he was there, pressing a spoon into your mouth, his jaw tight with that quiet patience that looked more like punishment than care.
Never turned away when you cried from shame. Wiped your face clean. Tucked you in. Never said a word about it.
Tonight is like every one of those nights.
It starts before the sun sets. The light through the blinds looks too much like the color of fire, like the burning hospital, and something in your chest just snaps. You curl into yourself, hands gripping the blanket, and Joelâs there in a second, just coming off his patrol.
âHey,â he says softly, like you might shatter if he breathes too hard. âHey, now. Look at me.â
You donât. You canât. Youâre somewhere else entirely.
He sits on the edge of the bed, careful, slow. âYouâre safe,â he tries again. âYouâre right here, darlinâ.â
That wordâit tears something open in you. You turn your face into the pillow and sob so violently your ribs ache. Joel just sits there. Then he moves closer, kneeling beside the bed, his hands braced on the mattress.
âItâs okay,â he whispers.
But it isnât. It isnât okay.
Your voice comes out hoarse, like you havenât spoken in years. âShe was scared.â
Joel freezes.
âShe wasâshe was scared, and I wasnât there.â
He swallows hard, the sound loud in the quiet room.
âI just know it.â
His jaw flexes, and his breath stutters. For a moment, he looks like heâs going to argueâbut then he just lets out a sound thatâs almost a laugh, only itâs broken right down the middle.
Joel drags both hands down his face, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes until his knuckles go white. âI was supposed to protect her,â he chokes out. âThat was my job. My one Goddamn job, and I failed.â
Your breath catches. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his arm.
He doesnât flinch away.
âShe wasâshe was so little,â you whisper.
He nods, eyes closed. His chest rises and falls too fast. âShe was,â he breathes.
Neither of you speak for a while. You can hear the crickets outside. The faint, uneven hitch of his breathing.
When you finally speak, itâs a wish you didnât plan to say.
âI wish Ellieâs knife killed me.â
Joelâs head snaps up.
âWhat?â
You meet his eyesâreally meet them this time, even through the blur of tears. âThat knife,â you say, voice breaking. âWhen she stabbed meâI didnât think it then. But nowâŚâ Your throat locks. âIt shouldâve killed me. I canât⌠canât live in a world that took Sarah.â
He stares at you like you just reached into his chest and pulled out something heâd buried. His eyes glisten. His mouth opens, then closes again.
âDonât say that,â he rasps.
âJoelââ
âDonât,â he snaps, sharper now, voice cracking under the weight. âDonât you ever say that. You hear me?â
You flinch. His hand shoots out before he can stop himself, gripping your wrist.
âI canât lose you too,â he says, barely more than a whisper. âI canâtâI ainât strong ânough for that.â
âYou already lost me.â
âNo. No, youâre still here. Youâre breathinâ. Youâre here.â
Something inside you caves in. You donât know which one of you moves first, but suddenly heâs holding you, arms around you tight enough to hurt, his face pressed to your shoulder. His whole body trembles.
You cling back. For the first time since you moved in, you hold him just as tightly.
He leans in until your foreheads touch again, his thumb brushing over the tear tracks on your cheek. Thereâs no logic in the way he looks at youâjust devastation and recognition, like youâre both staring into the same pit and realizing youâve been standing beside each other the whole time.
He stays that way until the trembling stops, until your breathing evens out, until the room softens around the edges. Then, quietly, he moves to the foot of the bed, to settle in like always.
But this time, when you reach out, your fingers find his sleeve.
He looks up, startled at first, like heâs not sure he felt what he did. Your hand stays there, curled into the fabric, your knuckles white.
âDonât,â you whisper.
He blinks. âDonât what?â
âDonât go.â
The words come out small, almost childlike, and you hate how fragile they soundâbut theyâre true. Every piece of you feels hollow when heâs not near.
Joelâs throat works. He studies you like heâs trying to find the right answer in your face. âYou sure?â he murmurs.
You nod, but itâs shaky. He still doesnât move.
âI mean it,â he says again, voice rough. âYouâdonât gotta say things you donâtââ
âI said donât go.â
Thatâs all it takes. The bed dips when he sits beside you. You move without thinkingâyour hand on his shirt, then his chest, then his arm, like youâre checking to make sure heâs real.
He doesnât stop you. You pull him closer.
He hesitates, every muscle in him tight, like heâs fighting instinct. His hand hovers in the air for a moment before it lands gently at your waist.
You tug him down until heâs lying beside you.
You can hear his heartbeat, feel the heat of him under your fingers. The two of you are stiff at firstâtwo unfamiliar bodies trying to remember something that used to be second nature.
You donât know what youâre doing. Neither does he.
He exhales against your temple, like heâs afraid the air itself might hurt you. You breathe him in, and it feels like something old and safe and terrifying all at once.
His hand finds yours under the blanket. His thumb moves, back and forth, the smallest stroke. You donât realize youâre crying once more until he brushes one away with his knuckle.
He whispers something you canât quite catch. Maybe itâs your name. Maybe itâs hers. You donât ask. You just trace the rough line of his throat, the scars on his hand, the dip of his collarbone. He does the same, learning you by touchâyour shoulder, your hair, the hollow at the base of your throat.
Itâs clumsy, reverent, too gentle for how much it hurts.
You both crack thereâslow, like spreading a fracture through glass. Thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw, his nose skimming your cheek, your jaw. He tucks you in against his chest. You listen to his heart until it steadies.
And this new ritual continues.
Time folds in on itselfâweeks slide past like snowmelt, impossible to hold. You stop counting by days or calendars; you measure life instead by the smallest things.
The sound of boots at the door. The shape of his hand around a hammer, around a map, around the edge of your world.
By late November, youâve grown familiar to the smell of coffee, sharp and earthy. He always makes two cups, one waiting for you by the sink. You donât always drink it. Some days you only stand there, palms around the mug, letting the heat soak into your fingers until it cools.
He pretends not to watch. Sits at the table with a stack of repair notes or a half-folded map, eyes flicking up just long enough to catch you breathing. Sometimes you think heâs waiting to see if youâll join him. You rarely do.
Instead, you spend time washing dishes. Folding blankets. You cook, sometimesâonly simple things. Never what Sarah loved. Not the pancakes sheâd drown in syrup, not the chicken stew sheâd claim was âbetter than school lunch.â You canât.
The world outside turns whiter, the light shorter each day. Ellie drifts in and out of the house, mostly keeping to the garage. You learn sheâs been staying there. She has her own rhythmâfriends, her girlfriend. Itâs soft, watching her have something sweet.
Some days, Joel tries to coax you outside. Mentions the farmersâ meetings, the community dinners, the patrol schedules. You always shake your head.
âMaybe next week,â you say
He nods like he already knew. But he keeps asking.
And he keeps bringing things home. A pressed flower. A basket of foods you loved. A novel he found in the old library, the corners worn soft. He never makes a show of it. Just leaves them on the counter.
Sometimes you thank him.
Sometimes you just stare at the gift, fingertips brushing its edge, shock and disbelief running through your system.
Then one morning, the sky pale with early snowlight, you wake up to the house quiet. You move through the rooms on autopilotâbare feet against cold floors, the air sharp in your lungs.
Youâre about to shower, something youâve started looking forward to. You love the feeling of water washing away the ache, if only for a little while.
But when you open the drawer for clothesânothing. Every shirt, every pair of jeans youâve gathered from Maria and Tommy over the past few weeks is gone, tangled in the bottom of the basket. Unwashed.
You curse softly under your breath.
Passing through the kitchen, you spot a folded note on the counter. Joelâs handwritingâblocky, uneven.
Went to help at the barn.
Didnât get to the laundry yet. My bad.
You can borrow whatever of mine you need.
âJ.M.
You stare at it for a long time, thumb brushing over the edge of the paper. The thought of him doing your laundry hits you sideways. You can picture it too easily: at the sink, sleeves rolled up, that furrow between his brows.
Your face warms. You forgot heâs been the one washing your clothes. Your shirts. Your jacket. Your jeans.
Your bras.
Your panties.
God, you were married to the man for almost 15 years, yet now you were getting bashful and flushed over the fact that he was touching your underwear. You cursed your mind.
The note ends with a postscript, scribbled small:
Stay warm. Water heaterâs touchy againâlet it run first.
You let out a quiet, reluctant smile.
You take a shower. The water sputters and steams, hot enough to sting. You stand under it longer than you should, until the mirror fogs and your skin glows.
When you step out, the air bites against your damp hair. You wrap yourself in a towel and pad barefoot to his bedroom. The floorboards creak like they recognize you. The dresser drawers are stiff; they donât like being opened. You rummage through the top one, the smell hitting you before your fingers even find itâcedar and faint tobacco.
Soft flannel. His.
You pause, thumb running over the collar, the worn edges. You havenât worn Joelâs clothes in yearsâa whole lifetime has happened since. But the muscle memory is still there; you remember exactly how the fabric has been mended to shape.
You hesitate anyway.
âJesus,â you whisper to no one. âYouâre ridiculous.â
You slip it on.
The sleeves hang long, brushing your wrists, the fabric rough. It still smells like him, even washed. You close your eyes and breathe, until it almost hurts.
And suddenly youâre back there. In that other life.
The early mornings. The arguments about stupid shit. The way heâd leave his boots by the door and say, âIâll get âem later,â and youâd roll your eyes and pick them up yourself. The nights when heâd come home late, exhausted and half-awake, and still manage to find you in the dark.
You donât mean to move, but you doâbackward, step by step, until your knees hit the edge of the bed. His bed. You fall onto it, the mattress giving beneath you. You press your face deeper into his pillow, chasing that comfort.
âGoddamn you,â you whisper into the cotton.
But what you mean is thank you.
Itâs like being wrapped in him. And God, youâre terrified of what it means. Not of himânever of himâbut of this. Of the way he lingers in everything.
He lingered on everything. Your soul, your life, your heart. Your body on those cold winter nights, him between your in a way only a lover knows how. Your body as you pinched and stroked you to ecstasy like it was his sole purpose.
Your breath hitches, and your fingers twitch against the fabric. You shouldnât. You wonât. Youâre stronger than thisâor so you tell yourself. But your resolve frays like threadbare cloth.
Your hand moves before you can stop it, tentative at first, grazing the hem of his flannel. A shiver runs through you, sharp and electric.
No, you think, biting your lip hard enough to sting. Donât do this.
But his voice echoes in your mind, soft and teasing, unraveling you.
Câmon, darlinâ. Let go for me.
Youâre lost in him, in this need whispered against your skin.
Your hand drifts lower, fingertips grazing the skin just above your knee. The touch is feather-light, testing.
You part your thighs, with cool air kissing your slick heat; youâre already drenched. Whenâs the last time you let yourself feel this? Years, maybe. Survival doesnât leave room for want.
You slide through your folds, parting them, circling the swollen ache that built so quickly, just off his smell.
Please, Joel. Touch me. Iâve been so cold.
One finger slips inside, then another. The stretch is perfect, but not enough. You curl them, searching, and when you find that spot, your breath stumbles out in a broken moan.
You take me so good, baby. Always have.
You nod against the fabric, and then hastily pull the buttons undone down to your navel, and you push one side aside with trembling fingers.
Your breast spills freeâflushed, nipple peaked tight. You cup it, thumb flicking with your nail once, twice, then pinching hard enough to make your breath hitch. The sting shoots straight to your cunt. You roll the nipple between finger and thumb, tugging until your back lifts off the mattress.
You move your head to the side, the collar in front of your nose, and you stay inhaling him while you fuck yourself on your fingers, deep, steady strokes that match the pulse in your ears.
The rhythm turns frantic. Wet sounds fill the small space, obscene and perfect. You add a third finger; the burn is exquisite. You imagine his weight pinning you down, hips snapping, voice rough in your ear.
You want me to come in the pussy I put a ring on?
You come with a muffled cry, body shuddering. Your walls clamp down, thighs trembling. Pleasure crashes in sharp, endless waves, your fingers still buried deep, slick coating your hand and the inside of your thighs.
The world narrows to the pulse of your heartbeat, the ragged rhythm of your gasps. Slowly, the waves ebb, leaving you trembling in their wake. Your hand falls away, slick and heavy, resting against your exposed breast. You donât move to cover yourself.
The room is quiet again, save for the soft creak of the bedframe beneath your weight and the faint chirping of morning birds.
Your chest heaves, each breath a struggle. Staring at the ceiling, your eyes tracing the cracks as your mind catches up to your body. The pleasure lingers, but itâs drowned by the slow creep of something else.
Guilt, maybe.
You close your eyes, willing the thought away, but it lingers like the scent on the pillow, like your next thought:
You might be falling in love with your husband again.
ââăť âŁăťââ
He was early.
You spotted him through the restaurant window, standing under the awning with one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other rubbing along his jaw. He looked⌠nervous. The sight did something funny to your stomach, seeing this broad, quiet man fidgeting like a teenager on prom night.
When he caught sight of you walking toward him, he straightened so fast it almost made you laugh. His hand dropped from his face, and a faint, almost shy smile tugged at his mouth.
âHey,â he said, voice low and rough, that easy southern drawl curling around the word. âYou lookâuh. Nice.â
You smiled. âYou too.â
He was wearing his usualâplaid shirt, denim jacket, jeansâbut somehow it worked differently tonight. Maybe it was the effort. The way his hair was combed down, neat but still a little messy near the edges, or the fact that his boots looked like heâd actually wiped them off before coming.
The hostess seated you near the window. The two of you sat across from each other, menus up like shields, both pretending to read while you waited for the other to speak first.
âSo,â Joel started after a few moments, clearing his throat. âUhââ
You looked up. âUh?â
âI should probably jusââjusâ say this upfront.â
You set your menu down, a small smile forming. âOkay.â
He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping against the table once before curling into a fist. âI got a kid,â he blurted. âHer nameâs Sarah. Sheâs one. Almost two.â
He paused, eyes flicking between you and the salt shaker.
âSheâs⌠well, sheâs my whole damn world. I jusâ donât wanna waste anyoneâs time pretendinâ otherwise.â
He said it like he was bracing for a hit. His shoulders were stiff, jaw tight. You could tell it wasnât something he said oftenâprobably something he practiced in his head on the way here.
âYou love her.â
He let out a breath, softer than a sigh. âYeah. Moreân I thought I could love anythinâ, to be honest. Itâs jusâ been me and her sinceâwell, since birth.â His lips twitched, almost a smile. âSo thatâs kinda my life. I work, I come home, I make sure she eats somethinâ other than pancakes, and I pass out by nine. Not real excitinâ.â
You grinned. âYou sound like a good dad.â
That stopped him. He blinked, mouth opening like he didnât quite know what to do with the words. âYou ainâtâuhâyouâre not scared off?â
âBy a good dad?â you teased. âNo. I think thatâs actually kind of attractive.â
His ears went a little pink. He looked down, rubbed the back of his neck. âWell,â he murmured. âThatâs a first.â
After that, the tension broke.
You asked him about his workâhow long heâd been building housesâand his face lit up when he talked about it. He told you about learning carpentry, working with his brother Tommy. You told him about your job, about the people you worked with, the work politics heâd probably hate.
And then somehow the conversation drifted back to Sarah.
âSheâs wild,â Joel said, shaking his head with a fond smile. âGot more attitude than I do. Last week she told Tommy he was âtoo oldâ to play hide and seek.â
You laughed, and he grinned wider, encouraged.
âSheâs obsessed with dinosaurs right now. Keeps askinâ me if thereâs any still walkinâ âround Texas. I told her, no, but she says maybe thereâs one hidinâ in the Hill Country.â
âShe sounds smart.â
âToo damn smart, sometimes.â He took a sip of water, then added in a quieter voice, âHer mamaâwell. She ainât âround. So Iâm jusâ tryinâ to figure it out best I can.â
You didnât press. You just nodded, the silence that followed soft.
Between courses, you caught him watching you once or twiceâquick, flickering glances that he pretended didnât happen when you met his eyes. He asked if your food was good, made a few jokes about the size of the portions, grumbled when the waiter brought him a fancy small plate that âwouldnât fill a bird.â
It was nice. Simple.
By the time the check came, you felt lighter. The awkwardness from the start had melted into something easy, something warm. You tried to grab for your wallet, but Joel was faster, already sliding his card onto the tray.
âJoelââ
âNope.â
âCâmon, at least let meââ
âDarlinâ, donât even try.â
You stared at him, fighting a smile. âDarlinâ?â
He froze, caught off guard by his own mouth. âOh. Uhâslipped out. Sorry.â
You laughed. âDonât be.â
He looked down at his plate, hiding a grin.
When you stepped outside, the night was cool and damp. Streetlights hummed overhead, and the air smelled like rain waiting to happen. Joel walked beside you, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, close enough that your sleeve brushed his once or twice.
At your front door, he stopped.
âWell,â he said, clearing his throat. âI had a lotta fun tonight. Really did.â
âMe too.â
He shifted, eyes darting between you and the porch light. âIf you wanna⌠maybeâI donât knowâkeep goinâ. Not tonight, I meanâwell, maybe tonight, but not like thatâjusâ⌠I mean, if you wanna see me âgain.â
You tried, you really did, but the laugh bubbled out anyway again. He went red to the ears.
âSorry,â you said between breaths. âYouâre justââ
âTerrible at this?â
âAdorable,â you corrected.
âAinât heard that one âfore.â
You stepped closer, your voice quieter. âThen I guess you were overdue.â
And before he could come up with another flustered thing to say, you leaned up and kissed him.
It was gentle, brief, testing. His breath hitched, the soft scratch of his stubble grazing your chin. But then he kissed you back, slow and certain.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were smiling without meaning to.
âYou wanna come inside?â you asked, barely above a whisper.
He hesitated, mouth curving into something between a grin and a question. âSarahâs with Tommy.â
You blinked, and shook your head at your mind. âRight. So you should probablyââ
âIâll jusâ pay him more,â he said quickly, like it was the easiest decision in the world.
That made you laugh. âYou sure?â
He looked at you, really looked at you, eyes soft and steady. âYeah. Iâm sure.â
You stepped back, opened the door. He followed you in.
The click of the lock behind you sounded louder than it should have. The rain started to fall outside, soft against the windows.
And that, was the start of it all.
ââăť âŁăťââ
Lights wind around the lampposts, glowing gold through the frost, and you swear the whole town smells faintly of cinnamon and pine.
The crowds gathered around the treeâfamilies, couples, kids running around with half-eaten cookies and sticky fingers. The fire pit crackles, throwing warmth into the cold night. You stand beside Tommy, watching Maria up on the platform giving a short speech about community, about making it through another winter together.
Tommyâs got Benji in his arms. The kidâs nodding off, head tucked under his chin, thumb hanging loose from his mouth. His curls are sticking up in every direction.
You lean a little closer, smile softly. âHeâs about two minutes from a faceplant.â
Tommy grins, voice low so he doesnât wake the boy. âYeah, heâs a fighter though. Ainât givinâ in easy.â
Benji stirs, blinking up at you with heavy-lidded eyes. You offer your arms without thinking. âWant me to take him?â
Tommy looks between you and the sleepy kid, then chuckles. âHey, bud, wanna go over to Aunt, huh?â
Aunt. Youâre not even sure he realizes he said it until your throat tightens. You just nod, arms open, and Benji reaches for you without hesitation.
Heâs warm and smells like sugar. His little hand curls into your jacket as his head droops against your shoulder. You sway a little, rocking him out of habit you thought youâd forgotten.
Tommy watches, something soft flickering in his expression. âYou always were good with kids,â he says.
You smile, brushing a curl from Benjiâs forehead. âGuess itâs like riding a bike.â
âYeah,â Tommy murmurs. âOne hell of a bike.â
You donât respond. Your eyes trace the curve of Benjiâs lashes, the faint freckles under his eyes. Heâs got that same Miller lookâthose brown eyes, that furrow even when heâs half-asleep. Youâve seen it in Tommy. In Joel. In Sarah.
Your chest tightens. You look away before Tommy can see the wet shine starting in your eyes.
Mariaâs speech winds down, her voice softening into a smile. The crowd claps. Maria steps off the platform, her eyes finding Tommy and Benji immediately.
âThereâs my boys,â she says, coming over.
She holds her arms out for Benji. He mumbles something sleepy, reaching one hand back toward you before his head falls against Mariaâs shoulder.
âOut cold,â she whispers, smiling.
You nod, hands feeling strangely empty once heâs gone.
The music starts againâa few people strumming guitars, someone singing off-key but earnest. Around you, people start exchanging small, wrapped gifts. Youâd almost forgotten you brought yours.
âHey,â you murmur, reaching into your coat pocket and pulling out the little parcel. âThis is for Benji.â
Tommy takes it, grinning as he peels back the paper. Inside is a tiny carved horse, the wood polished smooth, the details carefulâeach line of the mane precise. You spent weeks finding it, trading with an older man in the workshop whoâd carved it by hand.
âLook at this,â Tommy says, awe threading through his voice. âYou serious? You got this for him?â
You shrug, a little bashful. âHeâs obsessed with the ones you keep in the barn. Figured he needed one he can keep in his pocket.â
Maria smiles, kissing her sonâs temple. âHeâs gonna love it.â
You hand her two more small bundlesâone for each of them. A new leather glove set for Tommy, stitched tight and warm. A scarf for Maria, deep green, softer as anything youâve felt in years.
Tommy whistles low. âYou didnât have toââ
âI wanted to.â
They glance at each other. That wordless kind of look. Then Maria reaches behind her coat and pulls out a square, neatly wrapped in cloth.
âThis oneâs from us.â
âYou didnâtââ
âJusâ open it,â he says, voice low.
The paper rustles softly. You fold it back, careful with the corners. Then your breath catches.
Itâs a photo.
A real, glossy photo in a simple wooden frame. The edges yellowed with age but the image clear.
You and Joelâboth asleep, tangled up on a sunlit porch. His arm draped across your waist. Your head resting against his chest. Sarahâs in the background, hands on her hips, grinning at the camera like sheâs in on a secret. And in the far corner, barely visible in the reflection, a familiar shadowâTommy, holding the camera.
Your throat closes.
You trace the edge of the frame with your thumb. âTommy⌠howââ
âAfter the outbreak,â he says quietly, staring into the fire instead of at you. âFirst couple years. Went back to Austin. Most of it was gone, but the photo box was still there. Been keepinâ it safe.â
You donât realize youâre crying until the tears blur the image in your hands. You blink fast, but it doesnât stop the ache building in your chest.
âI thought they were all gone,â you whisper.
Tommy shrugs, smiling a little.
You step forward and hug him. Tight. Your arms around his shoulders, the photo pressed between you so you donât drop it. He hesitates, then holds you back just as firmly.
Maria watches with a soft smile, Benji sleeping peacefully against her.
You pull back eventually, eyes red, voice rough. âThank you,â you murmur.
Tommyâs face is all soft lines. âGo eat. You look like youâll fall into the fire otherwise.â He grins and gestures toward the Tipsy Bison like heâs offering you heaven on a platter.
It smells like cinnamon and cheap liquor and something toasted that turns your stomach into guilty wanting. You thread through people, keeping the picture safe against your ribs. The crowd moves slow; laughter spills from somewhere, and someone is playing the guitar off-key and everyone loves it anyway.
A man steps in front of youâtoo close, his breath warm with old-cologne regret. Heâs around your age, maybe a decade younger if you squint, wearing a patched jacket and confidence like itâs a badge.
âYou lookinâ lonely,â he says, grin crooked. âMind if Iââ
âIâm not,â you say. Your smile is small and final. You tuck the word away and step to the side to keep the crowd moving. You make it to the bar, and order your drink. It comes quickly.
He doesnât take the hint, following you. âCome on, lighten up. Iâve got a bottle with your name on it.â
âNot interested,â you say, firmer. The drink in your hand clinks. You can feel the edges of the photo under your palm like a talisman.
He laughs like youâre the joke. âSomeoneâs touchy. You look like you could use a good time.â
âOr maybe you could use a lesson,â you say. âEither way, back off.â
People nearby glance. A woman in a knitted hat gives you a sympathetic look; a boy laughs and points. The manâs jaw tightens. He takes a step closer until his fingers brush your arm.
âDonât,â you say. Loud enough now. Heads turn.
He bends, leans in. âI saidââ
You lift the cup and pour. The liquor arcs, wet and immediate, over his face. His hair plastered flat, his mouth opens in surprise, then anger.
âJesusââ he spits, hand flying to his face. His laugh is gone. He wipes at his eyes, fury hot and immediate.
âDonât touch me,â you snap. âDonât touch any woman who doesnât want it. Fuck off asshole.â
He glares at you, anger thick enough to taste.
The he moves.
Your body reacts before your brain: the shove, the pressure of a palm against his chest to put distance between you and the hand that hovered too long. Something clamps down on your neckâhardâand cold fingers braided through your hair. Pain flares hot along your scalp as he pulls. Instinct roars, everything narrowing to the shape of the manâs face.
You twist, ready to break his nose, but you doesnât get the chance.
A blur of motionâthen the manâs body jerks sideways. He hits the ground hard, air leaving him in a grunt.
You stumble away from the sudden relief of pressure on your head. You cradle it, and look over your shoulder with harsh breaths.
Joelâs there.
Not the quiet Joel. Not the âcoffee in the morningâ Joel. Not the Joel who sleeps in your bed, holding you tight. This is something else. A version of him pulled straight out of the man you met at the gas stationâferal and unfiltered. His chest heaves once before he moves again, towering over the man.
âGet your fuckinâ hands off my wife!â
The words tear out of him, raw, louder than the music, louder than the people shouting. And then heâs on him.
Fists. Over and over. Flesh hitting flesh, the sound thick and wet. Someone screams his name.
Joel doesnât hear. Heâs somewhere else: lost to the sound of his own heartbeat, to the cruelty of a world that took too much from him and dared to reach for you.
âJoel!â you shout, pushing through the people trying to pull him off. âJoel, stop!â
He doesnât.
You grab his shoulder, hard, nails digging into the fabric of his jacket.
That gets him. His fist hangs midair, knuckles split, breath ragged. He turns. His eyesâtheyâre wild. Like he doesnât even recognize where he is.
Then he sees you.
The rage drains fast, leaving him pale. His hands fall. He looks down at the man beneath him, half-conscious, face bleeding into the floor. The silence that follows is brutal. Everyoneâs staring. No one moves.
Joelâs chest rises and falls, too fast. Then he stands, his handsâbloodied and shakingâon your face.
âHey. Hey, look at me. You okay?â His voice cracks halfway through, the old, broken edge of it cutting through everything else. His thumbs brush your cheeks, leaving streaks of red. âHe hurt you? Tell me if he did.â
You shake your head, swallowing hard. Youâre fine. You were fine. You always were.
He growls something at your lack of words, looking around the crowd before tucking you against his side and his hand steady at your back. You can hear the crowd murmuring, whispers darting like fish through water.
Exiting the Tipsy Bison, you spot Tommyâs face through the hazeâbrows drawn, mouth tight. Mariaâs beside him, arms crossed, listening to someone whisper in her ear. Her expression doesnât change.
You hold your photo tighter. You stare straight ahead, past the people, past the lights.
The fear comes slow.
Maybe Joel did love you once. Maybe he still did. But you canât stop thinking about what love costs now. What it demands.
He doesnât speak until youâre well past the town square, the noise fading behind you. The snow crunches under your boots, slow and steady, the kind of silence that feels heavier than shouting.
Then you pull away.
âStop,â you say.
He does, immediately. Turns to you in the middle of the empty street, breath clouding in the cold. Snow gathers in his beard, catches on his lashes. He looks older like thisâsofter really, though the blood on his hands hasnât dried yet.
âIâm sorry,â he says quietly. âIf I scared you. I didnât mean to. Iâmâso sorry, darlinâ.â
You shake your head, words shaking with your breath. âNo. Itâs not that. I justââ You press a hand to your chest. âI canât do this anymore.â
His brow furrows. âCanât do what?â
âThis,â you say. You motion between you, your voice thin. âYou. Me. The way youâlook at me like Iâm stillâŚâ You stop, shaking your head. âLike weâre still the same people.â
He steps closer, hand half-raised, hesitant. âWhat are you talkinâ about?â
âYou scare me, Joel.â
The words hang there, suspended. You can see the way they hit him, like a punch he doesnât block.
He blinks. âWhat?â
âYou scare me,â you repeat, quieter now. âNot because of what you did. But because you think you owe it to me. Like Iâm still yours.â
âYou are mine.â
You close your eyes. The snowâs starting to fall harder, catching on your lashes. âThatâs exactly what I mean.â
He shakes his head, steps forward again, pleading. âI didnât mean to lose control. I jusââhe touched you, and I saw red. I couldnâtâhell, I ainât proud of it, but Iâd do it âgain if it meantââ
âJoel.â You interrupt, firm. âJust stop.â
He freezes mid-sentence, mouth still open like the air left him.
You take a step back. Then another. âYou keep saying youâre sorry, but youâre not. Youâre still justifying it. You think itâs love, but itâs not. Itâs fear. Itâs control. You think if you hold on tight enough, you wonât lose me again.â
His chest rises and falls, ragged. âYou donât understandââ
âYou were my husband,â you say, your voice shaking now. âYou were the best thing I had. And then the world ended, and I lost you. I learned to live without you. To fight. To protect myself. And nowânow youâre back, and I donât know how to breathe with you around, yet at the same time I canât. You smother me, Joel.â
âI ainât tryinâ to smother you, Iâm tryinâ to keep you alive.â
âI donât need you to keep me alive,â you fire back. âI already did that for twenty years without you.â
He takes a step closer, voice breaking. âI donât know how to not care âbout you. You understand? I donât know how to turn that off. Iâve already lost everythinâ once, I canâtââ
âBut you arenât my husband anymore.â
He stops cold.
The snow falls thicker now, lazy flakes settling in his hair, catching in his lashes. His breath comes out uneven, fogging the air between you. He looks at you like heâs trying to recognize a face in a dreamâone that keeps slipping away every time he blinks.
âNo.â
âJoelââ
âNo.â He shakes his head hard, eyes wide, something wild behind them. âDonât say that. Donâtâdonât do that to me.â
You step forward, voice soft. âJoel, listen to meââ
âYou donât get to just say that like itâs some Goddamn fact. Like it ainâtââ He cuts himself off, running a hand down his face, the motion trembling. âYâthink I can jusâ stop beinâ your husband âcause the world went to shit?â
You feel your throat close. âThatâs not what Iââ
ââCause I never stopped.â His voice cracks, raw and broken. âNot for one second. Every day, Iââ He presses a fist against his chest, like heâs trying to hold something in. âI woke up, and I thought of you. I went to sleep thinkinâ of you. When I sawâwhen I saw EllieâI thought, âyouâd like her,â because I stillâstill thought about what youâd like.â
âJoelâŚâ
Heâs breathing hard now, his voice shaking. âYâthink I donât know what I am? What Iâve done? Yâthink I donât hate myself every time I look in the mirror? But I neverââ He stops. His jaw clenches, and then, in a shaky motion, he reaches for the zipper of his coat.
âDonâtâstopââ
But heâs already pulling it open, shoving the heavy fabric aside. His fingers dig under his flannel, and when something comes out, something holding on a thin chain.
The moonlight catches it. A dull glint of gold. A wedding band, pressed against his chest like a second heartbeat.
You go still.
Your throat burns, but no sound comes out.
âI didnât wear it for twenty-somethinâ years, carried it âround in my pocket,â he says hoarsely. His eyes glisten, fixed on yours. âCouldnât. Didnât feel right. But when I found you âgain, when Iâwhen I saw youââ His hand trembles as he grips the ring. âI started wearinâ it âgain.â
You stare at him, lips parting, chest heaving with too many emotions at once.
âI thought of you every day,â he says, voice rough as gravel. âBeat myself bloody over losinâ you and Sarah. Over not savinâ you. And now you stand here and tell me I ainât your husband.â His voice cracks. âHow the hell am I supposed to live with that?â
You want to speak. You want to tell him that this isnât fair. But when you open your mouth, nothing comes out.
Because your hands are already moving.
You reach up, fingers shaking, fumbling at your collar. The chain catches against your skin as you pull it free, and the air leaves your lungs when you pull our your own glint of gold.
Joelâs breath stutters. He takes a half step forward, like heâs afraid itâll disappear if he gets too close. His lips part, trembling.
âYou⌠you didnât have it, when you left. How did youââ
âI couldnât let it go.â
He makes a soundâhalf sob, half gaspâand suddenly heâs moving.
The distance between you collapses in a heartbeat. His arms are around you before you can breathe, before you can think, and then youâre both crashing together like youâve been pulled by the same gravity. His mouth finds yours, desperate, broken, and you respond just as fiercely, clinging to him like heâs the only thing holding you upright.
The picture slips from your hand, falling face-down into the snow. You donât even notice.
You taste saltâtears, his or yours, you canât tell. His hands are in your hair, on your back, clutching, trembling. Yours are pressed to his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat under your palms, the metal of the ring chain warm against your fingers.
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling in the freezing air.
âPlease,â he mutters against your lips, his voice trembling like the rest of him. âDonâtâdonât go.â
âNo,â you whisper back, voice rough, almost lost in the wind. âIâm not going anywhere.â
He chokes again, pulling the picture from the snow with shaking hands. His eyes go wide and hollow for a second, taking in what it is, before the sound escapes himâlow, guttural, broken.
âCâmon,â he says hoarsely, tugging you toward him. âLetâs go⌠home.â
âOkay.â
He pulls you in close again as he guides you down the snow-lined street toward home. Rancher Street comes into view, quiet and empty, the glow of porch lights soft against the dark.
Inside, the house smells faintly of woodsmoke and something sweet. You see light spilling from the garage; Ellieâs there.
Joel sets the picture frame down gently on the entry table, reverent almost, before his attention snaps back to you. He steps forward, pressing you harshly against him again. A kiss, long and desperate, his hands clutching at your arms, your shoulders, like heâs relearning your weight against his.
You reach to his side, and he lets out a sharp wince against your lips. He curses softly, half-grunt, half-groan. âJoelââ you start, moving to check, but he shakes his head.
âDonât care. Keep goinâ,â he insists.
He leans in again, brushing against your lips, but you step back, firm. âNo. Joel, câmon. Sit.â
He huffs, muttering, but follows your gesture, settling onto the couch where you point. You rush to the kitchen, retrieving the small medical kit you know is there. When you return, heâs already watching you, breathing a little faster, eyes shadowed with something between exhaustion and longing.
âTake it off,â you instruct softly.
He frowns but complies without argument, peeling off the heavy winter coat, then the flannel, then the shirt beneath. Now bare to the waist, heâs different. The chest beneath your hands is broad, scarred, marked by years you donât need to ask about. Hair dusts his shoulders and chest. His wedding band glints at the center, catching the firelight.
Your fingers move to the red mark forming along his ribs. You hiss softly, careful, cleaning and pressing gently. He leans into you, eyes closed, letting the quiet comfort of your care anchor him.
âYou need to be careful. You arenât young anymore, canât heal at the same rate. We can only hope that it just stays a bruise and not something really bad.â
He doesnât answer with words, just tilts his head, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. Then, without thinking, his hand brushes a strand of hair back from your face.
You feel it deep in your chest. The brush of his fingers lingers longer than necessary, a gentle weight that makes your pulse catch.
You can tell heâs unsure what to say, and for once, itâs the same for you. Just the storm, the couch, the soft clink of mugs.
Joelâs thumb traces along your jaw, quiet, careful. Heâs watching you, and it makes your chest ache.
âI canât believe youâre really here,â you finally whisper, voice soft, almost swallowed by the roar of the snow.
You shift closer, letting your forehead rest against his. Thereâs something in the way he exhales, a tension youâve both been holding for months, released in the brush of skin to skin.
Thereâs a beat of silence, and then another. Neither of you moves. The room shrinks until itâs just you, him, and the heat simmering between your bodies.
You finally tilt your head up, catching his eyes.
Both of you know what the other wants. Words arenât needed in a relationship like yours and Joelâs.
âI⌠are you sure?â you still check. âIt might be too much. And your side might beââ
âDarlinâ.â
âYes?â
He leans up to press a quick kiss to your temple. âStop talkinâ.â
You smile just a fraction. He drags you down to be on the couch with him. Then, slower than you expect compared to before, he lowers his head, lips brushing yoursâsoft, tentative.
Your body responds instantly. Your hands roam from his back to your chest. He moans softly, lips parting, teeth grazing, tongues brushing, and you taste him like youâd dreamed of for countless nights.
Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he responds in kind, his grip firm on your waist, his body pressing into yours.
The kiss turns into a tug-of-war, pull and counter-pull, lips and hands claiming, taking, giving in equal measure.
In the midst of it, you find yourself on his lap, heart pounding. Itâs been years since youâve experienced anything like this, and your body recalls only fragments.
Your cheeks flush, and you give him a shy, light peck on the lips.
Joel pauses briefly, pulling back just enough to study your face with concern and intensity. âHey⌠are you âkay?â he asks, his voice low and gentle.
âIâm fine,â you reply, slightly breathless, hands resting on his shoulders. âItâs just⌠been a while.â
His lips curve into a small, crooked smile. âYouâre ainât alone in that.â
Relief washes over you, comforting you like a warm blanket.
Joelâs hands steady your hips, guiding you as you press against him. Your hips move together, a desperate rhythm. The couch creaks faintly beneath you, but neither of you notices.
Your hands slide up to his neck, fingers threading into the hair at his nape, and he lets out a low, shuddering breath. His eyes darken, watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.
âGoddamn,â he breathes, almost to himself, his voice rough with awe. âLook at you.â
You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, but thereâs no room for embarrassment. The rhythm slows, and he leans back and before you can process it, heâs easing you off his lap, guiding you to lie back.
He kneels between your legs, his movements unhurried. His fingers find the hem of your jacket and shirt, and he pauses, looking to you for permission. You nod, and he peels the fabric away, exposing your skin to the cool air. His hands move to your jeans next, unbuttoning them. You lift your hips, helping him slide them off, leaving you in just your panties and bra.
Joel sits back on his heels, his eyes raking over you. He huffs out a breath, a low sound thatâs half awe, half restraint. His fingers trace a slow path over the fabric covering your slit, and you both shiver at the contact.
âFuck,â he murmurs, almost to himself. âOne thing I forgot was how pretty you looked in these. How fuckinâ⌠soft.â
You whimper, the sound escaping before you can stop it. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and his expression shifts to something almost pleading.
âTouch yourself. Wanna see.â
You hesitate for a moment, but his gaze is patient, urging you on without pressure. Slowly, you slide your fingers down, pulling your panties to the side. You touch yourself, tentative at first, moving through slick, then with more confidence as you feel his eyes on you.
Joel groans, a deep, guttural sound. His hand moves to the front of his jeans, unzipping them but not pulling them down, just enough to let his bulge sit heavy in his boxers. You swallow hard, your eyes flicking to the outline of him, your fingers faltering.
âKeep goinâ,â he murmurs, his voice strained. âNeed somethinâ pretty to watch. My cock⌠it donât work the same no more, but youââ He breaks off, his hand palming himself through the fabric. âYouâre doinâ so good.â
His words sink into you, warm and safe, fueling the fire. You circle quicker, your fingers finding a rhythm, and Joelâs breath grows uneven.
He shifts, pulling his boxers down just enough to free himself, his soft cock in his hand as he begins to stroke slowly. The sight makes your breath hitch, and you reach behind to unclasp your bra, letting it fall away. Your skin prickles under his gaze, and a flicker of insecurity creeps in.
âIâm⌠sorry,â you mumble, eyes dropping. âMy bodyâs not what it used to be.â
Joelâs hand stills, and a low growl rumbles from his chest. âGet that the fuck outta your head,â he says, his voice sharp but not unkind. âI ainât a catch, darlinâ no more. Look at meâgray hairs, creaky knees. But you? Youâre still everythinâ.â
You moan softly, emboldened, and slip a finger through your folds, the stretch drawing a shudder through your body. His gaze darkens, his strokes growing firmer as his cock hardens, springing up against his soft belly.
Without warning, Joel leans forward, his hands finding your waist. âCâmere,â he says, and before you can protest, heâs standing and pulling you up with him, and promptly bent down to put you over his shoulder with a grunt.
You gasp, your center of gravity thrown off.
âJoel, donât show off!â you say, swatting at his back.
He chuckles low, and gives your ass a smack as he climbs the stairs. âDonât matter if Iâm sixty or thirty-six, darlinâ. Iâm makinâ sure you donât lift a damn finger.â
The world tilts back to normal as he sets you down on his bed with a huff. He steps back, eyes raking over you, then lies back on the bed, his hand brushing his lips as he looks over at you.
âSit,â he says, his voice low and commanding.
Your cheeks flush, and you hesitate, glancing down at yourself. âIâm⌠Iâm too heavy,â you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.
ââGain with this? Sit, darlinâ. I ainât askinâ.â His hand reaches for yours, and the certainty in his voice pulls you past your hesitation.
You slip your soaked panties off and move to hover over his face, your thighs framing his head, your own gaze drawn to his hardened cock, now fully erect and resting against his stomach. Joelâs hands grip your hips, and with a low growl, he pulls you down, his tongue finding you with familiar skill that makes you gasp.
The heat of his mouth, the way he works you, makes you wetter than you thought possible.
Your eyes drift to his cock, and you lean forward, your breath catching as you take in the sight of him. Tentatively, you reach out, your fingers brushing against the ridges, and Joel groans against you, âKeep touchinâ me.â he mumbles into you, his voice muffled.
You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, matching the rhythm of his tongue. âYouâre so good,â you whisper, barely aware of the words spilling out. âJoel, Iââ
His hands guide your hips, urging you to move faster, and you comply, grinding harder against his mouth as your hand works him in tandem. Suddenly, a thought crosses your mind, and before you can shy away, you lean forward further, taking him into your mouth, and Joelâs hips buck slightly, a choked groan escaping him.
You hum around him, the vibration drawing another groan from deep in his chest. Pre cum fills your mouth, and you kitten lick at the tip. You can feel Joelâs thighs tense around your head, his groans against your pussy groaning.
The rhythm between you grows frantic, you sucking deep with hollow cheeks, his tongue entering and exiting.
âJoelââ you gasp, pulling back just enough to speak. âIâm closeâoh fuckâshit, shit, shit!â
He doesnât respond with words, but his tongue moves with renewed purpose, pushing you closer to the edge. The tension in your core snaps, and you come undone, a wave of pleasure crashing through you as you cry out, your body trembling against his mouth.
You ride it out, hips moving instinctively, chasing every last pulse of sensation until your breath steadies and you slump forward.
Joelâs hands are gentle now, easing you off him as he shifts beneath you. Before you can catch your breath, he flips you onto your side with a swift, the sudden change making your head spin. You laugh, breathless and a little indignant.
âJoel, you gotta stop manhandling me like that.
He chuckles, his eyes glinting with mischief, his cock pressed flush against your ass. âWhat, you donât like it?â he teases, leaning over shoulder, his hand braced on your side. âThought youâd be used to me by now.â
For a moment, neither of you speaks. Joelâs gaze locks on yours, and he moves closer, notching himself against your sopping core. This feels differentâdifferent to all the touching and kissing and sweet gestures. Like the years apart have carved out a space that only this moment can fill. .
You turn your head, looking over your shoulder, and the sight of himâhis weathered face, the gray in his stubble, the liver spots on his face, the unguarded emotion in his eyesâhits you like nothing before. Tears prick at your eyes, unbidden, and your voice trembles as you speak.
âIâve missed you.â
He groans like you stabbed him.
â...I love you.â
He lets out a sound thatâs half pleasure, half pain, and pushes into you slowly, filling you with a tenderness. âI love you too,â he says, his voice rough with emotion, cracking slightly on the words. âAlways have. Always fuckinâ will.â
Your lips meet over your shoulder, the kiss sloppy and desperate, but neither of you cares. Itâs love, pouring into every messy press of lips, every shared breath.
His hands find yours, fingers lacing together, grounding you as he moves, slow and deep, each thrust a reclamation of what youâve both lost.
His forehead rests against your shoulder, and you feel the tremor in his grip. âMissed you so damn much,â he murmurs, like a secret meant just for you. âThought Iâd never get this âgain.â
âMe too,â you whisper, your voice thick with tears. âI didnât think⌠I didnât know if weâd everââ
âDonât think all that,â he cuts in softly, his lips brushing your shoulder. âWeâre here now. Thatâs what matters.â
You nod, and let the moment carry you. His movements grow steadier, more purposeful, and you match him, like when things were simpler, when it was just you and him against the world.
His hand slides up your side, resting over your heart, and you feel its frantic beat under his palm, mirroring his own. Eventually, his hand holds your ring, holding so tight your worried it might snap off, but all you can focus on is the pleasure and the cold sting of his own ring against your back.
You feel the tension coiling in your core, and Joelâs movements falter slightly, his own release building. âYour closeâŚâ he simply notes, his lips brushing your ear.
âYesâŚâ you breathe, your voice trembling. âYou?â
âFuck, yeah,â he mutters, a faint chuckle in his voice, but itâs laced with something else. âTogether, alright? Stay with me.â
His hand moves to your cheek, turning your face so he can look at you, and the vulnerability in his eyes undoes you. You move together, faster now, chasing the edge together.
You cry out, your body trembling as the pleasure overtakes you, and Joel groans, deep and guttural, his grip tightening as he spills into you, his forehead pressed to your shoulder. His cum fills you warm and sticky.
Your bodies shudder together. Youâre both gasping, clinging to each other, the intensity leaving you both raw and exposed.
For a moment, neither of you speaks, staying tangled together, his arms wrapped around you, your fingers still laced with his. The silence is comforting, a space where words arenât needed.
Joel shifts slightly, his breath still uneven, and reaches for his handkerchief on the nightstand. âCâmere,â he murmurs, his voice soft but steady. He gently wipes the sweat from your skin, his hands careful and deliberate. You lean into his touch, your body relaxing under his care.
âYou okay?â he asks, his eyes searching yours, concern etched into the lines of his face.
âMore than okay,â you whisper. âYou?â
âIâm good.â His thumb lingers on your cheek, and for a moment, the world feels soft, safe, just the two of you.
His eyes search yours, and then, something sparks behind them.
He sits up with a sudden burst of energy, slipping out of you gently. âSit with me.â He gestures to the edge of the bed, his voice gentle but insistent. Your dazed, but you still follow him, pulling the covers with you. You wrap yourself and Joel underneath the sheet, pressed flush against each other.
No words are traded, no noise, nothing but feelings.
Joelâs hand moves to the chain around his neck. He tugs it, snapping it free. He holds your gaze, then reaches for your neck. You swallow hard, your heart pounding, but you nod, giving him permission. He tugs, and the chain breaks with a quiet snap, falling away.
He unspools the rings from their respective chains, tossing the broken metal over his shoulder without a second glance. He stares at them, his eyes glistening, and you feel your own throat tighten.
âWhat are you doing.â
He doesnât respond.
âAre you going to make me guess?â
Mwah!
âJoelâŚâ
Mwah!
You giggled this time, voice caught somewhere between exasperation and a smile. âJoel.â
Mwah! Mwah!
âOh my God! Youâre gonna ruin my hair!â
He didnât stop. He kissed you once moreâloudly, obnoxiouslyâright on the top of your head, arms wrapped around you so tight you could barely fight him off.
âJoel, what are you doing with our rings?â
He looks down at them, tracing the gold edge.
Then he began to speak, low and raw.
âI loved you âfore everythinâ, yâknow?â
âI know baby.â
âI loved you in every sunrise I saw without you, every quiet night I spent thinkinâ of you. I loved you through fear, through anger, through losinâ myself trying to find you âgain. And I⌠I still love you. Always have, always will.â
Tears spring to your eyes, and you hide your face against his shoulder.
âI never stopped,â you whisper. âNot once.â
âI know darlinâ.â
His hand lifts yours, and together you trade ringsâhis for yours, yours for hisâas a silent acknowledgment of every scar, every loss, every year separated.
âI vow,â he continues, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it, âTo keep findinâ you. To stand with you through the shit, through hell. Ainât ever let you feel alone, not âgain. You are my heart, my home, my life.
He swallowed.
âMy wife.â
You reach for his hands, steadying them in yours. âAnd I vow⌠I vow to love you. To stay by you side, never let something come in between us again. I will walk with you, always.â
You smiled wider than you have in years.
âMy husband.â
The rings slip onto fingers that know each other so intimately.
You pull each other close, pressing foreheads together. And then, finally, lips meetâslow, then urgent, sure. A kiss that stitches together all the lost time.
And you knewâthis was how it was always meant to be.
Ah yes, tragic lovers. My favorite hehe
Tag list (just for this fic):
@spookychaossuit, @joeldjarin
iâm unwell
omg my blog is one year old todayâŚ.everyone say ty jayce talis omg
my first things were daredevil and punisher related but jayce actually had me in a chokehold and writing seriously for the first time ever. it was so fun to express myself in a different way that iâd never before.
shoutout everyone who was nice to me as wellâŚ.I miss writing honestly đ
golden boy masterlist âď¸đŤ
content: what you and jayce have is something unique. he cares about you implicitly. so much so that he will go out of his way to use hextech to satisfy you...but you cant let the way he looks at you be any more than that.
warnings: 18+ minors dni, smut, angst, happy ending, chapter-specific tags on each post
thank yall for the love on this short series, i wanted to post it in one single link for yall to refer to if you ever want to revisit it!
part one
part two
part three
prequel
just reread all of this and omg iâm a whore for jayce talis
iâm imagining bucky barnes hating the cold and winter for the rest of his life and iâm not okay.
love you, anyway
pairing: clark kent x reader summary: calling it a situationship would be generous. clark kent is your coworker, your lunch buddy. your go-to plus-one for weddings, holiday parties, and three different thanksgiving dinners. you're the kind of friends who share takeout on each otherâs couches and sometimes fall asleep there. friends who kiss, occasionally, during high-stakes stakeouts and tequila-soaked birthdays. just friends, though. word count: 5k warnings: 18+ mdni, situationship to lovers, fake dating, mutual pining, slow burn, jealousy, confessions, domestic fluff, emotionally avoidant reader, brief smut, happy ending | playlist âŹ.á
The second Perry introduces you as Clarkâs girlfriend, the champagne goes down the wrong pipe.
Which is to say, you almost die.
Right there. In four-inch heels. In a dress worth a quarter of your yearly income. Choking on a $80 glass of vintage Dom PĂŠrignon while fighting the violent, full-body urge to dive into the nearest ornamental koi pond.
Clark, of course, notices immediately.
Because heâs Clark. Â
Because heâs standing two inches to your left, warm and solid and unnervingly gravitational. Wearing a suit so perfectly tailored it looks like it was sewn directly onto his DNA. Smelling like bergamot and something woodsy youâve never been able to name, but now permanently associate with the sound of his laugh in your apartment at 1 a.m.
And because the second you start hacking like a Dickensian orphan, his hand is on your back. Guiding you away from the crowd like youâre a spooked horse, and not a grown woman brought to her knees by a two-syllable word.
âDid Perry justâ?â you rasp, coughing up remnants of French bubbles and the last of your dignity.
âYeah.â Clark says, voice maddeningly even.
You whip your gaze to him, blinking through the watery aftermath of your near-death experience. He looks down at you with those absurdly sincere eyesâsoft with concern, brows pulled together, mouth pressed like heâs fighting a smile and failing spectacularly.
As if he didnât just let his boss reclassify your situationship in front of Metropolisâ glitterati.
Well.
Situationship is being generous.
Clark Kent is your coworker. Your lunch buddy. Your plus-one to weddings, holiday parties, and three separate Thanksgiving dinners. Your 2 a.m. âwhyâs my radiator making murder soundsâ hotline. He knows your coffee order, your backup coffee order, and the fact that youâve watched Zootopia six times and still tear up when Judy apologizes.
Just friends, though.Â
The kind of friends who text good morning and good night with clockwork regularity. Who eat takeout on each otherâs couches and occasionally, accidentally, fall asleep there.
The kind of friends whoâve kissed once, after an adrenaline-fueled stakeout involving a high-speed car chase. Twice, if you count that city-wide blackout incident (it was cold, there was an editor deadline). Plus that night on your birthday when you were barefoot and tequila-blasted.
Okay, so. Three times.
Still. It doesnât matter.
Because if thereâs one thing youâve made clearâcrystal, etched-in-stone clearâitâs this:
You do not date your coworkers.
Youâve told him that. Out loud. Possibly more than once. Possibly more for your benefit than his.
But still. It was said.
And now, thanks to Perry Whiteâs tactless cannonball into polite conversation, the entire, champagne-soaked room thinks youâre Clark Kentâs girlfriend.
All because your boss has the tact of a sledgehammer and the observational skills of a meddling grandmother.
And you know Perry doesnât mean to stir trouble. He just has this thingâthis deeply inconvenient habitâof assuming things with such ironclad confidence that people around him spiral into identity crises trying to catch up.Â
He did it to Jimmy once. Referred to Eve Teschmacher as his fiancĂŠe at a staff party, and Eve spent the rest of the night making Pinterest boards while Jimmy stared wistfully out a window like a Victorian widow.
Now, apparently, itâs your turn.
The G-word dropped like a live grenade, right in front of donors, council members, and a man youâre 90% sure owns your entire apartment building.
Because this crowd loves a wholesome office romance. It sells well with old money.
Onlyâyouâre not Clarkâs girlfriend.
Which is why you end up marching him off the dance floor like a woman preparing to commit a very polite, very public homicide.
You duck behind a decorative ficus, dragging all six-foot-four of Kansas sunshine and understated muscle with you. You wedge yourself between the waxy fronds and the wall, your champagne flute dangling like an accessory to crime.
The ficus doesnât judge. The ficus understands.
Clark follows, bemused and obedient. Of course he does. Because heâs Clark. If you walked into the ocean with that look on your face, heâd probably roll up his slacks and follow you in, just to make sure you didnât drown out of spite.
Now itâs just you, him, and the oppressive weight of whatever the hell that was.
âSince when are we dating?!â You hiss.
Clark blinks at you. That dumb, beautiful blink that usually precedes something devastatingly earnest.
âWeâre not.â
You point your flute at him like a weapon. âTry telling Perry White that.â
Clarkâs face doesnât even twitch. No panic. If anything, he looks⌠amused.
You narrow your eyes. âWait. Did you know he was going to say that?â
He has the audacity to look sheepish. Sheepish, like a golden retriever who just chewed through your slipper and is now asking for belly rubs.
He rubs the back of his neck. His glasses slip. You resist the deeply feral urge to fix them.
âHe asked who I was bringing. Your name came up. And he just kind of... assumed.â
âAnd you didnât correct him?â
He shrugs, helpless. âI didnât get the chance! He turned and started yelling at Jimmy about photos for the Sunday editorial.â
âSo, you lied by omission.â
He looks deeply offended at that. âI didnât lie. I just⌠didnât not-lie.â
âYouââ You let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a shriek. âClark. Thatâs an affirmative gesture.â
âI panicked!â
âYou do not panic!â
âI do!â He winces. ââŚsometimes.â
You stare at him like heâs lost his mind. Like youâve lost your mind, which, frankly, might be true. Because youâre currently hiding behind a $2,000 shrub, accusing the most decent man in the tri-state area of emotional subterfuge. And heâs just standing there. Tall and warm and somehow still so Clark about it.
âYou didnât think to give me a heads-up?â you ask. It comes out quieter than you intended. A little too vulnerable. A little too real.
That lands. He falters, gaze softening.
âWell, I figured if I told you, you wouldnât come.â
Oh. Â Â
Well.
That koi pondâs looking pretty inviting again. Maybe you could just slowly tip over. Become part of the landscaping.
To his credit, Clark looks abashed. Not guilty, exactly, because guilt would imply he thinks he did something wrong, that he thinks he shouldnât have done it. And he doesnât.
Heâs not apologizing for what he did. Heâs just hoping you'll understand.
âI didnât think heâd bring it up so publicly,â he says, quieter. âI just⌠I wanted you here.â
And there it is.
The truth.
Devastatingly simple. So very Clark.
Not calculated. Not strategic.
Just: he wanted you here.
Your brain is doing that thing it does sometimesâgoing absolutely, irreparably blank, like someone yanked the cord on your central nervous system. Youâre vaguely aware that youâre blinking at him. Possibly breathing through your mouth. Possibly functioning as a human person and not, say, a potato in a backless dress.
And Clarkâsweet, earnest, idiot Clarkâsees your stunned silence and mistakes it for discomfort.
âI can fix it,â he offers gently. âIâll talk to Perry. Tell him it was a misunderstanding. You donât have to pretend.â
And itâs the way he says itâcareful, soft, leaving space for you to boltâthat makes your heart ache.
Because hereâs the thing about Clark. The infuriating, utterly devastating thing.
He never asks for more.
Not when he walks you home after work (he never asks to come up). Not when you grip his hand after a bad interview to keep yours from shaking (he lets go the moment youâre calm). Not when you pass out on him in the back of a cab (you woke up tucked into your couch, blanket pulled over you, with a sticky note on the coffee table that said: Lock your door next time â C.)
Not even after that tequila-flavored birthday kiss, where you smeared lip gloss all over his face then bolted after. Like a bad SNL skit about some drunk, commitment-phobic Cinderella.
And stillâhe let you run.
He never pushed, never assumed. Just waited.
Like heâs doing now.
And thatâs the problem, isnât it?
Because somewhere between the newsroom coffees and late-night stakeouts, Clark Kent stopped feeling like an almost and started feeling like a constant.
And constants are hard to ignore.
Every time you came close to being braveâyour hand hanging too long on his arm, a goodbye that lingered like an apologyâheâd just smiled. Quiet. Steady. Waiting for you to take the wheel, to take the first turn.
And you never did.Â
Because you didnât know how to make that turn without demolishing the fortress youâd built in your head. The one labeled Professionalism. The one with a drawbridge made of Healthy Boundaries and a moat full of Reasons Why This Would Be A Terrible Idea.
(âItâs nothing personal,â youâd told him. âI just hate when things get messy, you know?â)
And now, youâre here. Wearing a dress that should belong to someone brave enough to own the word girlfriend, standing next to a man whoâs taken up residence in your head longer than you dared admit.
You release a slow, quiet breath.
You stare at Clark. At the soft furrow in his brow. At the way heâs watching you like this could still go either way.
You sigh.
âFine.â You try for a thin smile. âLetâs just get through tonight. Free wine, fancy cheese. Public deception. What could go wrong?â
He doesnât answer. Just studies you for a beat, eyes tracing your face like itâs a puzzle heâs halfway through solving.
Then he smiles. Offers his arm.
You take it.
And it is, in no uncertain terms, the first of a hundred bad decisions you make that night.
â˘
The ballroom smells like champagne and generational wealth.
Not in the cute, Gatsby-party kind of way, but in the I own two private islands and casually commit tax fraud kind of way. Everything here glitters, but none of itâs goldâitâs just money. Inherited, laundered, bottled in Chanel and weaponized with dental work.
And you?
Youâre on Clark Kentâs arm like you belong here.
Which is objectively hilarious, because the only thing less believable than you fitting in with this crowd is the way Clarkâs looking at you, like youâre the sun and the moon and possibly the reason crops grow.
Like this isnât pretend.
âStop that,â you mutter, snagging a new flute of champagne from a passing tray.
âStop what?â
âThat face. TheâŚâ You wave your fingers vaguely in his direction. âThe you face.â
Clark blinks. âI only have one face.â
âYeah, well, itâs being extremely rude right now.â
He just laughs, quiet and fond. Like you just said something brilliant and not⌠whatever that was.
You want to be annoyed by how warm it makes you feel. Want to hate how your brain is already cataloguing every inch of this moment like itâs something to keep. His laugh. His dimples. His arm, warm and steady against yours.
And you really want to hate how good he is at this, at making you feel like you belong here. Like youâre the only person worth talking to in a room full of senators, tech CEOs, and women who have themed rooms for their dogs.
You do a slow lap around the room, grazing shoulders, laughing at the right beats, touching his arm just often enough to sell it.
It works.
For twenty minutes.
Until you see her.
â˘
She arrives like a Bond villain in couture.
Crimson dress. Cheekbones that could cut glass. A walk like sheâs never tripped in her life and never will. Sheâs not just beautiful, sheâs designed. Engineered. The kind of woman perfume commercials are based on but rarely deliver. The kind who definitely doesnât choke on champagne or second-guess every decision thatâs led her to this night.
And she is zeroing in on Clark like a heat-seeking missile with a point to prove.
You clock her before he does. Of course you do, you're in survival mode. Youâve been scanning the room since you stepped into this nest of designer shoes and whispered nepotism, and she registers as an immediate threat to your fake girlfriend equilibrium.Â
Not because sheâs stunning. (She is, but thatâs not the point.)
Not because sheâs poised. (She is, but again, not the point.)
But because she walks like sheâs been here.
Specifically, like sheâs seen Clark Kent in fewer layers. Â
Clark turns just in time to catch her smile.
âWell,â she purrs, silk over steel. âIf it isnât my dear old Clark.â
You canât help but recoil a little.
She steps into his space like she owns it. Her perfume hits a second later: spiced rose and something solvent-adjacent that makes your eyes sting. You want to sneeze and maybe commit a felony.
âIf Iâd known you were coming,â she murmurs, voice syrup-sweet, âIâd have worn something more impressive.â
Clark laughs, sheepish.
And thenâhe does it.
The Tell.
That tiny, nervous hand-to-the-back-of-the-neck thing. Most people think itâs adorable.
But you know better. Youâve studied his micro-expressions like a thesis project. You know exactly what this means: heâs uncomfortable.
And that?
Thatâs when you do your thing.
The irrational thing.
The stupid, impulsive, completely not in line with the boundaries youâve constructed thing.
You reach for his hand.
And you know, objectively, that itâs insane. Youâre a grown woman. A professional. You once ghosted a guy for calling you his girl before the drinks arrived. And yet, here you are, reverting to some prehistoric lizard-brain instinct, like a cavewoman staking her claim.
And itâs not jealousy. Please. Youâre just⌠stating a fact. With your body. With your skin on his. A casual, totally normal, not-at-all possessive gesture that says, Hi, yes, this oneâs mine. Move along now, thanks. (well, not really, but the sentiment still stands.)Â
Clark stills for a beat.
Then, like itâs nothing, like itâs something heâs done a thousand times before, he laces his fingers through yours.
His thumb sweeps over your knuckles, once.
Your stomach drops like a trapdoor.
The woman in red notices. Her gaze flicks to your hands, then rises, slow and surgical, to your face.
She smiles.
âSo. You must be the girlfriend.â
The word lands like a trigger.
Your fingers twitch, just slightly. Clark feels it. He squeezes back, the same way he does when youâre bracing for a hostile interview subject or one of Perryâs pre-deadline tantrums. Itâs comforting. Familiar. Terrible.
You manage a tight smile. âThatâs me.â
She tilts her head. âAnd how did you two meet?â
Oh great. A pop quiz. Fantastic.
Your brain immediately queues up rom-com tropes like a panicked Netflix algorithm: Bookstore? Farmerâs market? Coffee spill on the subway?
But Clark beats you to it.
âWe met at a press event,â he says smoothly. âUrban renewal project a few years back.â
Your head snaps toward him.
Because thatâthat actually happened.
It wasnât a date. Wasnât even notable at the time. Just a dreary Tuesday outside City Hall. The heat lamps werenât working. The mayor was late. You were freelancing for the Star, he was already with the Planet, and youâd both been assigned to cover the same nothingburger speech about revitalizing the east end.Â
Heâd offered you his coat without a word. Youâd taken it without thanks, shivering and suspicious. Then you spent the next twenty minutes ranting about corrupt zoning and the death of civic architecture while he stood next to you, silent and warm, like a human space heater with good manners.
Afterward, you ended up at a diner.
Not a date. Just two reporters swapping quotes and insults over stale coffee and off-brand syrup.
Heâd ordered pancakes at 9 p.m. Youâd let him steal your fries. And somewhere between your fifth sidewalk-related rant and your third refill, you made him laugh so hard he choked.
Youâd felt it, then, sitting next to a bottle of ketchup.
The click.
The terrifying, bone-deep tug that said:
Oh no. I like this one.
Six months later, fate handed you a desk across from his.
And the rest is⌠well, apparently public knowledge now.
âYep,â you nod, voice a little strangled. âUrban renewal. Very romantic.â
The woman hums, like sheâs storing ammo for later. Then, with a smile sharp enough to cut glass, she glides away toward a man in cufflinks worth more than your car.
You donât breathe until sheâs gone.
âUm, I didnât realize we were using real stories?â you mutter, heart still thumping.
Clark glances down at you. âSorry, I panicked.â
âYou donât panic.âÂ
He doesnât argue. But something in his face shifts, soft and sad and unreadable. He looks at you like heâs about to say something honest.
You glance down, quick.
You're still holding his hand. So is he.
He lets go.
Slowly, like heâs waiting for you to stop him.
You donât.
â˘
The balcony is blessedly empty.
Probably because itâs humid as hell out here, and everyone inside cares more about keeping their blowouts intact than breathing in the sticky, unfiltered city air. But you? You need this. The suffocating heat. The wide open pace. The faint echo of taxi horns and distant sirensâa reminder that youâre not actually trapped in some weird Jane Austen adaptation directed by Jordan Peele.
You lean forward, pressing your hands on the railing, trying to coax your pulse back to a human tempo.
Clark follows you out, but stays a careful two steps behind. Like he knows the precise radius of your storm and refuses to step inside without permission. Itâs a quiet kindness. Space that doesnât feel like distance.
You inhale slowly, eyes closing for a beat.
The air tastes like rain and asphalt. Like real life. Â
Clarkâs voice is soft behind you. âYou okay?â
You nod without turning. âJust needed to get out before I jumped into that koi pond.â
He chuckles, quiet.
Then, before your brain can filter it:
âJust to clarify, do all your exes look like they model for French perfume ads? Or was it just the one?â
He blinks, startled. âExes?â
You squint at him. âDonât play dumb. That woman back there? Looked at you like she wanted to climb you like a rope in gym class.â
Clarkâs ears go red. Not metaphorically red. Actually red. Like, visible, cartoon-blush red. The tips go first, then the flush creeps down his neck like a slow tide. He shifts his weight, rubbing the back of his neck.
âShe didnâtââ
âShe did,â you cut in. âFrankly, Iâm surprised she didnât ask if you came pre-assembled or if she gets to unwrap you herself.â
He groans into his palm. âCan we notâ"
âShe was practically eye-fucking you in 4K,â you press on, smiling now. âDilated pupils, Clark. Thatâs science. Fight, flight, orââ
He covers his face with both hands. âPlease stop.â
ââor fuck,â you finish sweetly. âThe third F, my friend.â
Clark makes a noise that might be a cough or a laugh or the beginning of a stroke. His palms drag down his face, like peeling off his skin might end this conversation.
And yetâheâs smiling.
Blushing, grinning, breathless in that way that makes your stomach do its new favorite party trick: the trapdoor plummet.
When he drops his hands, his smile softens. His eyes hold yours.
You look away first, swallowing hard. Your brain is a foggy slideshow of every touch, every almost, every loaded glance you shoved into a junk drawer so you didnât have to think about this.
A sharp twist of frustration curls in your gut. At the stupid spark of jealousy in your stomach. At the fact that he still hasnât really answered question. At the way heâs looking at you now, like youâd handed him the key to your diary and asked him to read the entry titled Things I Pretend Not to Want.
Then:
âSheâs married.â
You blink. âWhat?â
He shifts, sliding his hands into his pockets. âTo James Rourke.â
You turn, brows climbing. âCouncilman Rourke? The guy who tried to bulldoze the community garden to build condos for cats?â
âThatâs the one.â
You gape at the skyline. âShe⌠she looked at you like she wanted to eat you alive.â
He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes flicking to the ground. âWell, I guess Iâm pretty⌠digestible.â
You turn to look at him. Â Â
Because thatâs the thing, isnât it?
Clark is digestible. Soft-spoken. Palatable. Quiet in a way people mistake for easy.
The kind of man that most people think they can swallow in one bite.
Until you get close.
And then? Heâs anything but easy.
Heâs dense with layers.
Steady like a metronome. Kindness like bedrock. Justice braided into his bones, so rooted it makes the rest of the world seem shallow.
Unshakable, once heâs decided someone is worth his time.
You stare out at the city, trying to give shape to whatever soup of feeling is currently flooding your system. Â
Clarkâs voice cuts through the quiet.
âDo you remember what you said that night? First time we met.â
You blink, squinting over at him. âI said a lot of things. Mostly bullshit about gentrification. Think I also insulted the mayorâs hairline.âÂ
He smiles. âYeah. But before that.â
Your brow furrows, trying to catch up. âI donâtâwhat?â
âYou said you didnât trust anyone who orders pancakes after noon. Said theyâre either emotionally stunted or hiding something.â
You snort. âI stand by that.â
âI know. And I remember thinkingâŚâ He steps a little closer, voice softening. âGosh, I hope she doesnât notice Iâm hiding how much I like her.â
Your brain promptly bluescreens. Your mouth opens, closes, opens again. Because surely, surely, this man did not just say that.
Because what the hell does he mean, he liked you?
Back then? That was years ago.
You were still covering city council meetings with a flip phone and a caffeine addiction. Still wearing drugstore eyeliner that smudged by 11 a.m. You werenât polished or poised. You were barely sleeping, freelancing three jobs, and still flinching every time someone called you âambitiousâ like it was a slur.
You werenât anyone worth noticing.
But he had. Â
Not just noticedâliked. Enough to hope you didnât see it.
And now heâs just⌠stating it. Like a weather update.
âYou what?â you croak, voice thin.
Clark shrugs, all slow warmth and maddening calm.
âI liked you,â he says, plainly. âStill do.â
The words hit harder the second time.
Silence hums between you, thick with all the jokes you used as armor, all the near-misses you dismissed because it was easier to pretend you didnât see. Youâve built a fortress around your heart brick by sarcastic brick.
And now? Youâre standing outside it.
You think of that woman from earlier. About how she looked at Clark, at the surface-level version of him. The tall, handsome, suit-and-glasses archetype.
But she didnât want him. Â
She didnât want the man who brings you tea when youâre on deadline. Who once read zoning laws just to help you win a bet. Who blushes when you call him cute but doesnât flinch when you snap at him.
She didnât want the man who holds your sharp edges like theyâre sacred.
But you do.
You always have.
You feel it then, the full gravity of it. The years of soft glances and half-steps, all the ways heâs waited for you to arrive.
And you realize, with bone-deep certainty, that nothing is going back to normal after this.
Not the easy friendship. Not the 2 a.m. radiator calls. Not the fake labels or the dumb rules.
This is the edge. The point of no return. Â
You take a quiet breath. Turn to him.
And before your brain can interfereâbefore fear or logic or whatever else youâve used to stall can catch upâyou kiss him.
Clark freezes for half a second, then exhales against your mouth, bending down until youâre no longer reaching. Your fingers slide under his open collar, brushing the warm skin at the base of his neck. His hands settle at your waist, thumbs tracing slow arcs through the fabric.
When you tilt your chin to deepen the kiss, he follows.
It tastes like every moment youâve spent beside him, ignoring the inevitable. All the ways he stayed. All the ways you let him.
And when it breaksâeventually, reluctantlyâitâs only because you remembered that oxygen remains necessary, and that people still exist. Somewhere behind you, a poor waiter probably just got a front-row seat to the collapse of your entire emotional perimeter.
Clark exhales slowly, forehead resting against yours. You feel his heartbeat thudding against your chest. Or maybe itâs yours. Itâs hard to tell the line when youâre this close.
âSo⌠was that still part of the cover?â He murmurs, smiling.
You groan, muffling it into his shoulder. âGod, youâre such a dork.â
He chuckles. âTaking that as a no, then?â
You ease back just enough to see his face. Watch the way his lashes lower, the faint crease between his brows, like heâs bracing for whatever youâll sayâor wonât. His hands remain exactly where they are.
ââŚOkay.â You whisper.
His brows lift. âOkay?â
âOkay, as in⌠Iâm not gonna run. Not gonna spiral. Iâm⌠Iâm going to be normal about this.â
His smile grows, slow and warm.
He nods, once.
âOkay.â
â˘
Later, after youâve thrown together a half-hearted excuse for leaving the gala two hours earlyâafter Perry shoots you a knowing glance at the way your fingers lace together as you explainâafter the cab ride home where his knuckles brush yours again and again, too often for it to be an accidentâ
Youâll finally talk.
Shoulder to shoulder on your too-small couch, feet tangled under a worn throw blanket.
Youâll say too much, probably. Little truths and big fears. Maybe youâll laugh. Maybe cry a little. Heâll listen the way he always does, patient and unflinching. And when your voice starts to fray, heâll take your hand.
You'll kiss him first, again, sliding into his lap the way youâve wanted to all night.
His hands will fumble with the zipper as he helps you out of your dressâtoo big, too eagerâbut youâll only laugh, feeling breathless at the way heâs a little clumsy when itâs just the two of you.
Heâll lift you, carry you to bed with your legs around his waist. Lay you down and kiss his way from your collarbone to the curve of your hip, tasting skin, making up for lost time.
Heâll press into you slowly, watching your face, voice hitching as he breathes out your name. Â
Heâll make you come with his hand between your bodies, hips rolling deep and firm and relentless until you arch under him, nails digging into his shoulder while he buries his face in your neck.
Afterward, youâll suggest pizza. Youâll call him a freak for liking pineapple and heâll call you a coward. Youâll end up with half-and-half.
Heâll put on Zootopia for you again. Youâll roll your eyes but watch the whole thing anyway. Doze off on his shoulder right as the credits roll.Â
There will be ordinary days. Good days. Hard days. Days where the world feels too heavy and you forget what itâs like to breathe easy.
But through it all, there will be this:
The way heâs looking at you now. While youâre standing on the balcony of a grand ballroom, wrapped up in the gentle embrace of a summer night and the man who's filled the silence inside you without ever saying a word.
And the quiet, bone-deep certainty you first felt in that diner eight years ago, ketchup on your lips and denial lodged in your throat:
Oh no. I like this one.
Only now, thereâs no more oh no.
Just a steady, unshakable yes. Â
â˘â˘â˘
epilogue
The smoke alarm is going off again.
Youâre barefoot in Clarkâs kitchen, wearing his too-big flannel, waving a dish towel at the ceiling like youâre trying to scare off a ghost. The toaster has betrayed you. Again.
âWhy,â you cough, âdo you even own a four-slice toaster? Are you secretly feeding orphans in the walls?â
From the hall, his voice floats in, warm with laughter. âIt came in a bundle with the blender!â
âThatâs not a real answer!â
He appears behind the island, hair damp, towel slung around his neck, looking far too pleased with himself for a man whose only contribution to breakfast was peeling a banana.
You point the towel at him. âThis is why you need to cook.â
âYou said you were sick of my pancakes!â
âYeah, well, maybe you can cook something other than pancakes.â
âToast?â Â
You try to scowl. You really do. But itâs hard to maintain righteous indignation when Clark Kent is shirtless and moving toward you like that, all soft edges and fond grins. He takes the towel from your hand, tosses it aside, and kisses you with the kind of patience that still makes your knees go stupid.
âMorning,â he murmurs, like itâs brand new. Like he didnât just spend the better part of sunrise with your thighs on his shoulders. Like he wasnât the reason you had to crawl out of bed on unsteady legs, sore in all the best ways.
âHi,â you breathe, brain pleasantly short-circuited.
This is the part no one ever talks about.
Not the kiss. Not the confession. Not even the mind-numbing sex.
The after.
The everyday.
The toothbrush beside yours. The quiet negotiations of drawer space and dinner preferences. Grocery lists written in two sets of handwriting. Your earrings on his nightstand and his socks tangled with yours in the laundry basket.
The inevitable moment when the blush fades, when the thrill settles, and you finally, fully see the other person.
And still choose to stay.
He reaches past you to unplug the offending toaster, fingers brushing your hip. âYouâre staying here tonight, right?â Â
You blink. âClark. I practically live here.â
âRight, butâyou said you needed time. To ease into the whole label thing.â
You just stare at him. âYou bought me a toothbrush.â
He hums. âI bought you three.â
You laugh, shaking your head. âOkay, okay. Fine. Iâm your girlfriend.â
His smile widens. âYouâre my girlfriend.â He tastes the words like theyâre something sweet. Then, with a teasing glint: âWant me to get you a mug?â
You groan. âAbsolutely not.â
âA shirt?â
âI will smother you with that shirt.â
Heâs laughing again, wrapping you up in his arms like itâs the easiest thing in the world.
And maybe it is now.
This is your new normal: mornings that smell like coffee and burnt toast. A love so steady, so deeply woven into every inch of the ordinary that you donât even notice it; until one day, you realize itâs always been there.
You kiss him again, soft and certain. Punctuation at the end of a promise.
The smoke alarm chirps once more.
You donât even flinch.
â˘
You say it exactly one week later. Â Â Â
Half-asleep in his hoodie, one of his three toothbrushes lodged in your mouth. Clarkâs sitting up in bed, talking you through his latest draft on a new infrastructure bill.
You mumble the words through minty foam, not even thinking.
Then you freeze.
He does too.
For half a second, the world goes still. Then Clark gently closes the laptop, sets it aside, and gets up without a word. He crosses the room in two long strides, smiling the whole way.
He cups your face in both hands, foam and all.
Then, standing there in his bathroomâwith mint in the air and toothpaste on his thumb and his bare feet sinking into a dog-shaped bathmatâhe says it back.
âI love you too.â Â Â
a/n: liked this fic? i'll never know unless you tell me! reblogs/comments are always appreciated <3
sickeningly sweet
